The Atheist's Daughter Page 18

  Mrs. Norton had been exceptionally angry this time.

  “I’ve packed our belongings,” Miss Sweet prompted.

  “You haven’t taken my things.”

  “It won’t take long. You don’t have much.”

  “I have a little doll. Did I show it to you?” Alice Poe rolled onto her side, facing the seer. “It has the biggest eyes and the smallest mouth. Because I’m so quiet.”

  “You keep a toy?”

  “Mr. Locke gave it to me.” Sitting up, she rested her hands on her knees. “I know he thinks his gift didn’t mean anything.”

  “What do you think?”

  Alice Poe touched a sad finger to her lips.

  “I can’t do this alone,” Miss Sweet said. “Get dressed and we’ll carry the boxes downstairs.”

  “What about the Other?”

  “What of her?”

  “I wish she wasn’t here. I wish we’d left, the instant we saw her.”

  “Mrs. Norton will take care of it.”

  “What if she doesn’t? What if she can’t?” Alice Poe hugged herself. “It was foolish to return here. It was arrogant.”

  “I don’t remember you sharing such thoughts before.”

  “It’s the Dark Ones who empower Mrs. Norton. They give her the ability to do the things she does. Sometimes I wonder if she forgets who she serves.”

  “Never,” Miss Sweet assured her.

  “She should have been more careful. She was greedy.”

  “What good is a power if you don’t use it?” Miss Sweet asked. “You worry too much about the girl.”

  “Because no one else worries about her at all!”

  “Mrs. Norton has a plan.”

  “It will fail, it will fail.” Still hugging herself, Alice Poe rocked gently. “If I had blood, I’d feed it to your stone. Then you’d see.”

  In irritation, Miss Sweet banged the foot of her cane against the floor. “This is nonsense.”

  “I had a vision.”

  “A vision?” Miss Sweet’s hand froze, her cane dangling in the air. “Do you mean, a dream?”

  Alice Poe continued rocking silently.

  “Don’t talk to me of such things. We don’t dream.”

  “Did my lips disappear? Did you see me say something not true?” Alice Poe raised her head. “Don’t ask me to go with you. I can do what I want. Mrs. Norton said no one keeps us here.”

  “She never thought you would consider it.”

  “She said.” Alice Poe’s bare feet touched the floor. Overhead, the light shimmered, accenting the star bursts decorating her body.

  Miss Sweet said, “Mrs. Norton will find Mr. Locke, you know. There will be punishment.”

  “I’d be with him now if he wanted me,” Alice Poe said. “If he’d ever for a second shown he wanted me.” She went to her closet.

  “How will you feed?” Miss Sweet rubbed her hand over the head of her cane. “There’s so much bad meat.”

  Buttoning her blouse, Alice Poe said, “You could tell me who to choose.”

  “How?” As the realization dawned, she said, “The two of us?”

  “Why not?”

  “Mrs. Norton would be angry.”

  “She gave us permission. She said we could leave.”

  “Yes,” Miss Sweet said slowly, “perhaps she did.”

  “We’re not doing anything wrong. Not like Mr. Locke. She won’t stop until she has him.”

  “She’ll torture him. Year after year. He’ll wish he’d never left the Void.”

  “She’ll be too busy to concern herself with us,” Alice Poe said soothingly. “She’ll remember saying it was our choice to stay or to go. Besides, we’ll have left before she returns.”

  “If she returns. You had a vision.”

  “Yes, I did.” Alice Poe’s mouth remained as true as ever.

  “There would be no one to tell us what to do if Mrs. Norton was gone,” Miss Sweet said.

  “No one to punish us.”

  “We could feed when we wanted.”

  “We wouldn’t have to wait. We could both feed on the same night.”

  “Who would suspect the two of us? A fragile young thing and her crippled grandmother?”

  Alice Poe said, “No one.”

  “Let me think about it,” Miss Sweet told her, “while you get the rest of our things ready.”

  * * *

  Her mother was waiting at the door when she arrived home.

  “At last,” Becky said. “They’re not here yet. What did you get?”

  Kristin shook her head.

  “You couldn’t stop for a box of donuts? It would have taken five minutes.” For the first time, she noticed the t-shirt wrapped around Kristin’s hand. Her tone softened. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Becky touched a finger to a stain on the shirt. “You’re bleeding, honey.”

  “A little.”

  “Are you hurt? Was there an accident?”

  “Mom, it’s a couple of scratches. I’ll get the first aid kit.” Kristin ran up the stairs.

  From below, Becky said, “Put Betadine on it!”

  Kristin locked the bathroom door. Unwrapping the t-shirt, she examined her hand.

  An angry line ran through the center of her palm. It throbbed hotly, leaking blood as she watched. She pressed a nail to her injured flesh, trying to examine the skin, and almost cried out from the pain.

  A bad burn, that’s all, she thought. There’s no tear in the skin, no puncture site.

  A red pool formed slowly in her cupped hand.

  Can burns cause you to bleed? I’ve watched a thousand medical shows, I’ve never seen anybody bleeding from their burns.

  Rinsing her hand, she squirted aloe vera ointment at the center of the wound. Under the sink, she found a roll of gauze and wrapped it tightly around her palm. Taping the dressing closed, she grabbed a bottle of ibuprofen tablets from the medicine cabinets.

  “Better make it a double, bartender,” she told her image in the mirror, “it’s been a hard day.” Filling her mouth with water from the faucet, she swallowed the pills.

  “Now what?” she asked her image.

  She’d read somewhere, someone wasn’t truly paranoid if people were really out to get them. She wondered if what she had could be truly called ‘ecclesiophobia’ when it was obvious the church was truly out to get her.

  Using her cell phone, she dialed Hawkins number. The call went to voice mail on the first ring.

  Downstairs, the doorbell sounded. She heard the door open and voices rise in conversation.

  “Maybe you should sit this one out,” she told her reflection. “I don’t think you’re up to dealing with Mrs. Norton right now.”

  “Kristin!” her mother called. “Could you come down here please?”

  She closed the medicine cabinet.

  Downstairs, her mother sat in the easy chair. On the sofa, sitting side by side, was Mrs. Norton, Martin Piotrowski and the horribly-solid Mr. Brass.

  “Mom?”

  Becky smiled at her as she entered the room. “Hand all better?”

  Concerned, Mr. Brass said, “You hurt?”

  “Was it a cut?” Mrs. Norton asked.

  “It’s nothing.” Kristin tucked her hand behind her.

  “We should go,” Mr. Brass said, rising from his seat. Mrs. Norton put a hand on his shoulder. As if he was being pressed under a heavy weight, he dropped back down.

  “Please stay,” Becky said. “The kettle is on. Besides, you haven’t given Kristin her present.”

  “We wouldn’t want to leave until we’ve done that,” Mrs. Norton said.

  Kristin couldn’t imagine what kind of present would be offered by the likes of these two. A rat infested with the bubonic plague? A rabid skunk?

  “We can spare a few more minutes,” Mrs. Norton told her companion.

  “Take a chair, honey,” her mother said. “Have you met Mr. Brass?”

  “I know him
.” At the tone of her voice, her mother looked at her sharply. Pretending she hadn’t noticed, Kristin went to the recliner.

  “I probably shouldn’t have come,” Martin said.

  “You’re right.” Mrs. Norton patted his knee. “We’d prefer to be without you, dear heart, but you made such a scene. When you stopped us in the street, you practically crawled through the car window to join us.”

  When the tea kettle whistled, Becky left the room to answer it.

  Martin’s cheeks flushed. “I didn’t think you’d mind a little company.”

  “The truth is, you’re lonely. You’re interested in me sexually.”

  Kristin couldn’t believe what she’d just heard. She didn’t know how to react or what to say.

  “Unfortunately, I’ve never really enjoyed sexual relations,” Mrs. Norton said, in a conversational tone. “I find the entire experience a bit hot and unpleasant. So much exertion, so much noise, for so small a reward. If the time comes I do decide to have sex again, I’ll certainly make an effort to find someone more appealing than you.”

  Quietly, Martin said, “Constance. Please.”

  “Have I said too much? Been too open? I’ve only been polite to you, Martin, because I hoped you might prove useful.”

  The old man paled. “That’s – that’s not true.”

  Mrs. Norton’s crystal face wrinkled in amusement. “That’s what I like about people. When you tell them lies, they believe you. Tell them the truth, they’re completely befuddled.” Her face smoothed when she considered Kristin. “Everyone except for you.”

  Becky returned, carrying a serving tray. She raised a knife from the tray. “It’s not the freshest pumpkin bread you’ll ever eat but it’s still tasty. Who wants a slice?”

  No one responded.

  “Mrs. Norton? Martin?”

  “Nothing for me,” Mrs. Norton told her. “The best bread is made from scratch. You’ve used a store brand mix and not an especially good one. The piece I tried was almost as bad as your artwork.”

  Becky’s mouth dropped open. The serrated knife clattered onto the tray.

  Mrs. Norton said, “I made Mr. Brass come along whenever I wasted time at your gallery. He shares my opinion about your work. He’s seen more than enough of your paintings.”

  “I like your barns,” Mr. Brass said.

  The tray wobbled in her mother’s hands. Becky set it on the coffee table before slumping into the easy chair.

  “Isn’t this refreshing?” Mrs. Norton told the group. “It’s so rare we’re allowed to be totally open with your kind. Too often, we have to watch our words.”

  “We don’t like to lie,” Mr. Brass explained. His hand dragged over his face. “We don’t like how it feels.”

  Kristin watched as the glass woman opened her purse. “Before we go, I have a little something for your daughter.”

  Kristin said, “Whatever it is, I don’t want it.”

  Stirring in her chair, Becky said, “You should leave, Mrs. Norton. I want you out of my house.”

  “Yes.” Martin lifted up, his thin body practically vibrating with tension. “Go.”

  Without leaving his seat, Mr. Brass punched Martin in the stomach. The blow sent the smaller man backwards, spilling over the coffee table. When his arm hit the serving tray, it sent the cups and saucers into the air.

  Becky jerked as if she’d been struck.

  “I’m calling the police,” Kristin said.

  “I’d be curious to see if there’s anybody to answer the call,” Mr. Brass said. Opening his jacket, he brought out a small pistol. “Not all that long ago, we had a pawnshop. When this little Pepperbox derringer came through, I decided to keep it. Tiny, right? Only holds four rounds.”

  His thumb pulled on the pistol’s trigger. When Martin sat up, Mr. Brass aimed the gun at the old man’s head. “In most cases, four rounds is plenty.”

  Mrs. Norton brought a small, white box from her purse. She told Kristin, “Take it.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Wouldn’t you know, Liz thought, it has to be Sam Bolland who picks me up.

  In her junior year, she’d been Sam’s lab partner in A&P. Sam dropped out of Anatomy and Physiology – and high school itself – in mid-semester, just before exams. The general consensus among the teaching staff was that their former student just didn’t like to take tests.

  Lacking any sort of skills or training, Sam had one advantage in life: He was Tim Fortier’s nephew. While his uncle had never expressed the least amount of admiration for his sister’s son, he felt an obligation to give him a job.

  So here she was, riding in the back seat of a blue-and-white Tim’s Taxi, and staring at the dandruff-flaked, Supercuts-styled hair of her former classmate. She couldn’t help but wonder if this was merely a coincidence or if she was to view his appearance as some apocalyptic glimpse into the future that lay ahead of her.

  In short, did Sam’s present lifestyle, clearly affected by the absence of a high school diploma, somehow represent Liz Wheeler’s future? Was he her own personal vision of Dickens’ Christmas Yet to Come?

  God, I hope not.

  "Men's courses will foreshadow certain ends,” she quoted out loud. "But if the courses be departed from, the ends will change. Say it is thus with what you show me!"

  Sam punched at the buttons of the dashboard radio. “What did you say?”

  “Quoting a book I read.”

  “Yeah,” he said, as if he wasn’t certain of this foreign word, ‘book’. He cranked the radio knob, raising its volume.

  Twist the knob a bit more, Sam, Liz thought. Country music is best when it’s loud. The way things stand, I can still hear myself think.

  Think about not getting into college and realize I don’t care, not the way I should. Think about my future and discover, somehow, I’m already bored.

  All things considered, I’d rather turn off the old brainpan. That okay with you?

  She straightened when the car rolled past a broken-down Hyundai at the side of the road. The car’s hood was up and its owner was hunched over the engine.

  “Stop the taxi!”

  Sam turned off the radio. “What?”

  “Stop the car, Sam. Right here. Now!”

  Obediently, he hit the brakes. Opening the taxi’s passenger door, Liz ran to the Hyundai.

  Hawkins was scratching at his head when she peered at him from under the hood. “Want a lift?”

  He glanced over at her. “Third time it’s broken down this year. I just replaced the radiator, too.”

  “Sorry.”

  “This car is such a POS.”

  “What’ve I been telling you?”

  “Let it go, Liz,” Hawkins said. “I need to talk to Kristin. Not by texting, not over a phone, but in person. Friend-to-friend.”

  “You’ve got issues?”

  “Maybe.” He scratched at his head. “I honestly don’t know.”

  “I was on my way to her place.” Liz gestured at the taxi in the center of the street. “You can hitch a ride.”

  “My father doesn’t want me to see her. He practically begged me to stay with him.”

  “Some church thing?”

  “No. Dad had a nightmare and now he’s scared of Kristin.”

  “Get out,” Liz said. There wasn’t the slightest trace of humor in Hawkins’ face. “Our Kristin?”

  In the gloomiest voice she’d ever heard, he said, “He says she’s Satan’s spawn.”

  Linking her arm with his, she led him to the taxicab.

  “Normally, the deranged Dad thing would really peak my interest,” Liz said, “but wait ‘til you hear about my day.”

  * * *

  Taking the container, Kristin cradled it in her gauze-wrapped hand. Curled across the lid, gold lettering read, Ashfork Imports and Oddities.

  “Too late for the job now, I’m afraid,” Mrs. Norton said. “I doubt it would have worked out, anyway. They were seeking an assistant with a little discretion.” />
  Nestled inside the box were three brown capsules. Kristin picked up the center pill to examine it. “It’s filled with dirt.”

  “Dirt? No. It’s Hyoscyamus niger. Henbane.” She frowned. “What’s the matter with you, child? Didn’t you ever read Hamlet?”

  “In Sophmore English.”

  “Well?”

  Kristin shook her head.

  “It’s poison.”

  Becky rose from her chair. “Poison!”

  Mr. Brass shifted his weapon, pointing the pistol at Becky. “Sit.”

  “Fetch a glass of water,” Mrs. Norton said. “You’ll need it to swallow the pills.”

  Kristin spilled the tablet into its box. “You first.”

  “You can’t be serious,” Martin said to Mrs. Norton as he climbed to his knees. “That’s insane.”

  “Name-calling, Martin?”

  “My daughter is not taking those pills,” Becky said. “Martin’s right. The two of you need help.”

  “I told you to sit down.” Mr. Brass pointed the mouth of the derringer at Becky’s forehead. “Do it now, meat.”

  “Fuck you.”

  Stepping over the corner of the end table, Mr. Brass cocked his arm. When Becky started to speak, he swung his fist out, smashing his gun hand against the side of her head. She crumpled, her eyes glazing as her legs collapsed.

  “Mom!” Kristin cried as her mother slid from the white seat cushion and fell to the ground.

  Mr. Brass examined his victim. “Still breathing. Might have lost a tooth or two but she’s okay.”

  “You hurt her!”

  “Could have been worse.”

  He straightened as Martin sprang forward. “Die!” the old man cried.

  Holding the recovered bread knife, he plunged the weapon into his enemy’s chest. The knife protruding from his shirt, Mr. Brass staggered under the blow. His knees shook and his legs trembled.

  Then, giving a laugh, he straightened. He grinned at Martin. “I really had you going.”

  Pointing the derringer at his assailant, he pulled its trigger. The gun barked and Martin screamed. Clutching at his leg, he fell to the floor.

  “Mr. Piotrowski!” Kristin stopped short when Mr. Brass pressed the gun to her chest.