The Atheist's Daughter Read online

Dressed in the cook’s clothing, the cold face of Susannah Guitierrez stared up at them.

  “We killed Ms. Guitierrez?” Hawkins cried.

  Kristin yanked on the knife and Susannah’s body lifted as the blade came free. A cracking noise followed the weapon’s escape and she shattered. Her body broke into pieces, like so much caramel-colored marble.

  Again, the three teenagers screamed.

  The shards holding Susannah’s image crumbled. Melting, they left a trail of flesh-colored particles within the abandoned clothing.

  Nothing but dust, Kristin thought.

  “I’m going to need years of therapy,” Liz said. “Years and years of extensive therapy.”

  Despite her words, she sounded more excited than shocked. Saying nothing, Hawkins’ face was pale.

  Becky moaned and Kristin hurried over to her. Her mother’s eyes blinked open. Her lower lip was split and swollen.

  Sounding dazed, Becky said, “Still alive, I guess.”

  “You okay?”

  Alarm pierced the cloud in her mother’s eyes. “Where’s Mr. Brass?”

  “Gone.”

  “Mrs. Norton?”

  “She’s gone, too,” Hawkins said.

  Gone? Kristin thought. Gone from here, anyway. Gone for now.

  Gone from Winterhaven, too, or will be, soon enough. Escaping with the remainder of her family, the ones at the restaurant. Free to prey on the rest of the world.

  Then she decided, Not if I can help it.

  “Good riddance.” Becky’s tongue played inside her mouth. “Damn, I think he got one of my molars.”

  “You need to rest.” Hawkins joined her and they helped Becky into her chair.

  Becky looked at her daughter. “What is it?”

  “I’ve got to go out.”

  “Now?”

  “It’s important. I’ll come back as soon as I can.”

  “Not now, honey. Not…I don’t want....” Her sentence trailed off. Yawning, Becky closed her eyes.

  Kristin told her friends, “Call nine-one-one, okay?”

  “No, you don’t,” Hawkins said. “You heard your Mom.”

  Going into the kitchen, Kristin collected the car keys. When she returned to the living room, Hawkins had his arms crossed over his chest. “No.”

  “Got no choice, Hawk.”

  “Why?” When that didn’t garner a response, he said, “Where are you going?”

  “To find Mrs. Norton,” she said.

  “Forget it. You’ll never catch her.”

  “This isn’t only about her.”

  “Let’s wait for the paramedics. Or the cops.”

  “Kristin doesn’t have time,” Liz said. “There are more of those – things – waiting at the café.”

  “So?”

  Kristin raised the knife, still streaked with her blood.

  “Oh.” Hawkins gathered his thoughts. Taking a deep breath, he opened his cell phone. “What should I tell the ambulance crew?”

  His finger paused, hovering over the key pad.

  “Blame everything on Mrs. Norton,” Kristin said. “Tell them she snapped. Tell them she’s evil.”

  “I can do that.”

  Liz touched Kristin’s arm. “Wait.”

  God, I wish I could. “I’d love to stay here, Lizzer, you know I would. I just can’t.”

  “I meant wait,” Liz told her, “until I can get a knife, too.”

  * * *

  The girls had left and Becky was sitting up, sipping tea, by the time Hawkins finished with the Emergency Dispatcher. He had one more call to make and was pleased when his father picked up on the first ring.

  “I’m okay, Dad, really,” Hawkins said.

  His father’s sharp response caused the speaker to buzz in his ear. Hawkins responded, “No, not right now.”

  He checked on Becky. She smiled at him wanly.

  “I’ll get there when I can,” he continued. “I’m kind of in the middle of something right now.”

  His father replied heatedly. When he stopped speaking, Hawkins could hear Brenda Parkes in the background, trying to soothe him.

  Good for her. “I’ll be home as soon as I can. Promise.”

  His father barked again but in a softer, less worried tone.

  “Listen, I’ve got a question for you,” Hawkins said. “A Biblical question. I think I know the answer but I want to make sure.

  “Do angels have souls?”

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  From Kristin’s Diary

  Four blocks away from Piotrowski’s Café, we heard the sirens wailing. When the restaurant came into view, I drove Mom’s car to the curb.

  There were two fire engines flanking the building, their pumpers spraying water. A team of firefighters fought against the power of a long double-jacketed fire hose, directing its stream into the blaze. Even from where we were parked, we could hear water sizzling and hissing as it fell upon the charred skeleton of the restaurant.

  “Think it was an accident?” Liz knew it wasn’t. After a little bit, she said, “Could be burning for a long time. All of the fryer grease.”

  A big enough fire, a hot enough burn, and every last bit of Piotrowski’s would be cooked. Well, not the stainless steel equipment or the walk-in freezer, I guess, but everything else. All of the previous owner’s personal belongings.

  All of the evidence. Any possible clues.

  Liz was quiet then, pretending to be interested in my dashboard Mickey Mouse. While she used an emerald nail to poke at Mickey’s face, I removed the gauze from around my hand.

  There was a crust of dried blood at the center of my palm. When I rubbed my thumb over it, the crust crumbled into flakes. The blood and the burn were gone. My hand appeared completely normal.

  “Think anybody was still inside when the fire started?” Liz asked. “One of Mrs. Norton’s family?”

  “I wish,” I told her, and I do, too. Mrs. Norton isn’t a person. The things surrounding her, working with her, aren’t people, either.

  I want them all dead.

  “So what do we do next?” Liz asked.

  “We?”

  “Girlfriend,” she told me, “hunting monsters has to be more fun than Calculus Pictionary.”

  *

  What happens next, Liz? I don’t have any idea.

  Of course, that’s kind of the recurrent theme of my entire life. What do I do next and when should I do it?

  I don’t know.

  Is it possible for someone’s soul to be eaten? Do people even have souls?

  Don’t know.

  What is Mrs. Norton, really? Where did she come from? How many more of her kind are out there?

  Don’t know.

  Liz can’t be serious about the two of us hunting those things. Can she?

  Don’t know.

  Will I ever move from Winterhaven and have a normal life?

  Well, that one’s probably not such a mystery. I think the ‘normal’ option disappeared the day I met Dr. Ron. It just took me awhile to realize it. But that doesn’t mean I can’t have a good life.

  Which brings me to a few other things I know.

  I intend to keep my writing in my diary. I thought about giving it up, shredding its pages, but I’m not going to let fear guide me any longer.

  If you’ve opened this book and you’re reading my thoughts this very minute, then, really, you’re a snoop and a pig but you probably already know that. I’m sure people have told you.

  You should know this, too. Everything I’ve written really happened, exactly like I said. If you don’t believe me, that’s not my problem.

  My immediate problem is Gideon Hawkins.

  He’s leaving Winterhaven in a few weeks and I hate it. How can he leave me? After all this time, the way I feel about Hawkins is one of the few things I absolutely understand.

  I want him with me. Not just as friends. More than friends.

  “I’ve got to do something,” he told me, but that just means he needs a
direction in his life. If he leaves for Oklahoma Trinity, he’ll come back a minister, end up marrying some boring choir singer, and he’ll miss out on the best days of his life. The days we should be spending together.

  There’s still some time before he goes out of state. Time enough, I hope, for me to change things.

  Can there be a girlfriend-boyfriend relationship between a soul-deprived monster killer and a preacher’s son?

  Call me crazy (everybody else does) but I think maybe I can make it work....

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Before the Beginning, there was the Void. All Creatures Perverse and Unnatural were imprisoned there.

  Before the End, they shall be set free and the Gods of the Void shall reign again.

  – The Book of Forgotten Lies

  Their mini-van cresting the hill, Elaine saw a woman by the roadside. Her hair was cut in short brown curls and she held a small umbrella over her head.

  Hitting the turn lever, her husband began to slow the car.

  “I don’t know, Jim,” she said. “I don’t think this is such a good idea.”

  “I swear to God, Lainey, you’re getting paranoid in your old age,” Jim told her, the mini-van bumping from the asphalt and onto the gravel lining. “In the history of the world, do you think anyone has been mugged by a middle-aged woman wearing pearls?”

  Gravel crunched between the car’s wheels as it rolled to a stop. The woman folded her umbrella and approached the passenger door.

  “I’m so glad you stopped,” she told them. “I’ve been waiting for ages.”

  Jim leaned past his wife but not before giving her the look: See how silly you are. “Where are you headed?”

  “Wenatchee. Apple capital of the world, I’m told.”

  “We can take you most of the way there. That is, if you don’t mind sharing a seat.”

  “Wonderful.” Crossing behind the car, the hitchhiker climbed into the passenger seat. She rested the umbrella beside her as the vehicle returned to the road.

  Elaine leaned her arm over the seat. “I’m Elaine, Elaine Koslov. This is my husband, Jim.” Concerned, she said, “Is something the matter?”

  “Just...just sad, sometimes.” The woman wiped at her eyes. “Comes on suddenly.” Forcing a smile, she said, “I’m pleased to meet you. I’d appreciate it if you called me Mrs. Jordan.”

  “Mrs. Jordan?” Jim grinned. “No first name? That’s a little old school, isn’t it?”

  “It’s only polite, dear,” Mrs. Jordan said. She studied the car seat beside her. “You have a baby.”

  “Young Master Koslov.”

  “Sylvester Nathaniel,” Elaine said. “I am not to be blamed for ‘Sylvester’.”

  “My father’s name,” Jim explained.

  “How old is your son?”

  “Tomorrow, he’ll be two weeks.”

  “How adorable,” Mrs. Jordan said. She folded her hands atop her lap. “I could simply eat him up.”

  -end-

  About the Authors

  “Renée Harrell” is the semi-pseudonym of Renée and Harrell Turner, a wife-and-husband writing team.

  The Atheist’s Daughter is their first story in the Winterhaven series. If you’ve enjoyed the novel, please post a review. If we can find a readership for its sequel, we’d love to finish writing it.

  To learn more about Renée Harrell, the Things We’re Doing, the Things We Like, and That Thing We Did, go to MarsNeedsWriters.com.