The Atheist's Daughter Page 4

  She didn’t even get to pick where she was. Holyford Creek? It was her mother’s worst painting. If she stayed here any longer, she’d get sick from its sugar-sweet artificiality.

  “You couldn’t stick me in a Davidson print, instead?” she asked the Dream Master.

  No answer.

  Somehow, she knew she’d never again get an answer to any of the questions in her dreams. She no longer expected one. But one time, years ago, someone had responded to her. In her first dream – the first one she remembered, anyway – she was standing barefoot on a beach.

  “What are you doing here?” she asked the only other person to be seen, a round-bellied, golden-haired child.

  “Playing,” the girl told her.

  Around them, gray sand was colored with empty cans and bits of debris. The tiny blonde lifted a handful of sand over her head and released it. For a second, the grains formed the image of a seagull before scattering into the wind.

  Kristin was only a girl herself, then. “Can I play, too?”

  “Uh-huh,” said the girl. “Only I get to play.”

  Suddenly, the stranger reached over and pinched her arm. Hard.

  Crying out, she moved away from this mean creature. “What’s your name?” she demanded.

  “The Dream Master,” the little girl said. Giggling, she vanished.

  When Kristin woke up, her arm was bruised.

  Still playing with me, aren’t you?

  She tried to drop the paintbrush but her fist remained resolutely closed. Trying to walk, her feet refused to move. From the waist down, she felt frozen.

  Crap.

  Atop the easel’s fold-out holder was a painter’s palette. Feeling compelled to act, she held it as she’d seen her mother do, a thousand times before.

  Two fresh circles of paint lay on the palette’s melamine surface. The first of the circles was deep red in color. The second oil was stark white and shaped as perfectly as a full moon.

  She pushed the brush’s bristles into the white paint then carried its color over to the red. Mushing them together, she created a sloppy oblong of fleshy pink paint.

  Not knowing why, she slapped her brush against the hardboard. Flecks of paint splashed over her clothing.

  She paused, considering what she’d done. She nibbled at the brush’s nub.

  “I like it,” Susannah Guitierrez whispered in her ear.

  Shifting her gaze, Kristin didn’t see Susannah or anyone else. Taking her brush, she ground it into the pink oblong. Suddenly angry – Let me wake up! – she stabbed at the hardboard. Drops of paint flew in the air, spattering her face and neck.

  Touching a finger to one of the globules, it felt as wet as water. Its color seeped beneath the tip of her fingernail, staining it. The paint wasn’t pink as she expected. Under the white edge of her nail, it was a deep, dark red.

  The color of blood.

  A rasping noise scraped from the sky overhead. The sound grew, metal grinding over metal, becoming so loud and so harsh she cupped her hands over her ears.

  Above her, the sky was flawless except for two cotton-white clouds. The upper atmosphere was every bit as perfect as the rest of Holyford Creek.

  Abruptly, the rasping noise ended.

  “I like it.” This time, the voice came from behind her. Kristin whirled around, finding her mirror-image twin staring back at her.

  A lavender bed sheet wrapped around her body, the Kristin-clone smiled. Her teeth were uneven and yellowed from too many years of smoking.

  It was the mouth of an older woman. It was Susannah’s mouth.

  “I like it,” the clone repeated, each word spoken in her neighbor’s voice.

  Kristin caught her breath. Ignoring her twin, she focused on the painting. The rectangle of hardwood had lost the splashes of pink she’d pressed upon it. It waited in front of her, so shiny and white she almost expected to see her reflection in it.

  From somewhere in the Cerulean Blue sky, metal ground against metal again. Trying to ignore the building noise, she reached out to touch her painting.

  Offering almost no resistance, the hardwood surface folded under the pressure of her fingers. It didn’t feel like painted wood at all.

  It felt like – plastic.

  Something’s wrong here, she thought. Something’s very, very wrong.

  Overhead, the sky shrieked down at her.

  * * *

  “What is it, honey?”

  Kristin awoke to find her mother leaning over her bed.

  Concerned, Becky said, “You were calling out in your sleep.”

  “Bad dream.”

  “Monsters? The boogeyman?”

  “I’m a few years past the boogeyman, Mom.”

  “Sorry.”

  “There was this awful noise,” Kristin said. “It kept coming and going. Screeching at me. Then – then I touched some...plastic.”

  “Plastic.” Becky straightened up. “Ahhh.” The worry lines on her forehead smoothed away. “It’s past my bedtime.”

  “But....”

  “Long day tomorrow.” She hit the bedroom light switch and the room returned to darkness. “G’night.”

  She closed the door softly behind her.

  Kristin kicked at the bed sheet on top of her, shoving it off of the bed. It was lime-green in color, not lavender, but she didn’t want the fabric anywhere near her. Folding upon itself, the sheet crumpled to the floor.

  Her mother didn’t understand. How could she? Kristin wasn’t sure she understood, either.

  The noise in the dream was unpleasant, yeah, but when she’d thought to cover her ears, it lost its power. The sound hadn’t frightened her.

  What had scared her was the painter’s board sitting upon her mother’s easel. In dream world logic, its surface transformed into plastic when she wasn’t watching. During its change, the board gained a chemical smell so strong it made her want to gag. Her heart raced when she stretched out a trembling hand to touch its face.

  When her fingers pressed the cool, unmarked surface – something inside of it pressed back.

  What did it mean, anyway? She didn’t know. She only knew that, most times, her dreams came true.

  This wasn’t the way the things were supposed to work. She’d read enough books, seen enough television, to know what dreams were like for other people. For them, dreams were pleasant, nightmares were scary, and neither was real.

  For that matter, she knew what the world was like for other people. No one ever spoke of seeing a liar’s face melt. No one complained about their own lips fusing together.

  She punched at the pillow beneath her head.

  What’s wrong with me? Why can’t I be like everyone else?

  Why am I such a freak?

  Chapter Nine

  Birth of a Freak

  His hand tightened around the hammer’s grip. “What do you want?”

  Standing nearly a foot shorter than the muscular man, the pretty woman brushed a strand of brown hair from her green eyes. “You heard me.”

  The man’s powerful shoulders shifted beneath his stained and dirty t-shirt. He frowned, the curve of his lips bringing a hint of menace to his pleasantly-attractive face.

  “The sink needs some attention,” Becky Faraday said. “Today, not tomorrow. It’s leaking.”

  “Becks,” the man said, the low growl of his voice softening, “I’m tired. I’ve spent the whole day working on the bookshelf.”

  “You did a good job.” Lifting up on her toes, she wrapped an arm around her husband’s neck. She kissed him warmly on the lips. “Fix the faucet.”

  Rick Faraday lowered his hammer to his side. “This is supposed to be my day off, you know.”

  “Lucky man. You get to spend it with me, instead.”

  “Fixing up our fixer-upper.”

  “What could be more fun?”

  “I could think of a few thousand things,” he said. “Besides, we’re out of plumber’s putty.”

  “The hardware store
will have more.”

  Wearily, he leaned against a sawhorse. Reaching out, he caught his wife at the waist and pulled her onto his lap. “Remind me why we bought this dump.”

  Curling one ankle over the other, Becky relaxed against his chest. “It was all we could afford, my dear. Besides, we like it here. Great neighborhood, close to work.”

  “You need to quit your job. Seriously. You don’t belong in a bank. You’re an artist.”

  “It’s near to your job, too.” She ran her hand through his close-cropped hair. “Plus, the neighborhood is decent and Grove Elementary is only two blocks away. Once she’s old enough, Kristin can walk to school.”

  “She’ll need to learn how to crawl first.”

  “By then, maybe the kitchen sink will be fixed.” Standing, she tugged on his arm. “Up and at ‘em, Mister Faraday. There’s work to be done.”

  Straightening, Rick said, “Did you hear that? The scraping noise?”

  “It came from the baby’s room.” Becky’s eyes widened. “Kristin!”

  Moving past her husband, she started to run. Rick said, “It’s only a noise, hon.”

  Feeling foolish, he followed her.

  Entering Kristin’s bedroom, with its paintings of pink hot air balloons drifting across aqua-colored walls, he knew instinctively that Becky had overreacted. Normally level-headed, she turned into an Amazon Warrior when she thought their daughter was threatened.

  He remembered what had happened the week before, when a bee had foolishly dared to buzz from beneath the bonnet of Kristin’s stroller.

  Careless little bee, he thought. Very squished, totally obliterated, hapless little bee.

  Becky sobbed, the noise dying in a choking sound, strangled inside her throat. Her body sagged and he slipped his arms around her for support.

  Kristin’s crib was empty. Above it, the wire-mesh screen was gone from the bedroom window.

  Grabbing at the crib’s top rail, his wife composed herself. “Find our baby,” she said, in a voice so flat and serious he knew he’d never forget it. “I’ll call the police.”

  Clutching the window sill, he leapt through its opening. Rose bushes grabbed at his legs as Rick fell to the ground. Staggering to his feet, he shaded his eyes from the bright light above him.

  On the sidewalk far ahead, a slight figure went briskly down the pavement. Despite the warm day and its cloudless sky, the figure wore a brown suede overcoat with its hood up. The walker’s arms were crooked, as if they were holding something.

  Rick sprinted forward.

  It’s a woman, he decided, it has to be a woman, so small and slim. I can catch her, thank God for all of those 5K’s.

  Of course, I can catch her. She isn’t even running.

  The street was empty. The woman passed the only car in sight, a neighbor’s green Pontiac, without slowing at all.

  What if she’s one of the neighbors?

  It was a staggering thought. Six months ago, they’d moved to Winterhaven and found an apartment. After a brief house hunt, they were new, still, to this area. They hadn’t met many of the people on their block.

  Was this woman watching when they moved in, her fevered eyes focused on Kristin’s bassinet? Did she have an accomplice, a boyfriend or a husband, even now peering out from behind closed curtains?

  What if the accomplice had a weapon? Worse, what if this woman carried a gun or a knife in one of the overcoat’s large, rectangular pockets? Would she hurt Kristin?

  She could try. He wouldn’t let it happen.

  Still too far away for him to stop her, he saw her lower a bundle to the sidewalk. A tiny arm emerged from the baby blanket, displaying little fingers curled around an infant thumb.

  Dear God, he prayed. Dear Jesus. Please protect my little girl.

  I’ll do anything, I’ll give you anything, but protect her, protect her, no matter what, protect her!

  His heart, already pounding, seemed as if it was about to come out of his chest. “Don’t!” he cried.

  Don’t – what?

  He didn’t know.

  Just…just...don’t....

  Behind him, the front door of his house banged open. Becky called out his name as she came down the steps.

  The hooded figure didn’t give any indication she’d heard either of them. She squatted over Kristin, her hands holding the baby’s torso as she raised the infant. Before Rick could stop her, she pushed a pink tongue from between her thin lips and licked the side of the baby’s face.

  “What the hell are you doing?” He heard the rage in his voice as he reached the kidnapper but a tremble underscored his words.

  He grabbed Kristin from the crazy woman. She released the child easily, almost as if she was returning her.

  Kristin’s lovely brown eyes studied him curiously. She appeared unharmed except for her cheek. Where the woman’s tongue had touched her, the skin glowed an angry red.

  Panting, Becky raced to his side. “Is Kristin okay?”

  Circles of sweat and terror staining the underarms of her shirt, she took the baby in her arms. She covered Kristin with the polyester blanket, as if the wrapping might provide another layer of safety for their child.

  “You –” Words failed him. Rick told the stranger, “You don’t go anywhere.”

  She studied him, her expression strangely unconcerned.

  Uh-oh. He’d read about women like this. In the tabloids, they were labeled S.O.S.: Single, Obsessed and Scary.

  Lonely and desperate, the S.O.S. would do anything for a child to call their own. They weren’t truly evil, no, but they were definitely insane. Insane to think about stealing another family’s child. Insane to think they could get away with such a terrible crime.

  Becky barely glanced at her child’s abductor. As she cradled Kristin in her arms, he saw the red glow was gone from the baby’s cheek.

  “Go inside,” he told his wife. “Call the police again. Tell them we’ve caught the kidnapper.”

  She shook her head. The baby in her arms, she half-ran down the sidewalk and into their house.

  The hooded woman watched her go. Although she made no effort to leave, he grabbed at the stranger’s jacketed arm. “You’re staying here.”

  At his touch, the overcoat fell free from the woman. Its limp sleeve captured in his fingers, the jacket floated forward effortlessly as if her body had only provided a framework of minimal support.

  For a moment, he imagined the overcoat had pulled through her. He shook the sleeve, letting the garment spill to the sidewalk.

  Middle-aged, with curly, brown hair cut just above her shoulders, the woman remained in front of him. Wearing a tan top with matching trousers, she didn’t appear unbalanced. She looked....

  Normal.

  She said, “I wasn’t intending to leave. Not yet.”

  Unperturbed by Rick’s anger, she didn’t sound afraid. She didn’t even seem concerned.

  “You’re sick. You need help.”

  “Please.” She acted offended, as if such name-calling was inappropriate.

  “You can’t take someone else’s baby,” Rick said.

  “I gave her back, didn’t I? I had no interest in keeping the whelp. Heavens, no.” The woman acted surprised Rick would even consider such an idea.

  “I only wanted –” Her tongue flicked out from her mouth, wetting her lips, “ – a little taste.”

  “What’s wrong with you?” Rick twisted his head, hoping someone was coming to help.

  Sirens should have been wailing.

  It’s a federal crime when someone is abducted, isn’t it? Especially a child?

  Why aren’t police cars racing toward us, tires squealing?

  There wasn’t a patrol car to be seen. Instead, a UPS driver left a package at a corner house before climbing into his vehicle.

  Rick saw Becky waiting on the porch deck. His wife gave a short nod, telling him she’d called for help. He gestured with his head, wanting her safely inside, and she seemed relieved. S
he returned to the house, the door closing behind her.

  The UPS van rumbled closer to them. Over its engine, Rick heard the first, faint sounds of an approaching siren.

  It’s taken long enough. He smiled.

  The woman smiled back at him. Reaching out with a thin arm, she tugged at his sweat-stained shirt, drawing him closer. When she did, her lips opened and her jaws stretched impossibly wide.

  Inside the maw of her mouth, Rick saw a blur at the back of her throat.

  What the hell? Is there something moving in there?

  As if reading his thoughts, the woman snapped her jaws shut. Her mouth returned to normal as he tried to escape. He struggled against her grip but she held him effortlessly, as if he had no more weight than the infant she’d snatched.

  “Oh, no,” he said.

  “I need one more thing from you, love, if you don’t mind,” the woman told him.

  He stared at her.

  “I need you to die.”

  Rick felt her free hand grip the leather belt at his waist. She lifted him from the ground as he tried to scream. The sound caught in his throat.

  This can’t be happening.

  It was so absurd, this middle-aged woman raising him skyward. It was impossible. It was some type of bizarre hallucination.

  It isn’t real. It can’t be real.

  She threw him into the street. Flailing through the air, he got a glimpse of the UPS driver as he slammed on the brakes. The truck hit him squarely across the body, sending him into the air.

  He felt the impact when he struck the ground, his arm twisting awkwardly behind him. He heard his bones snap. Somehow, he didn’t feel any pain. He coughed once and his mouth filled with blood.

  The blue sky swam above him. Faintly, as if from some distant location, he heard the van driver cry out in alarm. He tried to find him but he couldn’t. His neck didn’t work any longer.

  The only person he could see was the crazy lady. She stood over him, her skin suddenly as colorless as a ghost in an old black and white movie. Like a ghost in one of those movies, he could see through her.