The Atheist's Daughter Read online

  Whatever that is.

  Unless, of course, none of what I see is real and I’m completely, totally batshit.

  I guess that might be good to know, too....

  Chapter Fifteen

  At daybreak, Kristin walked to the café. The front of the building was closed and its upper windows were dark.

  She abandoned the sidewalk for the dirt lane that served as the café’s back alley. A new fence blocked the back of the structure, its wooden slats spaced in six foot sections with a heavy metal post supporting each of the divisions.

  This is new, she realized. Since when did Piotrowski’s get a fence?

  The structure was built from Douglas fir, the same inexpensive wood her mother had once used to build a rabbit hut. Untreated, the rabbit hut had rotted after two hard winters.

  This crappy stain job won’t protect the wood for long. Maybe the ghost people don’t care.

  Exactly how long do they intend to stay in Winterhaven, anyway?

  The double-gate to the fence was open. A truck was parked inside the yard, its sides emblazoned with stylized images of apples and carrots. The truck’s driver wheeled a loaded dolly down a metal ramp. Walking beside him was another one of the crystalline men.

  Stepping closer to the fence, Kristin peered between two of the slats. This glass man was bigger than the other ghost people she’d seen. His powerful arms swung easily from a thick barrel chest. His head was square-shaped, with thick lips and a heavy nose. The driver spoke in a low voice to him.

  The big man barked a short, loud laugh. “Just like a woman, right?” his voice boomed out.

  The receiving door opened. Martin Piotrowski gestured at the driver as the glass man plodded forward, pretending not to see the older man. Drawing closer, he threw his wide left shoulder into Martin. The blow knocked him backwards, causing him to hit the door frame and slide to the ground.

  “Careful, old-timer,” the glass man said as the driver pushed his cargo inside.

  Martin spoke softly, the bigger man looming over him. Finally, the man extended an arm to help him to his feet. When he stood, the glass man clapped him on his back, a little too roughly.

  “My first name?” the glass man said. “It’s Martin. Same as you, eh?”

  Schhhct! Finishing his lie, a clear layer fell over the big man’s mouth. A second layer dropped over it and then a third, falling atop one another like so many glass dominoes.

  “I don’t like to use the name much.” The words reverberated strangely, as if the big man was speaking from inside a box. “You hear ‘Martin’, it makes you think of somebody weak and useless. Somebody soft. Every time I say the name, I want to puke in disgust.”

  Schhhct! His mouth reappeared.

  “Here’s what I think,” he continued, “my own personal theory if you will.”

  He moved closer to Martin, pressing his chest forward until it crowded the smaller man. “Anybody uses your first name, they don’t respect you. When you’re in charge, when you’re feared, people use your last name. They know to call you ‘mister’.” He brought his face down until he was nose-to-nose with the café’s former owner. “You want to keep me happy, call me Mr. Brass.”

  Martin blinked at him, speechless.

  “Let’s get going, Marty,” Mr. Brass said in his deep voice. “Those cartons of lettuce aren’t going to put themselves into storage.”

  * * *

  Sitting on the curb opposite the café, Kristin sipped at a diet cola.

  Something’s the matter with you, girl. You’ve spent your entire morning within viewing distance of what used to be the best restaurant in Winterhaven – and, when lunch time comes, you walk a mile-and-a-half to Bill’s Burgers to get a burger and fries. You don’t even like the food at Bill’s Burgers.

  Her mind teased, Like it better than the new management at Piotrowski’s Café, though, don’t you?

  She opened her cell phone. Almost instantly, the No Network message appeared on screen. Strange. Back when she worked at the café, she’d always been able to get cell reception.

  “Exactly why aren’t you working?” she asked the cell phone. “Is there something wrong with your satellite – or something wrong with here?”

  From behind her, a voice said, “Did you eat lead chips as a child?”

  Startled, Kristin closed her phone. Putting one well-manicured hand on the concrete curb, Liz Wheeler sat beside her. “Phone call from Mister Imaginary Friend?”

  “I – I....”

  “Piotrowski’s isn’t hiring. I’ve checked.”

  “That’s – no. That’s not...it’s not why I’m here.”

  “It totally is,” Liz said. “You’re scoping them out. It’s obvious.”

  “Did you really ask for a job application?”

  “I didn’t make a special trip here just to get an app, if that’s what you’re wondering. I happened to be here so I asked.”

  “Last year, you told me you’d never be a waitress,” Kristin said. “All the grease was bad for your perfect complexion. It would take the curl out of your gorgeous red hair.”

  “I said I had a perfect complexion?”

  “Inferred.”

  “Regrets.” Liz sighed. “Last year, I had an allowance. That’s gone until I somehow get into college.” She waved a hand over her clothing. “Last season’s designer jeans. The cute emerald sandals, so I don’t tower over every guy I meet? Asian knock-offs. This to-die-for Brazilian blouse? It’s a ramie blend and it wrinkles every time I bend.”

  “You must not bend very much, then.”

  “Bonus points: It was hand sewn by a spoiled redhead with a perfect complexion.”

  “I never said you were spoiled.”

  “I am, though. Was.”

  Kristin said, “If you aren’t job-hunting, why are you here?”

  “Can’t I just be curb-hopping with my best girl buddy?”

  “No.” When Liz looked hurt, she said, “You’re not a curb kind of girl. You’re more of a muscle car kind of girl.”

  “Not when Nana Beggio takes my keys.”

  “Bad Nana Beggio.”

  “If you had a car, you could drive me around.”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “No closer than before?”

  “Farther, if anything. Yesterday, I went on a spending spree and bought myself some chapstick.”

  “Spendthrift,” Liz said. “If you must know, I’m hunting for Mouser.”

  “Your grandmother’s cat?”

  “Disappeared again. Gone for two days and Nana is going nuts. It’s only a cat, right? A mean cat.”

  “You like Mouser.”

  “Not –” Liz’s mouth blurred as a vague cloud of softly freckled skin covered it “– so much.” At the end of the sentence, her lips snapped back in focus.

  “Liar.”

  “Didn’t lie. Considered lying. Almost lied. Can’t find the damned cat, though. In this part of the city, there’s almost always a few strays wandering around.” She viewed the area around them. “Funny. Not a single wee beastie to be seen.”

  Kristin sniffed the air. “I blame your perfume.”

  “You know,” Liz said, bringing her wrist to her nose, “so do I.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  Alice Poe stood behind the front blinds, her fingers forcing a gap between the plastic sleeves. Miss Sweet’s cane tapped over the tiled flooring as she approached.

  “I hate this stick,” Miss Sweet said. To emphasize her point, she thumped the red-brown pole’s rubber base against the floor.

  Alice Poe remained at the window.

  “The Bubinga wood is too heavy for comfort,” Miss Sweet continued. “The carved head fits poorly underneath my hand.” She rolled her twisted fingers over the jackal’s skull.

  “You’ll be rid of it soon enough,” Alice Poe said in a distracted tone.

  Miss Sweet pushed beside her to follow her gaze. “It’s her.”

  “I know.”

  “N
asty thing.” She scraped the long nail of her index finger over a vein in the wooden head of the cane.

  “She’s just sitting there. Staring at us.”

  “Do you think she knows?”

  “Mr. Locke says she doesn’t.” Anxiety touched her words. “Mr. Brass isn’t concerned but he’s the hungriest of us. When you’re hungry, you make mistakes.”

  “What does Mrs. Norton say?”

  “Mrs. Norton isn’t afraid of anything.”

  “You haven’t shared as much time with her as I have,” Miss Sweet said. “In the beginning, the early days, she had her fears. One such as this might have frightened her.”

  “Now?”

  “If she has her fears, she doesn’t share them.”

  With her free hand, Alice Poe touched the chain around her neck. Her fingers found its ankh pendant and she played with it nervously. “Is it true that only the pure can be tasted?”

  “Their kind has purity at birth. Not for long after.”

  Alice Poe pushed a hungry tongue between her colorless lips. Miss Sweet’s eyes narrowed. “The pure are not for the likes of you.”

  “Nor you,” Alice Poe responded, spitting her words.

  Miss Sweet ignored the sting in her words. She smiled at a distant memory, sending a cascade of wrinkles rising up her empty face. “The ones who get tasted – the little ones – they rarely live, you know. They’re abandoned, neglected... lost.”

  Alice Poe brightened at this thought.

  “A fall from a crib, forgotten in a tub, left in a too hot car,” Miss Sweet continued. “The parents reassure themselves that they tried. People can only do so much. They’re not to blame.”

  “Accidents happen.”

  “Yes. Yes, they do.”

  “What of this one?” Alice Poe gestured toward the street outside. “Why is she still here?”

  “Yes. Well.” The pleasure leaked from Miss Sweet’s voice. “Even in our world, mysteries abound.”

  At the sound of footsteps, they stopped talking. Mrs. Norton entered, stopping in front of Alice Poe. “I haven’t been able to find your Mr. Locke.”

  Alice Poe rubbed her thumb furiously over the face of the silver ankh.

  “He wanders,” Mrs. Norton said. “He wins no favor when he shirks his duties. Mr. Brass is furious.”

  “I’ll find him.”

  “It would be best if you did so quickly.” To Miss Sweet, she asked, “Is your room ready for customers?”

  “I have the crystals and new candles.”

  “It’s not enough. In a place like this, a small town, they want incense and astrological signs. The Chinese calendar. Gypsy clothing. When our customers come upstairs to see a fortune teller, they expect to find something they might have seen in the movies.”

  “Fools.”

  “You’ve wasted enough time for today.” Mrs. Norton clapped her hands together sharply. “Both of you, finish your chores. We have our grand opening tomorrow.”

  Chapter Seventeen

  His dead wife said, “I don’t know, Howard. I’m not sure I like this new woman.”

  “She’s a good person,” the Reverend Hawkins told her. “She comes to Bible Study every week. She’s at both of the Sunday services.”

  “Then why doesn’t she take you as you are? Why do you have to change yourself?”

  “A small change. A cosmetic change. I did it to please myself.”

  “Always pleasing yourself,” Eustacia said. She frowned and her shattered cheek sunk in on itself. “She’s been divorced. You know what I think about divorce.”

  “We’ve had this discussion.”

  Eustacia held her frown. She fixed her remaining green eye on her husband.

  “I like Ms. Parkes. I hope to see more of her.”

  “I don’t know why I bother,” she said in her snippiest voice. “You always do what you want, anyway.”

  In death, as in life, she was so easily offended. Sometimes he didn’t know what to say.

  “It’s Gideon I worry about,” she continued. “Who knows if she’ll be good for him?”

  He took a deep breath. “Gideon’s a man now, Eustacia. He’s not a child, anymore.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  “It’s true. Remember the last time we talked. Try to remember, darling.”

  He could almost see her thought process as she tried to knit her memories together. Even if she remembered, it wouldn’t last. He reminded her of Gideon’s age with almost every nocturnal visit. For her, time remained frozen at the moment of the accident.

  Her ruined face studied him. “Is she prettier than me?”

  Poor Eustacia. “No one is prettier than you.”

  His response pleased her. “What’s the woman’s first name again?”

  “Brenda.”

  “Brenda,” she said, as if she’d bitten into something distasteful. “What are your plans for this – Brenda?”

  “I don’t have any plans. Not now, not yet. Eventually, I may ask her out on a date.”

  “Take her on a picnic.”

  His heart sank.

  “Maybe on a Friday. The parishioners don’t bother you on Fridays.” Her shredded face regarded him. “You might pack a lunch, carry it in our wicker basket. A little cheese, a loaf of bread.”

  “Stop it, Eustacia.”

  “A bottle of wine, too. What harm could it do?”

  From somewhere in the clouds behind her, a telephone rang.

  “You still drink wine, don’t you, Howard?”

  “You know I don’t. You know I’ve stopped.”

  The telephone rang.

  “A little too late, wouldn’t you say?”

  “I’m so sorry.” He was, too. He would forever be sorry for what he’d done.

  “There’s something else we need to talk about.”

  The telephone rang.

  “There’s evil in Winterhaven,” she said, “It’s a preacher’s job to watch for the sinful. How could you have been so careless?”

  The telephone!

  His eyes came open. Reaching out in the darkness, his hand found the phone’s receiver. “Hello?”

  “Reverend?” It was the sad, almost mournful, voice of Ed Whitlock. “Sorry to call so early.”

  The Reverend felt for the alarm clock. He moved its glowing digital face so he could see it more clearly.

  It was nearly five in the morning. Early enough to start the day.

  What a blessing.

  “It’s my mother,” Ed said. “She fell at the nursing home last night. The doctor’s ordered x-rays, he thinks she’s broken a hip.”

  “Go.”

  “There’s nobody to cover me.”

  “Don’t let it bother you,” he said into the receiver. “Family comes first. Galilee Church will still be standing when you get back.”

  He hung up the phone. His heart was starting to slow. His pajamas felt wet and sticky.

  “Sinner,” he told himself. “Sinner.”

  He hated these nightmares but he’d earned them. If he never slept well again, he couldn’t complain.

  It was nothing less than he deserved.

  * * *

  His father with the too-brown hair stood at the lectern. He adjusted his reading glasses before examining the index cards on the face of the podium. “After the morning prayer, everyone takes their seat, the choir goes into ‘All Glory to the Father’ –”

  “All glo-ry to the Father be!” Hawkins shouted. He squeezed the rag in his hand. Soapy water dripped into the bucket at his feet.

  A flicker of irritation passed over Reverend Hawkins’ face. “Tina Flores will announce the results of the bake sale –” He scanned the index card in his hand. “Two hundred and forty dollars. Not bad.”

  “Hal-lelujah!” Hawkins cried. Putting the damp rag against the glossy finish of the red oak pew, he wiped it along the back of the long bench.

  His father removed his reading glasses. “Having fun, Gideon?”

 
“Yes, sir. I mean...no, sir.”

  “I know you’d planned to see Kristin today,” the Reverend said. “I’m aware your time together is limited. To my mind, this is not necessarily a bad thing.”

  Rather than respond, Hawkins dropped his rag into the bucket of soapy water.

  “If you’re going to be a preacher, a man of God, you need to learn prioritization. Your wishes are frequently served last.”

  “I think I understand that.”

  “So when the maintenance man calls to say he’ll be out of town for the rest of the week, someone has to sweep the floors. Someone has to clean the pews. All too often, this ‘someone’ ends up being the congregation’s leader.”

  Or his son, Hawkins thought.

  “We’re clear on this? If I decide to practice my sermon, I’m not going to have to listen to a laugh track?”

  “Not with one of your sermons,” Hawkins muttered. Scooping the rag from the gray bucket of water, he twisted it forcefully. He rubbed its face along the curved edge of the pew’s side support.

  His father bent his head down, scrutinizing his notes. The light mounted over the lectern reflected off of the brown mulch that was serving as his hair.

  Hawkins didn’t know why the color change bothered him so much. It was only hair, no matter what his father did to it. Keratinized protein filament, if Greg Cohen, his old chemistry teacher, was to be believed.

  Howard Hawkins own protein used to be silver-white, a good color for a preacher. Now it was some kind of burnt umber.

  A good color for a used car salesman.

  He’d obviously done the dye job himself. It was just as obvious that he’d made the change because of the church’s newest parishioner. Brenda Parkes was new to the congregation and to Winterhaven. She was a middle-aged divorcee, all soft curves and bright smiles. Her hair was brown and, because of her age, it was probably dyed, too. On her, the color seemed right.

  Hawkins kind of liked her. Still, it bugged him to see his father suddenly buying new clothes, changing his hair, and pretending as if everything was normal.