Authors: Tim Waggoner
“So it’s true. You
are
Althea’s sister.”
Eve nodded. “Her fraternal twin, actually. She could do all this too, if she wished. But she keeps herself cut off from others for the most part, preferring to implement her convoluted schemes from her mausoleum of a home, using my nephew as her agent. As for me, I just want to make people happy. That’s why long ago I left Sanctity and came here. So I could live the way I wished and use my abilities for the benefit of others.”
“At a price.”
A sly gleam came into her eyes. “Perhaps I’m not quite as selfless as I make myself out to be.”
“I saw the vehicles parked outside. Are your other … clients being entertained by the rest of your staff?”
“I have no staff. My garden has only one tender. Me. And my other visitors are enjoying themselves elsewhere in the house. Forget about them. We’re here to focus solely on your needs. You seek information.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re willing to pay for it?”
Dale didn’t like the way she said the word
pay
. It seemed to contain far too many connotations for his comfort. But he answered yes.
“I always tell my visitors the complete cost up front. Nothing hidden, no tricks. Your price is this place, Dale.” She gestured to indicate the living room.
He frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“The memory of it. In exchange for the information you want, you will surrender the memory of the morning Marianne and Alice died. You won’t forget that it occurred, of course. But the sensory details — Alice’s laugh as you tickled her under the chin, Marianne’s lips pressed against yours as you kissed her goodbye for the last time — these will be gone. Forever. No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to recall these details again.”
Dale’s gaze flicked to the kitchen doorway. He thought about it, thought
hard
. Eve sat patiently, not speaking, not moving, her too-warm hand still resting on his, but he barely felt her touch. Long ago, he’d made a promise to protect Joanne and help her in the performance of her duty — not her job as sheriff but her
true
duty — and he would not break that promise. Marianne and Alice wouldn’t want him to.
“I’ll pay.”
Eve showed neither approval nor disapproval. She lifted her hand off Dale’s and rose from the couch. “Done,” she said.
Dale expected to feel a sudden hollowness inside him as his memories vanished, with the room perhaps collapsing into dust around them as a visual metaphor for what he had lost. But nothing happened.
“Don’t look so disappointed,” she teased. “The room will remain exactly as it is until we leave it.” She turned her back to Dale, reached around, and began to pull down the zipper of her red dress.
“Uh, you did hear me say I want
information
, right?”
She didn’t reply, and a second later her dress fell to the floor with soft whisper of cloth. Eve stood naked before him, her petite body sleek and well formed. But the most striking feature was the large tattoo stretching from her upper back all the way down to her smooth, rounded buttocks. It was a design done in lines of lines of black, and it began moving, swirling slowly on her flesh, beginning as a mandala, morphing into a spider’s web, becoming a pattern of jagged fissures like cracks in a pane of glass. The effect was hypnotic, and Dale felt drawn toward the changing design, almost as if it were trying to pull him in. Without realizing it, he leaned forward until he was sitting on the edge of the couch. He almost reached out to touch the tattoo when Eve’s voice broke the spell.
“Tell me what you want to know.”
“Who is Carl Coulter’s real father?”
As Dale watched, the lines of ink beneath the surface of Eve’s skin bent, twisted, and reformed until they resolved into the image of a man’s face. Dale stared at it for several seconds before speaking.
“Well,
that’s
interesting.”
“I take it that you’re satisfied,” Eve said. Still keeping her back to him, she knelt down to retrieve her dress and slipped it over her small, slender frame.
“Zip me?” she asked.
Dale stood and did as she requested. Now that he knew who and what she was, she remained as beautiful and exotic as ever, but in a cold, remote way, as if she were a magnificent piece of artwork — a statue or painting — instead of a living woman. When Dale finished, she turned around to face him, and he said, “You couldn’t see the answer to my question, but do you know it anyway?”
“My sister and I may have different philosophies regarding our roles in the county, but we still talk from time to time.”
It wasn’t an answer, but Dale sensed it was all the reply he was going to get. But he had the information he’d come for, so he decided not to press the issue. Not that he could’ve persuaded Eve to tell him more if she didn’t wish to.
“We are finished here, and I have other visitors to attend to. I’ll see you out.” She started toward the parlor’s doorway and Dale followed. “One more thing. Don’t look back as we leave. Trust me. It’ll be easier that way.”
She stepped out into the hallway, and as Dale neared the threshold, he sensed more than saw the objects in his old living room begin to deform, to lose shape and substance. Heeding Eve’s advice, he kept his gaze focused straight ahead and didn’t look back as the Garden of Unearthly Delights accepted his payment.
Eve led him back to the entryway in silence. The halls no longer smelled like spices, and Dale wondered if that was because his visit was over and he was no longer welcome. He grieved for his lost memories of Marianne and Alice, but his grief was leavened somewhat by the knowledge he’d gained from Eve. He was still trying to sort out all the implications of this latest revelation when they reached the front door, and he remembered what waited for him on the other side.
As Eve reached for the doorknob, he grabbed her wrist to stop her.
“I have a problem.”
“No, you don’t. All my visitors enjoy my protection.” She pulled away from his grip and opened the door.
The Black Beast lay on the front porch, head resting on its paws. Its eyes snapped open and it sprang to its feet, a threatening growl rumbling deep within its throat.
“Hush now,” Eve said, gently but firmly. “You’ve had your fun.” She stepped onto the porch without hesitation, and Dale wanted to reach out and pull her back to safety. But though the Black Beast continued growling, it didn’t attack her.
Eve placed her hand on the creature’s head, as if it were no more than a dog that wanted to be petted. The thing fixed her with a baleful glare and displayed long, sharp teeth, but it still made no move to harm her. Eve kept her hand on the Beast’s head, and slowly it stopped snarling and the growls tapered away to nothing.
“Beauty hath charms,” Dale murmured.
Eve smiled. “You don’t know the half of it.”
The Beast began to whine, and Dale saw a shadowy substance begin to flow up Eve’s fingers. The black stuff picked up speed, sliding over her hand and crawling up her forearm. As it continued moving onto her shoulder, the Beast’s whines became howls of pain and fear, and Dale saw that the creature appeared smaller than it had a few moments ago, almost as if it were losing substance and dwindling away.
She’s absorbing it
, he thought.
With a final ear-splitting howl, the Beast collapsed into a pool of shadow that was swiftly absorbed by Eve. The remains slithered up her arm, flowed over her shoulder, and disappeared down her back.
Dale now knew where she got the ink for her ever-changing tattoo, and he shuddered.
She smiled at him again, but there was no mirth in her arctic-blue eyes.
“A girl can never have too many pets.”
On the way to the hospital, Marshall insisted they stop at the county building, though he refused to say why. Joanne agreed to do so, mostly out of curiosity. She accompanied him to the morgue, head throbbing in time with her footsteps as they walked, and when they arrived, she was mildly surprised to discover Terry wasn’t there. On the phone earlier, he’d told her that he’d finished the preliminary examination of Tyrone Gantz’s body. Shouldn’t he have been performing the official autopsy by now?
As if their thoughts were running along similar lines, Marshall said, “I need to see Tyrone’s body.”
It didn’t take long for Joanne to find out which freezer was Tyrone’s. She slid it open and exposed Tyrone’s sheet-covered body up to the chest. The man’s skin was pale and waxen, but the blood had been cleaned away from his throat and stomach wounds, but no other incisions had been made. Terry hadn’t done the autopsy. Where the hell was he? Had one of his living patients called with a medical emergency?
While she was trying to come up with an explanation for Terry’s absence, Marshall pulled something out of his jacket pocket. At first she couldn’t tell what it was, but as he stepped past her and pressed the object to the side of Tyrone’s head, she could see it was a crude stone carving of a miniature human figure.
“What the hell are you doing?” She reached out to bat his hand away, but Marshall grabbed her wrist with his other hand, fingers wrapping around like a band of steel.
“It’s vital you don’t interrupt the process, Joanne. It won’t take very — ” He broke off, frowning. “Something’s wrong. It’s not here.”
“What’s
not here?” Joanne tried to pull free from Marshall’s grip, but she couldn’t. She felt like a small child unable to break away from a much stronger adult. It irritated the piss out of her, and she was seriously considering going for her weapon with her free hand when Marshall let her go.
“His essence,” Marshall said. He pulled the carving away from Tyrone’s head and replaced it in his jacket. “You can put the body away. It’s useless now.”
Marshall turned and started walking toward the door. Her wrist aching from where Marshall had gripped it, she covered Tyrone with the sheet once more and slid his drawer back into the freezer. Then she hurried after Marshall, but no matter how hard she tried to get him to explain what he’d done — or at least tried to do — he refused to answer.
They didn’t speak the rest of the way to Resurrection Hospital.
• • •
“You doing all right back there, Debbie?”
Joanne glanced up at the rearview mirror. Through the black safety mesh that separated the front and back seats of the cruiser, she saw Debbie sitting with her hands on her lap, gazing out the side window. She’d exchanged her hospital gown for the clothes she’d been wearing when Joanne had taken her to the hospital last night — blue sweater, white blouse, jeans, and running shoes. She wore no makeup or jewelry and her face looked washed-out and drawn, as if she’d aged a decade in the few hours since Joanne had last seen her.
Debbie didn’t reply and gave no sign she’d heard Joanne’s question.
“I feel awkward sitting up front,” Marshall said. “Debbie should be sitting here.”
Joanne grimaced. She’d gotten some ibruprofen at the hospital pharmacy and had taken three times the recommended dosage. It hadn’t removed the pain in her head, but it took the edge off enough for her to function. “We’ve been through this already.” She didn’t want to say so again in front of Debbie, but given the way the woman was acting, it simply wasn’t a good idea to allow her to sit in front. She’d been docile to the point of near catatonia since they arrived to pick her up, but that could change at any moment. If Debbie should suddenly lose it, she might do something to interfere with Joanne’s driving. At the very least Joanne would have to subdue and cuff Debbie if she wouldn’t settle down. At worst, Debbie could cause the cruiser to wreck. Either way, it was better for Debbie to ride in the back, though it continued to make Marshall uncomfortable, probably because he viewed the back seat of the cruiser as a place for criminals. Marshall was just going to have to tough it out, though. Debbie seemed content enough back there, and it wouldn’t be all that long before they reached Sanctity.
Joanne was still concerned about Debbie’s condition, however. She hoped they were doing the right thing. Marshall insisted that the physician who’d tend to Debbie at Sanctity was the best in this part of the state, and while she had no reason to doubt him, she still didn’t —
Her cell phone rang, cutting her off in mid-thought. She figured it was Dale, and she was right. She listened for several moments as he spoke. When he was finished, she said, “We’ve got Debbie and we’re on our way to Sanctity. Get there as soon as you can.” She disconnected and slipped the phone back into its belt pouch.
She continued driving in silence for a time, and after a bit Marshall asked, “Anything important?”
She stared straight ahead as she drove. “You’re Carl Coulter’s real father.”
Marshall didn’t respond right away, but from the back seat, Debbie said, “Of course he is, silly. He did his best to be a good father, too, given the circumstances. Marshall would come over sometimes when my husband was at work or off on a fishing trip with his cronies. Sometimes he’d meet us at a park or a playground — in another town, of course. Sometimes we’d go all the way to Cincinnati. You should’ve seen the two of them together. Carl just loved spending time with his Uncle Marshall. You should have been there last night, Marshall. He would’ve been so happy to see you.” She fell quiet again and leaned her head against the side window. In the rearview mirror, Joanne saw tears begin to run down the woman’s cheeks.
Joanne turned to look at Marshall. “Carl didn’t really believe you were his uncle, did he?”
Marshall slumped in his seat, no longer looking like the most powerful man in this part of the state. He looked small, defeated, and so very tired.
“He did when he was young. But as he got older, he discovered the truth. I don’t know if he figured it out on his own, if Debbie told him, or if he someone sensed it. It doesn’t matter. He knew.”
Joanne didn’t say anything. Years of experience in law enforcement had taught her to be quiet and listen when someone was ready to talk, and Marshall was ready.
“I met Debbie when she first opened the café. I was … looking to marry a woman outside the extended Cross family. To bring in some new blood.”