Pretty Little Dead Girls (15 page)

This time the man slipped off and headed down into the dark spaces beneath the fish market and Chad wiped his hands and followed him. Down and down they went, farther and farther into the labyrinth. Chad thought he had lost the mysterious man, but turned a blind corner to find that the man waiting.

“So you really were following me,” he said conversationally. “Unbelievable.”

Chad pulled himself up to his full height, trying to look intimidating. “I think you want to hurt Bryony, and I won’t let you do it.” His voice was strong, and Chad was proud of himself.
Hmm, loving someone really does give you strength
, he thought. How proud Bryony would be when he told her.

The man didn’t look fazed. “Of course I want to hurt her. We’re each other’s destiny, she and I. I was born to kill, and she was born to die, and isn’t that convenient? Lovely, really.” Something flashed in his hand, and Chad’s mind said “Oh!” and it said “No!” and it tried to say something else, but it was lost in the pain of being stabbed two, three, four times in his chest.

The man sighed. “I was hoping for more. Oh well, thems the breaks.” He wiped his knife carefully on Chad’s shirt, and stepped smartly away.

CHAPTER FORTY THREE

A Broken Heart

This is what Chad thought:

He thought, “Oh, rats, that guy is going to go after Bryony. I have to help her!”

He thought, “Why aren’t my legs working? I can’t seem to make them move.”

He thought, “Just when I figured out how to really love someone . . . ”

The sad irony is Chad had finally discovered his heart after many years of denying it. He discovered he loved the girl at the flower shop and, yes, even Eddie for his grouchy protective ways, and with this new knowledge he could have gone on to live a beautiful and productive life.

It could have been a life full of a witty wife and five children and a family dog whose name would have changed bi-weekly due to the whim of the family, although he would have been called ‘Buckley” more often than not. Chad could have purchased a home his wife would convince him to paint a whimsical dark purple with white trim, thereby being both creative and tidy, and he would have mowed the lawn every Saturday morning before a traditional Pufferhoff breakfast with eggs, and pancakes in funny shapes, and milk that always seemed on the edge of expiring, but never quite did.

This life was never to be, however, because this new heart had warned him to watch over his friend, and he had followed its advice for the first time, and what happened?

His heart was, quite literally, ripped apart.

CHAPTER FORTY FOUR

Meanwhile

While Chad the Fish Guy died alone in a seldom used part of the building, Bryony went to her favorite fruit vendor for their Lunch Special. The Lunch Special cost a dollar fifty and consisted of a freshly plucked peach, a bottle of water, and a paper towel.

“You’re looking rather peaked today, my dear,” said the kindly old woman who ran the stand. She was picking out the perfect peach, heavy with juice and full of flavor. “You really ought to go home and get some rest.”

Bryony accepted the peach and bit into it, careful to keep the juice from running into her rag doll stitches. “This is delicious. Thank you so much. I think I miss Eddie, and I’m tired of . . . everything. I miss my father. I think I might be homesick, but I’ve never been happier anywhere other than here. Is that not strange?”

Before the old woman could answer, Bryony heard somebody calling her name. She turned to look and there was Peter, his cheeks still flush from his most recent kill, although of course nobody else knew that. He just looked robust and happy to be in the pleasant Northwest weather.

“What a lovely surprise,” he said, and hugged her. “How nice to see you here. Why, really, what are the chances?”

The chances were exceptionally good, considering he had stalked her all the way to work for the past several days, but again, Bryony didn’t realize that, nor could she be expected to.

“Oh, Peter! Hello.” She introduced him to the vendor. “This is Peter and he’s the one who saved me the other day. I’m really grateful to him.”

Pleasantries were exchanged (“Oh, you saved her life?” “Why, yes I did!” “Wasn’t that sweet of you?” “Why, yes it was!”), and Peter made a show of looking around for Eddie.

“Where’s your husband?” he asked.

Bryony’s face fell. “He’s recording, and then he has a couple of interviews. He’s gone quite a bit, lately. And I’m afraid I’m not feeling very well today.”

Peter tried not to show his elation, and he did a fine job of it. “Would you like me to take you home, Bryony? You look like you could use some rest.”

She agreed and the people at her flower stand let her go half an hour early from her shift. Bryony peered around looking for Chad the Fish Guy, but he was nowhere to be seen.

“I can’t find my friend, and I wish I could tell him goodbye. He’s almost like a brother to me, and I am going to miss him so much when I . . . I’m being silly, and I’ll see him tomorrow.” She smiled and took Peter by the hand. “Come on, let’s go.”

Peter felt her mittened hand in his, and he closed his eyes for just a second. She was so trusting, making this so easy. It nearly hurt him, and for a second there was a brief stab of conscience, but then it was gone.

“Yes, you’ll see him tomorrow,” he said as he led her out to his car. “And you’ll have a fine reunion.”

Chad will be waiting for her with open arms on the other side of this life. Peter the Murderer fingered the knife inside of his pocket.

It was time. It was time.

CHAPTER FORTY FIVE

In The Murderer’s Car

Bryony rested her head against the window.

“Peter? I’m . . . I’m not really feeling well. Do you mind if I close my eyes for a little bit?”

Did he mind? Of course he didn’t mind, not in the slightest. Wouldn’t this be perfect? Wouldn’t this be almost romantic in a way, the two of them companionably enclosed in the car, she dreaming sweet dreams and he driving them off somewhere exotic and adventurous?

“Of course I don’t mind. You’re safe with me.” He nearly giggled, but he was not a giggling sort of fellow, so he managed to abstain.

“Can I tell you something?”

He nodded, but realized she couldn’t see him with her eyes closed. “Yes,” he said aloud, and beamed at how sensitive he could be to her needs.

“When that man was . . . on the trail. When he was . . . ”

“When he was trying to kill you,” he prompted helpfully. He heard Bryony sigh.

“Yes. When he was trying to kill me, it was strange. I keep seeing his face in my head. I thought I was prepared, you know, because all of my life, I knew. But it felt wrong somehow, like the universe hiccupped and threw everything out of whack. That he stepped out of line and wasn’t where he was supposed to be. Like he had somehow interfered in the grand scheme that is my life. Does that make any sense at all?”

Of course it did. The young punk
had
stepped out of line, had crossed another man’s boundaries, and it wasn’t to be taken lightly.

“It makes sense,” he said. He patted her hand reassuringly, pleased that she realized the man who almost murdered her had been the wrong man. How grateful she will be when Peter does it. “Oh, Peter!” she will say, and they will beam at each other happily. “If only I had known that it was you all along! Why, I never would have been afraid! How would you like to go about this? How can I be of the most help to you? Would you like me to close my eyes? Because if that would be better for you, I will most certainly close my eyes. How very wonderfully exciting!”

“Thank you, Peter,” she said now. “I felt I could tell you and you would understand. I tried to mention it to Eddie, but . . . anyway, thank you.” Her voice was beginning to fade. She was nearly asleep.

They had more in common than she realized,
Peter thought.

It was touching in a way, her childlike acceptance. He wished he had more time with her, but he would never get a more perfect opportunity. He would help her upstairs, tuck her into her bed. He would promise to wait with her until Eddie came home, and would sit on the foot of her bed and they would talk, or he would sit in a chair and watch her fall asleep. But no, he wanted her awake for when it happened. He wanted her to remember him, to see his face in her large eyes, to see the color drain away as her throat opens and spills crimson.

Tonight was the night. It was time.

Peter nudged the car along a little faster.

CHAPTER FORTY SIX

Priorities

Only things did not go as planned for our deviant and murderous Peter. When he pulled up to the Warshouski’s apartment, he noticed a car outside. Their car. And when he helped Bryony climb the stairs, they were soon greeted by an agitated Eddie.

“What are you doing home?” Bryony asked happily. Peter echoed the sentiment in his head exactly.

He thought: “Oh no, this was going to be so lovely!”

He thought: “Can I take Eddie out, too?”

He thought: “Not a chance, that is one irate man. Okay, better go!”

He opened his mouth to hand Bryony off to her husband and beat a hasty retreat, but Eddie spoke before he ever had the chance.

“Bryony, it’s your father. They called me at the radio station. He had an attack of some kind, and he’s not doing well. You need to go home.”

Bryony reeled a bit, and Eddie and Peter both reached out to steady her. She steadied herself, however, as she had always done, and she straightened her back.

“All right, Eddie. Can we leave immediately?”

Suddenly Eddie was staring at the ground, and the atmosphere became different somehow. There was a type of tenseness to it, and Bryony titled her head and tried to make her Eddie meet her eyes. He wouldn’t.

“Eddie. What aren’t you telling me?”

He isn’t going to go,
thought Peter.

“I . . . can’t go,” said Eddie.

“What? What do you mean? My father is sick and I have to go, and you’re not going to come? What do you have that is so important?”

Eddie looked at the ground. “I have a lot of stuff to do with the station, and recording. I’m doing gigs and interviews all over town, and hopefully I’ll start branching out a little. I’m getting my name out there, sweetheart. I’m becoming known.”

Bryony looked at Eddie, and if he had looked up at that moment, he would have seen the irises of her eyes bobbing in warm tears, and he would have realized instantly the depth of hurt that she felt. But he worked hard to avoid her eyes and so he missed it. What he heard was her voice, which she fought bravely to keep under control.

“Well, I guess . . . that is important, Eddie. I know how hard you have worked, and I’d hate—” her voice broke a bit, but she quickly cleared her throat and valiantly trooped on. “I’d hate to get in your way. Perhaps Syrina or Rikki-Tikki could come with me.”

To protect me from the desert,
she thought.
To keep me safe, because I can’t go there alone. Not like this. I am sad. I have nothing left inside.

Eddie studied the flimsy metal railing on the front porch. It was so fascinating and intricate, and he had never seen it before in such a light.

“I already called them,” he said. “Syrina has a performance and Rikki-Tikki is down with a particularly nasty flu. I even thought about Chad, but . . . ” He didn’t bother to finish the sentence, because the idea of Chad the Fish Guy and Bryony flying anywhere together didn’t particularly make him happy.

Especially now that Chad was a rapidly cooling corpse, but neither of them knew that except for Peter, and he certainly wasn’t going to say anything about that.

“Eddie,” Bryony said. “Please. Please come with me, especially if something is wrong with Daddy. It terrifies me so.”

Eddie looked right past Bryony, focusing instead on the trees shivering behind her. As his eyes swept away from her, Bryony felt pieces of her soul break apart and crumble like a worn cliff eventually tumbles into the sea. Eddie wouldn’t send her off to her darkest, most bloodthirsty enemy because he was recording, and she knew it. In fact, it was so preposterous. Absurd! There had to be something, or someone, else that made him stay behind. But she couldn’t ask, oh, she couldn’t ask. What if the weight of his secret was too much? What if he sighed in relief and said, “Bryony, you don’t know how wonderful it is to finally tell you. I am being broken under the weight of you. My soul has fallen ill and can’t be healed until I am as far from you as possible.” After all, hadn’t she heard it before?

“I’ll go with you. If you want.”

That said by Peter, who had ceased wishing himself away and fully brought himself into the conversation. He almost wished he hadn’t said it, because oh, the awkwardness. At the same time, there was distress in her voice and he knew he could most likely ease it, and besides, he wanted to see this desert himself. It sounded like a nasty, ancient thing, and if it wanted Bryony dead, then most likely it was going to have her. She was tired and drained, and would be worried about her father, and without Stop and Eddie standing there to guard her, she would most certainly fall. And if the desert took her, Peter the Murderer would be cheated from what he felt was rightfully his. It was as simple as that.

Bryony and Eddie both looked at him. Peter flushed a bit.

“I mean, I’m sorry. I don’t mean to intrude, but if you can’t go—” He looked at Eddie. “And you’re afraid to go alone.” He nodded at Bryony. “And your friends can’t go, well, maybe I’m better than nothing?”

They both blinked, and to be perfectly honest, Peter’s feelings were starting to feel somewhat tender. His presence certainly wasn’t that undesirable, was it? He was working hard to present himself as A Good Man, wasn’t he? He held doors open for people and dropped his spare change into the hands of the homeless. He never stole the newspaper from his neighbor’s yard and he was particularly careful to thank somebody whenever they did something for him. Why, except for the killing people thing, he was about as good as they came. Why couldn’t they see that? Were they blind? Had they not grown to care for him at all?

Bryony rubbed her fingers together, the black stitches painfully obvious against her white skin. It angered Peter every time he saw them. Stitches were failure, for if one cut well enough, there would be no reason to stitch, now, would there?