Spitting Devil (7 page)

On the wall, Alison saw the long, bloody row of nails that had penetrated his neck and skull.

She didn’t move.

“Evan, go downstairs and call the police,” she said quietly.

Her son was frozen, staring in fascination at the spastic motions of the man on the floor.

“Please, honey, go do it now,” she told him.

Evan nodded and climbed down from the attic, leaving Alison alone. She crossed her arms to quiet her shivers. She waited with the man in the attic, feeling the wind rustle her red hair. She waited, standing over him, until the jerking in his limbs stopped and he wasn’t moving anymore. She was still there minutes later, crying, paralyzed, when Michael finally appeared at her side, wrapped his arms around her, and guided her away.

*

Stride waited in the cold outside the Malville home as the medical team removed the white-shrouded body of Carl Flaten. On the street, he saw Michael and Alison Malville loading suitcases into the trunk of a Duluth police car. Their house was a crime scene, but even if they could have stayed there, Alison Malville had made it clear that she had no intention of sleeping under that roof again. Some ghosts couldn’t be exorcised. Instead, Stride had offered to escort them to a downtown hotel.

“A lot of people are going to do a look-see in their attics and basements tomorrow,” Maggie said.

“Yeah.”

“No one wants to find out they’re living with a stranger,” she added.

Stride didn’t reply.

As the squad car passed them, he exchanged glances with husband and wife. Michael was in the front seat next to the officer driving them. Alison was in the back with her son. There was no anger on their faces. There was no emotion at all, only shock. The breakdowns would come later. Stride had been through his own near-death experiences in his past, and he knew that you couldn’t shake them off like a coat. They clung to you. They lingered.

“Do you think those two will be able to put the pieces back together?” Maggie asked.

Stride followed the taillights of the squad car until they winked out behind the trees. “Could you get past the idea that your spouse believed you were a murderer?”

“If they split up, then Dead Red won. He stole their perfect life.”

“Nothing’s perfect,” Stride said.

He watched the shadows of police officers and evidence technicians moving behind the windows of the house. The scene was secure, but the work would go on through the rest of the night. He had time to escape for a few hours.

“I’m going to try to get some sleep,” Stride told her.

“Good idea.”

“You coming with me?”

He didn’t know why he asked. The two of them had slept together in his bed for weeks. Even so, he knew her answer before she said it.

“Actually, I think I’ll crash at my place,” Maggie told him. “I need to get some stuff done there in the morning.”

“Okay.”

“Unless you weren’t talking about sleep,” she said.

“I was.”

“Yeah, I figured. Maybe tomorrow night?”

“Sure.”

But it wouldn’t be tomorrow night. It wouldn’t be ever again. Some friends were never meant to be lovers. They both knew it, and they didn’t have to say it.

No one likes living with a stranger.

“See you tomorrow, boss,” Maggie said.

Stride nodded. “Night, Mags.”

*

Alison and Michael lay next to each other in the dark, loosely holding hands. Evan slept peacefully on a roll-out bed in the hotel room, but the two of them were awake and silent. They’d been silent with each other for hours. She knew they had a long journey back, and she had no idea if they would get there. She didn’t even know how to begin.

“Can you ever forgive me?” she murmured at last.

Michael waited a long time to reply, but then he said, “Don’t do this to yourself now.”

She knew what he really meant: don’t do this to me now. Don’t make me choose. I don’t know if I can ever trust you again. You allowed yourself to believe something terrible and untrue. You lost faith in me.

“I’m so sorry,” she said.

“We both have things to be sorry about. I was ready to – ” He stopped.

“What?”

“Nothing. Not now.”

“Please.”

Michael rolled over on his side. She could barely see his eyes. “I was ready to ask for a divorce. I was ready to cheat on you. I was ready to give up.”

“And now?” she asked.

“Now I know it wasn’t you, and it wasn’t me. We were both victims.”

He was right, but she wondered if that really changed anything. If someone killed you, or if you killed yourself, you were still dead. She opened her mouth to say more – to beg, to pray, to seek answers – but he put a finger at her lips and whispered, “Don’t talk.”

He was right about that, too. They wouldn’t solve anything in the darkness. Not now. Not yet.

Their two warm bodies molded against each other. It was strange and yet familiar to have him in her bed again after weeks apart. He was awake beside her for a long time, but eventually, she heard his breathing change and knew that he had fallen asleep. She wished she could sleep herself, but her eyes remained wide open. There were no ants. There was no spitting devil. Even so, she found herself staring blindly through the darkness at the ceiling of the hotel room, listening to the footsteps of innocent strangers moving above her.