Although she hadn"t been a police officer for some years before Henry changed her, Vicki continued to take government
underfunding of law enforcement personally.
"Speaking of Vicki"-because speaking of the boot or the child or the thing that had taken her would only feed his anger and that would make it dangerous for Tony to remain enclosed with him in the car-"do you think she"d like one of those purple plants?"
"Purple plants?"
"Like all those plants Grace owns."
"Would Vicki like an African violet? For Christ"s sake, Henry, she"s turning forty, not eighty."
Reaching across the front seat, Henry smacked him on the back of the head. "Don"t blaspheme."
Just before the sign for the Nohomeen Reserve, a gravel road led off to the east, into the mountains. The boot swung around so
quickly to the pa.s.senger window, it nearly smacked Tony in the head. As Henry turned off the highway, it centered itself on the windshield again, bouncing a time or two for emphasis.
"Not exactly a BMW kind of road," Tony pointed out as a pothole nearly slammed his teeth through his tongue.
"We"ll manage."
The road ran nearly due north, past the east edge of the Keetlecut Reserve and farther up into the wild. They pa.s.sed a clear-cut on the right-the scar on the mountainside appallingly visible even by moon and starlight-then three kilometers later the boot slid hard to the left, the rubber sole squeaking against the gla.s.s.
Leaning out past Henry, Tony stared into the darkness. "I don"t see a road."
"There"s a forestry track."
"Yeah." Tony clutched at the seat as the car bounced through ruts. "Remember what you said earlier about a high road clearance and four-wheel drive? And hey!" he nearly shrieked as they lost even the dubious help from the headlights. "Lights!"
"We don"t want them to see us coming."
"You don"t think the engine roar will give us away? Or the sound of my teeth slamming together?"
A moment later, Tony was wishing he hadn"t said that as Henry stopped the car. Except that he didn"t want the engine to give them away. He didn"t want to walk for miles up a mountain through the woods in the dark either but then again Julie Martin hadn"t wanted to be s.n.a.t.c.hed out of her backyard so, in comparison, he really had nothing he could justify complaining about.
He crammed handfuls of herbs into an outside pocket on his backpack and wrestled the red rubber boot into the plastic bag. When he held the handles, it was like a red rubber divining rod...bag, pulling with enough force that it seemed safest to wrap the handles around his wrist. As he leaned back into the front seat for his backpack, it started to rain. "Wonderful," he muttered, straightening and carefully closing the door. "Welcome to March in British Columbia. Henry, it"s almost one and sunrise is at six oh six. Unless you want to spend the day wrapped in a blackout curtain and locked in your trunk, we need to be back at the car by three. Do we have time..."
"Yes."
That single syllable held almost five hundred years of certainty. Tony sighed. "I don"t want to leave her out here either but..."
"We have time."
The flash of teeth, too white in the darkness, suggested Tony stop arguing. That was fine with him except he wasn"t the one who spontaneously combusted in sunlight or b.i.t.c.hed and complained for months after he spent the day wrapped around his spare tire and jack. And it wasn"t like camping out was an option. He skipped the Brokeback Vampire reference in favor of suggesting Henry head for his sanctuary and he go on alone. "I"m not entirely helpless, you know."
"You"re wasting time," Henry snarled.
The evil that had taken the child was close. The drumming of the rain kept him from hearing heartbeats-if these things had hearts-and the sheets of water had washed away any chance of a scent trail, but Henry knew they were close nevertheless. Vicki would have called it a hunch and followed it for no reason she could articulate so he would do the same.
For twenty minutes they moved up the forestry track, his hand around Tony"s elbow both to hurry his pace and to keep him from the worst of the trail invisible to mortal eyes in the dark and the rain. The white bag pulled straight out from Tony"s outstretched arm, a bloodhound made of boot and belladonna. A step farther and the bag pulled so hard to the right Tony stumbled and would have fallen had Henry"s grip not kept him on his feet.
The track became two lines in the gra.s.s that led to a light just visible through the trees. Not an electric light, but not fire either. A lantern. Behind a window.
"Were build shelters," Tony muttered, ducking under a sodden evergreen branch. "Or the pack could be squatting in a hunting cabin."
"I hear nothing that says these are were." But also nothing that said they weren"t. The rain continued to mask sound and scent but its tone and timbre changed as they drew closer to the building and a pair of large, black SUVs. The cabin, crudely built and listing to the left, did not match the cars.
Lips drawn back off his teeth, Henry plucked a bit of sodden fur from where it had been caught in one of the doors. "Dog. And the stink of old death I caught by the river lingers still."
"It was wearing dog? Okay." A moment while Tony a.s.similated that. "Still could be giants then. These things"-a nod toward the SUVs-"are f.u.c.king huge. Hang on." Releasing one handle, Tony reached into the bag and used the ball of his thumb to smudge out the rune. With the boot now no more than a reminder that a child"s life hung in the balance, he wrapped the plastic tight and shoved it into his jacket pocket. "I"ll likely need both hands."
The rune in his left hand throbbed with the beat of his heart.
As they stepped under the eaves of the roof and out of the pounding distraction of the rain, Henry felt something die. Not the child-he could hear her heartbeat now, too slow but steady, probably drugged-but an animal who had died terrified and in great pain. Growling deep in his throat, he looked in through the filthy window.
Half a dozen kerosene lanterns hung from the rafters of the single room. One lantern alone made shadows, mystery. Six together threw a light that was almost clinical.
There were two men, middle-aged and well-fed, standing at each end of a wooden table stained with blood. Henry saw nails and a hammer and didn"t need to see any more. Over the centuries he had seen enough torture to recognize it in the set of a torturer"s shoulders, in the glitter in the eye. Both these men were smiling, breathing heavily, and gazing down on their work with satisfaction.
He had seen their expressions on priests of the Inquisition.
They might have started by accident, inflicting pain on a hunting trophy wounded but not killed. Over time, they had come to need more reaction than an animal could provide, and to answer that need Julie Martin lay curled in the corner of an overstuffed sofa wearing one red rubber boot and one filthy pink sock. Her face was dirty but she seemed unharmed. From what he knew of men like these, Henry suspected the drugs that had kept her quiet had kept her safe. There was no point in inflicting pain on the unaware.
The raw pelts draped over the back of a chair had probably been worn when they took the girl. Perhaps as disguise. Perhaps as a way of working themselves up to the deed, reminding themselves of pleasures to come. Grace Alton had seen the evil. Had seen clearer than anyone had believed.
"They"re just men." But not even Tony sounded surprised.
"There is no such thing as just men," Henry growled, barely holding the Hunter in check. "Angels and demons both come of men. To say these two are just men is to deny that. Is to deny this. I want the girl safe first."
"I"ve got her. Just open the door."
Henry didn"t so much open the door as rip it off its hinges, rusted nails screaming as they were torn from the wood, the blood scent roiling out to engulf him.
He sensed rather than saw Tony hold out his scarred hand and call. A heartbeat later the young wizard staggered back under the weight of the child and grunted, "Go."
Henry smiled.
And the two men at the table learned what terror meant.
Tony slid the boot onto Julia"s foot and lifted the sleeping child off the backseat of the car, settling her against his shoulder. As they drove back to Lytton, the drugs had begun to release their hold and, to keep her from waking, he"d sung her a lullaby from his laptop. It hadn"t seemed to matter that the words were in a language she"d never heard nor would probably hear again. She"d sighed, smiled, and slipped her thumb into her mouth. Now he wrapped them both in a Notice-me-not and carried her up the road to her parents" house. Although it was just past two in the morning, all the lights were still on when he laid her gently on the mat and rang the bell.
Rolling the ball bearing between his thumb and forefinger, he walked back to the car, listening to the crying and the laughing and wishing he could bottle it. The sound of hearts mending and innocence saved: that would make the perfect present for Vicki.
"You think she"ll remember anything?"
With the Notice-me-not wrapped around the car, Henry drove back toward Vancouver at considerably more than the legal speed, racing the sunrise. "I hope not."
"You think they"ll ever find the bodies?"
He shrugged, not caring. "I expect someone will stumble over them eventually."
"You didn"t leave anything that would lead the cops back to you? I mean"-Tony slouched against the seat belt strap-"these
were men."
Henry turned just far enough that Tony could see the Hunter in his eyes. "Would you have preferred we left them to the law?"
"h.e.l.l, no." He sc.r.a.ped a bit of mud off his damp jeans. "They hadn"t done anything to that kid yet but they were going to. It"s
just, monsters are one thing, but those-"
"Were also monsters. Do you have to throw up again?"
It had been a reaction not to what Henry had done but to suddenly realizing just what they"d prevented. It had also been
incredibly embarra.s.sing, but the rain had washed the stink off his boots.
"No."
"Good. It doesn"t matter if or when they find the bodies, Tony. There"s nothing that can link them back to us. To me." His teeth
were too white in the headlights of a pa.s.sing transport and his eyes were too dark. "No one believes in vampires."
Tony stared at the face of the Hunter unmasked and shuddered. "Dude, we"re doing a hundred and fifty-five k. Could you maybe watch the road?"
"All right, I still don"t understand how forty is any more important than one hundred and forty, but I think I"ve got Vicki"s birthday covered." Henry pulled a jeweler"s box from his jacket pocket and opened it. "One pair half-carat diamond earrings."
Tony stepped aside to let Henry into his apartment, peered down at the stones, and nodded. "Good choice. Diamonds are forever and so is she."
"Now read the card."
"Ah, you"ve included a newspaper clipping about the miraculous return of Julie Martin. Very smart. Almost makes up for the pink, sparkly roses on the front of this thing. Blah, blah, blah, as you approach the most wonderful years of your life, blah, blah, young as you ever were, blah, in your name a pair of evil men have been sent to h.e.l.l where they belong." Tony looked up and grinned. "Man, they really do make a card for every occasion."
"I added the last bit."
"No s.h.i.t? Seriously, Henry, it"s perfect. You don"t have to wrap it, she doesn"t have to find s.p.a.ce for it, and you can"t beat the sentiment."
"You think she"ll like it?"
"Like it?" Tony snorted as he tossed the card onto his kitchen table. "I think she"ll want to collect the whole set. You should start thinking about what you"re going to do when she turns fifty."
"Fifty." Halfway across the apartment, Henry froze.
"Fifty. Sixty-five. Seventy-five. Ninety. One hundred. One hundred and twenty-seven."
"One hundred and twenty-seven?"
"Kidding. You get her something really fine at one hundred and you"re probably good until at least one-fifty..."
The Wish Carolyn Haines Carolyn Haines has written more than fifty books. The latest in her Mississippi Delta series is Ham Bones. She also writes single t.i.tles. Hallowed Bones and Penumbra were named one of the top five mysteries of 2004 and 2006, respectively, by Library Journal, and Carolyn received an Alabama State Council on the Arts fellowship. An avid animal-rights supporter, she shares her home with nine cats, six dogs, and eight horses. Because no minute should go unused, Carolyn also teaches fiction at the University of South Alabama. Her website is www.carolynhaines.com.
It hasn"t rained for weeks, longer than anyone remembers. Each gust of wind carries tiny particles of dirt-soil shifting from place to place, fleeing across the borders of lawns, counties, and states. The land is on the move, as if it"s given up hope for America and is headed vaguely north, aiming to cross the border. It"s a long way to Canada from Mobile, Alabama.
The weather is all the talk in the grocery and feed stores, the nurseries and post office, places where I carry on the business of my life. Old men, as weathered and crinkly as the gra.s.s, study the sky that looks like spring and feels like Minnesota as they stand outside the Hickory Pit and the tractor dealership. They see nothing good. The climate is changing, and the farmers are catching the brunt of it. Gamblers at heart, they have no clue where to lay the odds in this New South of hard drought and hurricane.
Sitting in my pickup, waiting for a load of mulch and fertilizer while the heater blows ineffectually, I watch the dirt fly down Highway 45 in an orange cloud. Across the road, at the Stovalls" abandoned nursery, a tulip tree sways purple against the clear blue sky of another cold, dry, windy day.
The late February winds, unusually strong for south Alabama, pick up the fallen petals of the tulip tree, and suddenly I see her shape against gra.s.s that glistens with melting frost. The coffee cup I hold slips from my nerveless fingers and drops to the floorboard. I never hear the crockery shatter, nor the tinkling of the wind chimes abandoned at the nursery. My world goes mute. Again.
She stands beneath the tree, beside barren hydrangeas and glossy green miniature gardenias that will permeate the April air with a scent as delicious as taste. How easily I"d a.s.sumed that spring was a season I"d experience-waiting has become my only game. I haven"t been to a doctor for fifteen years, but I feel healthy enough. Illness isn"t my destiny. She"s taught me that.
She nods at me, an acknowledgment of our pact, and then she"s gone. The bruised petals fall softly to the thawing ground. Bosco, my old c.o.o.nhound, breaks into a long, low howl in the backseat of the truck. He understands who and what she is. The enemy.
Mobile isn"t the center of anything, merely a small port city on a bay where lazy rivers meet in one of the last untainted habitats in the Southeast. It"s a sleepy place with smiling, crocodile politicians one step removed from the horse thieves and slave traders who first took the land from the Choctaw Nation. While the town is physically beautiful, it lacks the sophistication of New Orleans, or at least pre-Katrina New Orleans. The Moral Majority holds sway in Mobile, those prunelike faces set against the joie de vivre that made New Orleans so special.
I should have left Mobile, but it"s because of her that I"ve remained here for so many years. Her and a certain ship"s captain who finds the empty downtown of old Mobile to his liking. No Disney creation, this pirate holds the answer to my dilemma.
Anxious in my grief and unable to sleep one long night, I walked the empty streets. By happenstance that evening, I saw him plying his trade in a dark alley, and I made it my business to learn his haunts and habits. He is my field of expertise, the most important element of my future. The cobblestone alleys of old Mobile are a perfect hunting ground for him, and one he returns to regularly, because in the dark of the moon, anything that"s truly desired can be found in old Mobile.
Once I deliver the mulch and fertilizer, I"ll put my plan into action. By moonrise, I"ll find him, the man, or some would call it a thing, who will help me.
To fully explain my story, I have to go back in time twenty years to a hot August day. Sometimes I forget that once I was another person. A wife and mother. A woman with dreams and expectations. To understand how I came to this point, the past has to be pulled out like so many wrinkled snapshots and examined.
It"s an irony, really, because I hate remembering. In memory, the images are so sharply focused they slice through the layers of alcohol I"ve used to pad my pain. People tell me that I live in the past, like that"s an accusation of moral degeneracy. "You live in the past" in their mind equates with "You killed your children." Hardly. We all have a past. We all have a present. But not all of us have a future.
Once upon a time, I had a future. I had the family and job, the normal, boring things that Middle America takes so for granted. I also had a mortgage and a car note and nights when my husband and I made pa.s.sionate love and forgot the dirty dishes in the sink, the piles of laundry waiting, and the spats about bills and babies. Today, none of those things trouble me. They"re all in the past, along with my heart.
On a too-hot August morning twenty years ago, I woke up plagued with a fever of unexplainable origin. The day was sweltering, even for south Alabama, and the humidity lay on my skin like a wool suit. We were in dog days, when it rains each afternoon and Mobile takes on the foliage of the tropics, thick and lush and green. Dennis had a breakfast meeting, and even though I felt terrible, I took Kala and Kevin to day care. My intention was to return home, shower, and go to work. I had a client meeting that couldn"t be missed, a big account, a cash bonus.