Authors: Jonathan Janz
She was his reason for doing this. With a little work he could make Carver for all three murders, if murders they were. He had to get the bastard to confess. He’d get a confession the honest way or he’d beat it out of him. Regardless, once he found out where the bodies were stashed he could make up anything he wanted to and he’d be a hero for it.
Julia would have to choose, then. Either go along with it, pick up the pieces and start a new life, or refuse to accept it, in which case he’d have to make public her role in the crimes too.
It would be up to her, though. He’d wait for her tonight at Watermere. She’d no doubt be coming there after getting done at the library. Her boss said she’d be working late, until midnight maybe, to get ready for the book sale. Nice old woman, Julia’s boss. Able to keep a secret, holding off telling Julia about their conversations until everything was sorted out.
He came to the clearing.
The bluegrass beside the brook was soft and matted, as though someone had been there recently. Sam searched the elms around the clearing, looking for movement.
Pain exploded at the base of his skull and starbursts popped in his eyes. Sam fell forward, scrambled for his gun, but before he could grab it, a boot shot out, sent it skittering toward the water’s edge. He made a dive for it, but the gun went over, the clear water swallowing it up with a plop. Sam rolled onto his back, stared up at the man holding a rock the size of a grapefruit in his hand.
“Let’s end this,” Carver said.
Paul stared down at Barlow, who lay on the ground blinking at him. The sun was almost dead and they were only silhouettes in the twilight. Paul became aware that Barlow was grinning.
“Something about this amuse you?” Paul asked.
The sheriff said that it did.
Paul shot out a workboot, tattooed the older man between the eyes. Watching the pain in the sheriff’s face was heartening. He tossed the smooth rock into the water.
Rolling over, Barlow coughed and rubbed at his face, but beneath the coughing Paul heard the sheriff chuckle.
“What’s so funny?” Paul asked.
“You’re not very smart, are you?”
That brought the boot out again, catching Barlow in the gut this time. Bunched up, the sheriff spat and moaned. It was Paul’s turn to laugh. The big man looked pitiful doubled up that way. Through the coughing he heard the sheriff say something, but he couldn’t make it out. He knelt over him, smacked him in the face to let him know he was still there. Barlow eyed him.
“You’re not much, are you?” Paul asked.
The sheriff spoke, his voice hoarse: “Have you gone to your uncle’s grave yet?”
It stopped him. “What?”
“You even know where it is?” Barlow was smiling again.
“Of course I do,” Paul said, nodding toward the graveyard. “It’s over there with his wife’s.”
“No it isn’t,” Barlow said. “It’s in Greenview Cemetery, next to the city park.”
“I don’t understand,” Paul said.
“That’s right. You don’t. So ask yourself why a husband would want to be buried separate from his wife.”
“I don’t have the first clue.”
“Because he was afraid of her. Because in the end he understood what she was.”
“You’re a fool,” Paul said.
The sheriff laughed. It infuriated him. He made to slap Barlow again, but the sheriff surprised him by feinting the blow and smashing a meaty fist into his ear. Head ringing, Paul stumbled and tried to remain standing, but the larger man was on him too swiftly, dragging him down like a lion. The sheriff on his back, weighing him down, Paul shot out a desperate elbow. It caught Barlow in the kidney. Bellowing, the sheriff went down again, his big body mere feet from the edge of the brook.
He jumped on Barlow’s chest, pounded him with his fists. The sheriff tried to fend him off but Paul was too quick, his advantage too great. Again and again he snapped jabs at the sheriff’s face, aiming for and connecting with his eyes, his bloody mouth. Not wanting Barlow to lose consciousness, wishing the older man to feel every possible scrap of pain, he grasped him by the chin and shouted into his face: “It doesn’t matter where Myles is buried, don’t you understand that? He’s gone, you lousy old piece of shit!”
“He’s gone,” Barlow wheezed, “and you’ve taken his place.”
“That’s right. I’ve taken his place.” He scowled at the sheriff, who was laughing again, harder now, and spitting up blood.
He yanked Barlow up, yelled into his face: “
Don’t laugh at me
.”
But the sheriff did. He went on laughing until Paul, sick with anger, let his head drop to the forest floor. He stalked back and forth, waiting for Barlow to stop. When the laughter had finally abated, Paul said, “You’re the reason it’s come to this, you know.”
“
She’s
the reason.”
“Julia?” Paul stood over him. “I don’t blame her for anything.”
“You’re a fool if you believe that.” Barlow said. “But Julia’s not the one I’m talking about.”
“Then you’re the fool.”
“You don’t know her.”
“I know all about her.”
“You don’t know anything,” Barlow said, his voice rising.
“I know I’m a published novelist. I know I’m enough of a man to keep a woman.”
Barlow said, “She’ll keep you.”
Paul pounced on him, raised his fist and slammed the sheriff in the nose.
His hands over his face Barlow said, “Haven’t you noticed her changing?”
Paul shook him. “Tell me what you’re saying.”
“I’m saying she’s not Julia anymore.”
Paul froze, hands clutching the sheriff’s collar.
“You haven’t even thought about it, have you?” Barlow said. “The stuff she’s done, the people she’s killed. That’s not her. Julia would never have done those things.”
Paul’s face twisted into a snarl. “Crazy old bastard.”
“She even looks like her now,” Barlow said, ignoring him.
“I’ve heard enough,” Paul said and stood.
Still holding onto Barlow’s collar, he dragged the larger man toward the water’s edge.
“The same mannerisms, the same expressions.” Barlow’s voice rose, pleading now. “Last night she even talked like her.”
Paul let go, Barlow’s head dangling over the water.
“You know I’m right,” the sheriff said, a thick stream of blood drooling out of his mouth. “She’s either Annabel already or becoming her.”
Paul watched him, eyes veiled. “That’s enough.”
But Barlow went on, “Or maybe you’ve planted her seed in Julia’s womb.”
“Shut up.” Paul straddled the sheriff, pushed down on the man’s forehead.
“Listen to me,” Barlow said, voice panicked. Paul gazed into the sheriff’s white, wild eyes. “
I’m trying to help you
.”
Paul watched his face disappear into the turbid water, which gurgled, the big white bubbles rising and bursting. Barlow seized Paul’s shirt, lifted himself out of the water.
“
Please
,” the sheriff said, sputtering, “
please listen to me
…
it’s Annabel
…” He coughed blood and murky water. “
Don’t you see that this is what she wants? If you’ll only—
”
Barlow’s voice was swallowed up by the water rushing over his face.
“Fool,” Paul growled. He leaned back, avoiding Barlow’s flailing arms.
The sheriff’s face breached the surface. Paul saw the man’s mouth forming words, but no sound escaped save the retching and gagging. Doubling his efforts Paul drove with his forearms, dunked the sheriff’s head again, and now the large man was beginning to weaken. His frenzied hands batted at Paul’s shoulders, fought in vain to loosen his grip.
Paul grinned. He saw Barlow’s eyes under the surface, huge and frightened. Teeth bared, Paul held him there. He discerned his own image on the water, rendered brilliant by the charnel light of the moon. He laughed, for the reflection made it seem as if he were drowning himself, his own face. Then, Barlow’s hand splashed again and the illusion vanished.
Paul held Barlow under.
He pushed to his feet and stared at Barlow’s motionless body. He lifted the sheriff’s ankles and shoved them toward the water. His huge limp body somersaulting, the sheriff toppled into the brook. It was just deep enough to move him along with the current. He watched the sheriff’s feet disappear as the body floated around a bend. For a moment, Paul’s breathing slowed.
Then, as if awakening, his whole body tensed.
What the hell was he doing?
“
No
,” he said. He took a step into the brook. Its depth surprised him. He tumbled forward, the cool water rushing over his mouth and eyes. He began to tremble. He splashed to his feet, the water chest high, and began running downstream, his muscles rendered useless by the water’s resistance. He flailed his way forward, thinking the sheriff might still be alive, he had to be, but Paul’s progress was negligible. As if in a nightmare, he felt the water pushing against his limbs, impeding him. He fell forward, the waters closing over his head. Under the surface he heard laughter, and he knew it was Annabel. He thrust forward and up, his hands breaking the surface. He opened his mouth to curse her for making him do this. He reached the water’s edge and heaved himself up, and through the coughing and gagging he cursed her, cursed Annabel for making him kill the sheriff.
Lying on his stomach, he let his cheek rest on the wet grass. The coughing was under control now, and he could think more clearly. It hadn’t been like the automatic writing because he remembered everything, remembered the sheriff’s panicked eyes as Paul shoved him under. Yet it was like that in a way because he didn’t hate the sheriff, didn’t truly believe the thoughts that led to the confrontation.
But Barlow was dead and Paul couldn’t take it back.
He and Julia would have to go away. Barlow’s body would be found soon.
Paul mashed his face in the grass and the mud. It smelled like a freshly dug grave.
Soundlessly, he began to weep.
Chapter Twenty-Three
The late hours were hard on her.
In years past Bea Merten had looked forward to the book sale. Staying up until midnight or beyond. Using her muscles more than she was accustomed to, loving the fact that she and Julia could do the work all by themselves.
Bea’s expression grew troubled.
She had no idea what it was Sheriff Barlow thought he knew about Julia, but she didn’t like keeping secrets from her, speaking furtively with the sheriff at her house rather than here at the library where they might be discovered.
The questions he asked were about that lawyer, Ted Brand, who’d come to Shadeland but had never left. And then about the night of Independence Day, when she knew Sheriff Barlow’s deputy, that cretin Daryl Applegate, had disappeared.
She’d tried not to think about it, but that was like not thinking about a pink elephant. The more you tried not to think about it, the more you did. She’d lost sleep lately, and trying to act normal around Julia was exhausting what meager energy she still had.
Bea ripped off a rectangle of Scotch tape and stuck it on the sign. Careful to keep the sign level, she taped it to the front window. That done, she stood in the foyer, thinking of what else she could do to prepare for the sale.
What she could do to avoid Julia.
Bea thought of the younger woman down there in the bowels of the library, standing on the step ladder, pulling boxes of books down from the tall shelves where they kept the ones that hadn’t sold last year. Terrible work. It was always hot and muggy down there, and Julia had been at it for hours already. The girl was so helpful, so loyal. It wasn’t possible that Julia was involved with all that nasty business the sheriff kept calling about. Bea knew that Julia was no killer.
So why was she afraid of being alone in the basement with her?
Bea pressed a hand to her chest to calm her racing heart. She’d known the girl for going on six years. Julia was like a daughter to her. It wasn’t a stretch to say she loved the girl, but why on earth had she been absent so much lately, and why had she taken to wearing heavy makeup? In April Bea had asked her about the darkness around her eye. Julia said she tripped in the woods.
She was lying, Bea was certain. And why would she lie, if not to protect herself? Bea gazed down the wide staircase leading to the upper basement, where the children’s books were. Julia was under there somewhere in the lower basement, in the catacombs, sweating away.
While Bea stood up here quaking in her shoes as though her assistant were Jack the Ripper.
It was ridiculous. Julia had nothing to do with the disappearances, and Barlow had gone off his gourd. Smiling, Bea took a step toward the stairs.
And screamed when someone knocked on the door behind her.
She whirled, thinking it could only be the sheriff at this time of night.
No one was there.
The area outside the glass door was unoccupied. It was a bright, clear evening so there could be no mistaking it. Bea squatted to see under her homemade BOOK SALE sign.