Seraphim (21 page)

“My God, Duncan,” Rachel said, “Did you see that—or not see that—in the window?”

“Quite frankly, I think I’ve seen and heard quite enough.”

Rachel stared at him. “Are you all right?”

“I’m not sure,” he said. “Can messiah’s have bad days?”

“Excuse me?”

“Never mind.”

Juanita helped the child down from Duncan’s shoulders.

“You’re Juanita San Diego,” said the girl.

“San
tiago
,” she corrected. “And you are Katherine Bently?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she said. “But you can call me Kathy.”

“Not again,” Rachel moaned. She knelt in front of the child and, sternly, said, “I am your mother, this is your dad and Juanita, and you’re Amy McNeil.”

Shaking her head, she said, “Amy’s not here anymore, Mrs. McNeil. She went to get her sword.”

Forced to take a step backward, Juanita gasped as she wildly signed the cross, appearing more like a nose-picking epileptic than she did a devout Catholic. Duncan actually felt for her.

Rachel, now almost nose to nose with the girl, said, “I’m sorry, hon, she went to get her what?”

“It’s a long story,” she sighed.

Rachel glanced back at the hospital doors, as if trying to decide whether Amy would go peacefully, or if orderlies would be needed.

Juanita placed a shaky hand on Rachel’s shoulder. “Mrs. McNeil, I know it is hard to believe, but she, I think,
is
Katherine Bently.”

Rachel stared accusingly at Duncan. “You’re being awfully quiet.”

“Cat’s got my tongue,” he said. The tequila worm he’d had for breakfast, he feared, had cocooned in his stomach and was about to hatch into a species of Lepidoptera not indigenous to the jungles of Mexico, but rather the kind found in old Japanese movies.

“Okay, what’s your mommy’s name, sweetheart?” Rachel said.

“Patty.”

“Patricia Bently?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Your daddy’s name?”

“My step dad’s dead.”

Rachel frowned. “I’m so sorry. What was his name?”

“Charlie Bently.”

“I see. He was your step-father?”

Kathy nodded. “He adopted me.”

“And your real father’s name?”

She looked up at Duncan. “I don’t know.”

“Do you know who Duncan is?”

Mindfully, she smiled. “He used to be friends with my mom.”

“Uh-huh. And Juanita here?”

“Sure. She’s here to watch over Amy and me.”

Rachel stood up, grabbed Duncan’s arm and escorted him to a private area some thirty feet away.

She took a deep breath, then exhaled slowly. “My God, I had no idea her delusion was this…involved. Doctor Strickland said to bring her back immediately if she—”

“Whoa,” Duncan said. “I thought you were the one who needed the least convincing. Now you believe it’s just seizures, or that she’s delusional?”

“That’s Amy, our daughter!” she snapped. “She is not Kathy Bently, Bridey Murphy, Peter Proud, or anyone else!”

“Who are you trying to convince?”

She looked stunned. “You don’t actually believe her, do you?”

“I’m afraid I do.”

“You…you do?”

“Absolutely.”

“Oh bullshit.”

“By the way,” Duncan said, “Juanita’s going with me and…uh…Kathy to Rock Bay. She’s part of this.”

“Part of what?”

“Whatever this is.”

Suddenly dazed, she said, “Oh, alright then...”

“You have to come with us, hon.”

Tears welling in her eyes, Rachel hugged herself. “Our baby’s not really gone, is she?”

Duncan watched a man in an adjacent portico erect a ladder and begin the tedious chore of changing light bulbs.

“She’s gone, but not for good,” he said. “Looks like Kathy’s going to help us from here.” He glanced back at the girl. “Seems she and Amy are linked in some way.”

Emphatic, Rachel said, “What happened back there? Huh? Are we the only ones who saw it?” She was blubbering now, searching her purse for a tissue. “Why aren’t there people screaming, babies being thrown out of windows, car horns blaring, sirens in symphony?” She blew her nose. “
Just what in God’s name happened to the sky?
”

He pulled her to his chest. “Face it, reality’s gone on the rag.” Then he stepped back from their embrace and held her arms. “Tomorrow the journey begins.”

She began dabbing her eyes. “First class or coach.”

Duncan smiled at her. “Now there’s the woman I know and love.”

Choosing her words carefully, she said, “Back there I…I turned and, for a split second, could’ve sworn you and Amy were…gone.”

“We were.” With some reserve, Duncan gave Rachel the abridged version of what had happened.

After he finished, Rachel waited for the punch line. It didn’t come.

“You have
got
to be shitting me.”

“Wish I was,” Duncan said. Then he gazed into her eyes. “Have I ever told you how attractive you are when your mascara’s running?”

“Oh, Duncan,” she balked, “are you getting mushy on me?”

“Just an observation.”

“Good. Because it gives me the heebie-jeebies whenever you start breaking out the flattery.”

“Have I really been that neglectful?”

“You could use a refresher course.”

“Sign me up. Can I practice with anyone I want?”

“As long as you put her back in the closet when you’re done.”

“I thought you had a fear of dark, tight places.”

She snorted. “God knows your dick certainly doesn’t.”

“Ouch. Cease fire.”

She was looking beyond him now, into the past. “I wonder how much Rock Bay has changed in all these years.”

“Don’t know,” Duncan said, peering himself beyond its dunes, at the collapsing tide. “But it’ll never outgrow its ghosts.”

“Ghosts?”

“Well, my ghosts.”

Very concerned now, Rachel said, “Nice ghosts or mean ghosts?”

“I think Dan Akroyd should answer that.”

“Are you in trouble, Duncan?”

He said nothing.

“Damn it, Dunc! If I have to dust off the Ouija Board and drill the bastards myself, I will.”

“Those ghosts aren’t talking. There’s something called the ‘Code of Honor.’”

“Oh, I see. Something to do with you and your police pals?”

He just shrugged.

“Alright. Fine. Don’t tell me. But I have a sneaking suspicion that I’m gonna find out soon enough.”

“So do I, darlin’. So do I.”

He took her hand, and they began walking.

Rachel snuggled close. “Have you thought about the possible trauma Patricia Bently might suffer when she see’s that her daughter hasn’t aged since the day she disappeared?”

“Tell you the truth, I’ve been more concerned about my own mental health,” he said. “But yeah, it’s crossed my mind.”

“Just know one thing, buddy,” she warned him. “If that little romance gets rekindled, I’ll do to you things Lorena Bobbitt never dreamed of.”

“Not even one little kiss?”

“Don’t fuck with me on this,” she said. “I mean it.”

“I’m glad you’re coming with us.”

“Me too. I think. But there’s one condition.”

Duncan sighed. “There always is.”

She motioned for him to bend down so she could whisper in his ear. On her tip-toes, she said, “I want to know why Patricia is
indebted
to you.”

He’d been waiting for that one. “Those ghosts aren’t talking, remember?”

She was shocked. “So Patricia Bently
is
involved.”

“Sort of. I think so. I’m not really sure.”

She grabbed his shirt. “You’d better tell me what in Christ’s name is going on!”

“Enough. I don’t have it figured out yet, but when I do, you’ll be the first to know.”

Reluctantly, she released him. “I told you this revolved around you and her,” she smugly reminded. “Didn’t I?”

“I suppose.” Then, anxious to change the subject, he said, “So, what about your commercial tomorrow?”

“I’ll call Stills tonight, tell him I have a family emergency to tend to back East. Maybe they can postpone the shoot a couple days.” She shrugged. “If not, then something else will come along.”

“Okay. But this time why not put on some rubber gloves, tie a scarf over your head, and go for something really challenging, like floor wax or toilet bowl cleaner? Really, Rachel, once you’ve been seen doing hemorrhoid commercials, you’re instantly stereotyped. Your career will never get out of the medicine cabinet.”

“How come I always feel like I’m in a Billy Crystal movie when I’m with you?”

He laughed.

They collected Juanita and Kathy and proceeded to the car.

11.

Melanie Sands tucked her black flute case beneath her arm, looked both ways, then stepped from the curb.

Newton, Iowa: “...Home of the Maytag washing machine—and won’t
that
be something to tell the grandkids,” her mother would lambaste when in one of her hateful states, when she was gunning for men, putting holes in everything that got in her way, towns included.

Large snowflakes floated dreamily down from a slate-gray ceiling; one that, from this distance at least, looked to be no more than rooftop-high. For a moment, Melanie stood transfixed, positing that the snowflakes had to be responsible for dropping the clouds. Because of their scissor-cut edges, she reasoned, they snagged like thistles onto the gray gossamer, dragging it slowly down.

It was a theory worth committing to, she decided with a token nod.

There was not so much as a whisper of a breeze, and within this absence of wind there hung an unnatural calm; a stillness so profound that, strangely, colors appeared more resplendent to her than ever.

Not so far behind her, Tinder Elementary School was evaporating, the old, red brick facade fading, fading...

Finally, it disappeared altogether.

Now, if it would only stay that way
, she thought.

Already the snow was up to her knees, and she was just willing to bet that it wasn’t going to let up anytime soon. Well, she was hoping, really.

She could hear soft creaks and groans coming from a queue of ancient maple trees to her right, and it took her a moment to realize that these sounds were the whimpering of branches weighted down from the wet snow; the maples’ rust- and saffron-tinted leaves acting as nets, coerced into treason by an impetuous winter.

Soon, she thought, the ground would be littered with broken limbs. But this was only vague conjecture. She did not have an abundance of autumns and early snows behind her to accurately deduce such carnage. She was only ten and couldn’t have cared less anyway. Thoughts of building snowmen and ice skating and drinking hot cider with cinnamon currently preoccupied her, with an occasional—and most often nasty—opinion about Suzie Stapleton, her arch enemy and sometime-friend.

She kicked up globs of snow as she continued along Fourth Street.

Across the slushy road, a school bus lumbered by, some of her classmates waving through the fogged windows. She could not hear their voices and could barely see their bouncing faces behind the rows of rectangular cataracts. But she did not find herself craving their comfort.

To show them all (especially Suzie Stapleton, if she was looking) that she was just as pleased as peas to be walking home, she stuck out her tongue and in no time collected a dozen wet, billowy flakes. Then she quickly rolled it back in, afraid that her peers might misconstrue her intentions and think she was jealous.

The yellow bus turned down Madison Avenue, its rear-end belching a plume of exhaust as the driver shifted down. She finally waved back as it disappeared behind a complex of red-shingled town homes.

She once more stuck out her tongue, whetting a fatuous appetite endemic only to children.

Luckily, Melanie’s mother (who had, upon gazing out their kitchen window that morning, declared the sky a “London Special”) had prepared her for the forecasted, and most certainly premature, incursion of winter. Melanie had been equipped with a down parka, wool muffler and gloves, and green galoshes, the latter still in her backpack. Her parka had a fleece-lined hood, but for now she chose not to bring it over her head, her ears, as she enjoyed the dreamy, tingly feel of the snow in her hair.

It was only a quarter-mile or so from Tinder Elementary to her house on Rampart Avenue, but she wished now that it were ten. She was relishing the white weather; liked the way it squelched under her shoes.

She waved to Mr. Altman. “Old Limp Wrist,” her mother called him, whatever that meant.

He’d already shoveled the snow from his walkway and was clearing a path to his front door, his shiny Aluminum shovel rasping across the cement. This struck her as odd, considering it was still snowing. Why didn’t he just wait until it stopped?

Adults were weird, she concluded.

Mr. Altman looked up from his chores, then glanced at his wristwatch. “My goodness, Ms. Sands! Is school out already?”

Nodding enthusiastically, she said, “They let us out early cuz’a’the snow.” Mr. Altman always addressed her as “Ms. Sands”, and she liked the way that sounded. It had a noble quality about it; was distinct from the childish, sing-song preamble that most adults often used when greeting her: “Hiya, Mel! How’s phonics treatin’ ya?” (Mr. Hampton from the Kwik Way), or, “Well, if it ain’t that sweet little angel, Melanie Sands!” (Mrs. Rusch, her next-door neighbor), or, “Stop the presses and darn yer dresses, it’s that gal from the fifth grade!” (Mr. Tessier, one of her mother’s old school teachers, from the library).

But when Mr. Altman spoke to her, he always made her feel
grown-up.

Expertly manicured evergreen shrubs lined the man’s curving walkway on the outside, while a tall, white trellis of checkerboard design flanked the other, crawling with the spindly remains of woodbine and clematis. A few green leaves, overlooked by a scavenging autumn, still clung to the skeletons like bits of flesh; morsels left for winter’s sharper, more ravenous beak.

His house was a remodeled, turn-of-the-century, expansive four-story structure adorned with dormer windows and charming gingerbread ornamentation. Melanie called it a mansion. Her mother, on the other hand, liked to refer to it as “Faggot Central,” whatever that meant. Melanie thought it might have something to do with decorating, for she’d overheard her mother mention to Mrs. Huntington at the grocery store— and on more than one occasion—that she should have ol’ Limp Wrist over to refurbish her house; that he could do a much better job than she at picking out drapes and matching wallpaper. And oh my the wonders he could do with her flower garden. Then they’d
laugh
.