The Puppet Maker's Bones (22 page)

Pavel considered that. His own upbringing had been about creating make believe, play, happiness for others. Prochazka and Nina had kept him in an environment where there would never be a reason to become overwhelmed by any extreme emotion. He experienced great happiness with them, but realized he never became impassioned to the degree alluded to by McGovern. Never to a degree that could cause harm. It was true. They had kept him like a china doll. Protected.

McGovern continued. “We have an ability by our proximity to others, to mortal people, to make them feel hopeful when we are near. Perhaps that is why Žophie was so taken with you, and her father so trusting. Perhaps it is why Prochazka and Nina were so instantly smitten with you upon your arrival on their doorstep. Mr. Trope’s task, in his leadership, is to keep humans safe from us, while keeping us comfortable and content so that we do not become impassioned or enraged or vengeful about any one or more people. He protects
us
, because he does believe us to be sent by God or Gods. Mr. Trope and the people who work with him, like me, believe if the mortal population learned of our existence, we would be annihilated.”

“They have already done their share of that,” Pavel said with contempt.

“You mean the ones killed at birth? Yes, there have been so very many. Imagine evidence of gods that do not act randomly but in a calculated, vengeful manner. Mathematical even, if you factor in the location where some of us were born, our number and the timing of things. If the Church, if
anyone
were to find out, we would be hunted and destroyed. And as I mentioned before, Mr. Trope believes it might be worse than that. We might be used as weapons, which is a horrific thought.”

“And Žophie?”

“Your passion for her. The act of making love. It weakens them. The gradual death starts with a bloody nose. The blood changes from red, thinning to violet and then to a pale matter similar in appearance to water. Whatever force is contained in the healthy blood dissipates to nothing of value that can sustain a life.”

Pavel had been holding his teacup. When they began speaking of Žophie’s death, his hand shook. He set the cup down with care. He did not want to break it. He had bought the set for her, though she would never drink from it.

“We thought our heads bumped. We laughed about it when her nose started to bleed. We
laughed
. I had no idea she was dying.”

“I’m sorry,” said McGovern.

“And I did kill my family and all those people,” declared Pavel.

“Accidents occur. We try to ensure against them, that is all.”

Pavel put his head down on the table. McGovern watched as Pavel closed his eyes. After a few minutes, Pavel fell into a deep slumber. The last pot of tea McGovern brewed contained Valerian root, which succeeded in putting Pavel to sleep. McGovern picked Pavel up and carried him to the parlor where he laid him upon a sofa. McGovern chose a chair across from him and settled in for a long, much-needed nap. His report to Mr. Trope would have to wait until tomorrow, but it was not his belief at that time that Pavel Trusnik had broken the Great Rule with deliberate malice.

Pavel would not be put to death.

Kevin: Present Day

K
evin sat in the dark of the attic and watched out the window at the goings on in his neighborhood. The house across the street was dark. Kevin moved to the corner of the attic where he kept his tools. He opened the duffle and double-checked the contents: a length of rope, a hammer, and a set of lock picks he’d ordered off the Internet with the help of his parents, who thought he needed them for a school project. Kevin did write a paper about Internet privacy and used the lock picks as a visual aid when giving his oral report. He received an “A” grade. His duffle also contained a roll of chefs’ knives and blister packs of ammonia inhalants for reviving the unconscious. Kevin did not want to be deprived of new music for his mp3 player in any way by the possibility his victim might go unconscious on him. He wanted his “instrument” to be awake and singing. The duffle also contained a small LED flashlight, a roll of plastic sheeting, surgical gloves, a surgical mask and safety goggles to protect his eyes. Kevin’s scalpel and digital recorder remained tucked away in the front pockets of his jeans.

Kevin unrolled the blueprints one more time, though he had them memorized. He scanned the entry. Given the hour, the back door leading into the kitchen would be the easiest point of entry and was furthest from any rooms designated as bedrooms. He had taken great care in his attention to the details of every building addition or remodel to the home in the past thirty years and knew that there was no alarm system. The old guy had cable television, thought Kevin. He wondered if the old man was one of those people who liked to fall asleep in front of the television.

Kevin left the attic with his duffle. He moved down the stairs and past the door to his parents’ bedroom where his mother slept on top of the covers. The bedroom television was turned on, volume low.

Kevin was about to descend the stairs when he heard his father’s car turn into the driveway. He was supposed to be working late! Kevin sprinted to his bedroom, stowed the duffle under his bed and dived under the bedcovers, pulling them tight under his chin as he heard the back door open. He heard the sound of keys
clinking
into the bowl where his father tossed them when he got home. He listened to his father open the refrigerator and open something wrapped in foil. Kevin’s father must have found something worth eating. He hoped it wasn’t something that would involve cooking. His father would often make omelets when he got home after a late night at work, and Kevin hoped that tonight would not be an omelet night. The slight tinkling of glass could be heard followed by the sound of the ice crusher on the fridge. Kevin’s father was fixing a drink. Good. He almost never fixed a cocktail and an omelet on the same night. His father’s footsteps came up the stairs, down the hall, pausing for a moment outside Kevin’s door before continuing to the master bedroom.

Kevin waited for an hour until he was sure his father had finished his drink and was probably asleep next to his mother, on top of the covers, the television on. Parents are so predictable, he thought. He got out of bed, threw the covers back into place, grabbed the duffle and crept from his room, down the stairs, and out the back door. Then he sprinted to the house across the street. Everything was quiet.

***

Pavel watched the boy run across the street and through his garden. He knew he was moving toward the back door in the kitchen, where he now stood. People are foolish, he thought. And predictable. He opened the drawer where he kept the knives and selected one, then closed and locked the drawer. He took the magnetic child lock ‘key’ with him. No one else would be opening that drawer tonight.

He walked to the back workshop, checking various preparations along the way that he’d made earlier. He’d cut the main power to the house and moved in the dark, his oddly colored pupils shining. Whatever light he would choose to use would be powered by the auxiliary generator which was located in the workshop next to the kiln. The controller of the digital sound and light board was a small, handheld wireless gadget of his own design. He plucked it from the workbench and double-checked that it was powered and ready to go. He’d programmed the sound and lighting design—he was ready.

“Five minutes to curtain,” he said aloud in the dark, as if he was a stage manager calling the cast together for a performance.

“Thank you, five minutes,” he responded aloud to his own call to begin the show.

1942

P
avel stood in front of his house, shaking with fury. “Where are your parents?” He faced the three boys who had sent a ball through his window, shattering the window and the framed photo on the wall directly opposite. He had run out of the house and, with the broken frame in one hand, he used his other to grab each boy before they could run, one by one, hard by the arm and pulled them into a tight group in the front of his house. He was enraged. Pavel held the ruined frame, glass broken, daguerreotype shattered, that had contained the sole photographic evidence of Her. If one stared hard enough at the broken daguerreotype, one could make out the line of a shoulder and a curl of what might be dark hair.

Pavel tried not to weep. His grief and anger were accelerating into something akin to rage and he was becoming overwhelmed by his emotional state. One boy, a skinny boy who looked like his arms and legs had grown too rapidly for the rest of his body, spoke up, voice shaken.

“Sorry, mister, it was an accident.”

Pavel glared at him, furious.

“You hurt my arm,” said another boy.

Pavel swung his head to stare down the next boy who dared speak.

“My father will pay for the window. Don’t worry about it.”

Pavel found his voice.

“Is that right? Your father can locate a window glazier today with access to 1880s vintage leaded glass? That is what was in there.”

“Shut up, Stuart,” said the first boy.

“Stuart, is it?” asked Pavel.

“Yeah, old man. It’s Stuart.”

“This was your idea, Stuart? There are baseball fields everywhere. Why would you play where you know you might cause damage? You have no idea what you’ve done.”

“Yeah it was my idea. And it was a stupid window and a stupid frame. And you hurt my arm.”

He slapped the boy full across the face. The other boys gasped. Stuart’s nose bled, and he glared defiantly at Pavel.

Tears streamed down Pavel’s face, his emotions no longer in his control.

“All of you need to leave here, right now. Never come back. Never play in this street again.”

The boys gaped, jaws dropped, at the man who wept in front of them, unsure of themselves or what to do.

“What do you want us to do about the window?” asked one of the boys.

Pavel wiped his face with his free hand, the other still clutching the frame.

“I will send the bill to your parents.”

“You don’t know who they are,” said Stuart, wiping at his nose.

“I know who all of you are. I know where each of you live. Get out of here, now.”

The boys ran.

Saturday’s child works hard for his living
, thought Pavel.

The man tried to think. Plans would have to be made. Arrangements.

The Great Rule had been broken. For that he would pay. He would pay dearly.

He walked with a certain amount of labor into his home, his emotional outburst having left him exhausted to the point where every muscle and sinew seemed to ache as if he had been dragged across the ground for a very long distance.

He would have to make a notification. Traveling anywhere was out of the question. He could not run. They would find him. Pavel thought of fleeing, but where would he go that he would not be found? There was a war on, and traveling to Europe was out of the question. Pavel walked into the kitchen and sat at the table, placing the frame on the table’s surface.

He stood and moved to the counter and the black, Bakelite telephone. He picked up the receiver and dialed.

“This is McGovern,” said the voice through the receiver.

“McGovern, it is Pavel Trusnik.”

“Yes, Pavel. What has happened?”

“I have broken the Great Rule.”

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

“Are you alone?”

“Yes.”

“We will be over to take your statement. Please do not make plans to go anywhere.”

“I won’t.”

“This is very serious, Pavel. It is important that you do not try to leave.”

McGovern hung up, and Pavel stood for a moment, the receiver in his hand. He placed the receiver back in the phone cradle, and returned to the table and sat.

Pavel was terrified. He did not move. He would wait for McGovern.

He thought about McGovern, the large red-haired man. McGovern had always been kind to him. He had the hardened, thick-bodied appearance one might see in a police officer or fireman, and rumor had it that McGovern did consultations for the police from time to time. Despite McGovern’s imposing appearance, Pavel knew him to have a compassionate nature. But would he now?