The Puppet Maker's Bones (28 page)

A voice called, “Pavel Trusnik? Are you all right?” Pavel recognized the voice as McGovern’s. He heard the men moving through the house. From the sound of their footsteps they seemed to be looking in every room. They would reach the workshop in a matter of moments. Pavel sat and waited in a chair near the dead body of Kevin.

McGovern and the others entered the room and carried flashlights and what appeared to be guns. Pavel could see the metal glint of the weapons in the near dark of the room. There seemed to be many more people in his house than he had anticipated.

“Pavel?”

“I’m over here.”

McGovern rushed to Pavel’s side and shone the flashlight in Pavel’s face which caused him to squint and turn his head. “Where are the lights?” McGovern asked.

“On the wall, by the door.”

“Get the lights!” McGovern yelled.

The lights came on, and Pavel adjusted his vision. McGovern, Peters, Revera and two others he did not recognize, but knew to be of his own kind, were in the room. They would not endanger human police officers by having them come into this house. Not now.

The men started searching the room. Two split off to search the rest of the house. McGovern looked at Pavel and then over at Kevin, propped against the wall, his supplies placed around him, scalpel in hand.

“It appears that you defended yourself against a violent predator, Pavel. You are lucky to be alive.”

“I told you I would handle it.”

McGovern seemed to take in the entirety of the workroom in his gaze.

“Something about putting on a show?” he asked.

“Something like that.”

“How did he die?” McGovern leaned down to the body and peered at Kevin’s skin.

“I did not touch him myself until near the end when it was already too late.”

“Where did you touch him?”

“I patted his hand.”

McGovern examined the boy’s hand. “Patted his hand. I see. And he got to this place at the wall on his own?”

Pavel nodded, lying.

“These things. They are his?”

“Yes. I believe he intended to use them to torture me first, then kill me.”

“The scalpel in his hand?”

“His as well. Perhaps your investigators will find evidence of other crimes upon it. He did not strike me as being fastidious. I think the ammonia in the bag was to revive me so he could do more of… whatever it is people like him do.”

McGovern stood up from the body.

“I hope there are no other people like him, Pavel.”

‘What happens now?” asked Pavel. “As if I have to ask.”

“I have to meet with the others.”

“You were very clear about what would happen if I broke house arrest. People will have to be brought in here. Evidence gathered. People in my home. Attention has been drawn. I know the consequences.”

“This house is no longer yours, Pavel. As far as the rest?” McGovern’s voice trailed off as one of the men approached the cabinet where Pavel kept his precious puppets, his family.

“I’ll need the key that opens this,” said the man.

“What is your name?” asked Pavel.

“Dunnegan.” He was a large man, similar in size to McGovern. Another man who could, like McGovern, pass for someone in law enforcement, a detective of some kind.

“Alright, Dunnegan. Give me a moment.” Pavel moved to rise from his chair and stumbled, landing on the floor near Kevin’s body. McGovern helped him to his feet.

“Before you open that, do you think it would be all right if I went out to my garden? One last time. I wish to breathe the night air in my own garden before I have to leave here.”

Dunnegan was insistent. “I need you to let me open this.”

“Of course. The key is a little tricky.” He took the key from around his neck. “May I go outside?”

***

McGovern took the key from Pavel, who then let himself out the door into the back yard garden. McGovern opened the drapes so he could watch him as he stood there.

Dunnegan unlocked the cabinet and inspected the interior. He stared at the contents for a minute, not comprehending. “McGovern? Can you take a look at this?”

McGovern joined Dunnegan and looked inside the cabinet. Realization came to him, along with sudden nausea.

“We’ll need to take these with us,” McGovern said. “Carefully. Carefully!” He fought the urge to retch.

“What are they?” asked Dunnegan.

“The remains of his parents, his wife and our missing Robert Lamb,” said McGovern.

Dunnegan looked back in the cabinet, took a small screwdriver from off the work table and used it to lift the fabric of the dress on the puppet that had, in life, been Žophie. He saw the skeleton underneath the fabric, immediately dropped his hand and the tool and backed away from the cabinet.

“My God,” he said.

McGovern gazed out the window at the old man standing in the light from the street lamps and the moon. There was something unusual about his posture, and McGovern’s eyes quickly scanned Kevin’s body for the scalpel. It was gone.

“Damn him! Get outside, now!” They rushed to the door, but the latch had been pulled so the door was locked. When the men finally broke through, McGovern was first outside. He ran to Pavel who had sunk to his knees. Blood rushed from his throat where he had cut himself from ear to ear with the scalpel.

“Pavel, no. You did not have to do this,” McGovern said, anguished.

Pavel could no longer speak, for blood rushed from the wound which he’d made with a deep cut, thoroughly, finally. He reached up to McGovern with both arms, a last attempt at an embrace with another.

McGovern knelt next to Pavel Trusnik, took him in his arms, and held him.

The End.

Acknowledgments

I like to think that writing is a solitary art form, best done while wearing my bathrobe with a full cup of coffee at the ready, dogs breathing softly at my feet. The truth is, however, that many people were involved in the final product that is this little yarn.

First and foremost, I wish to thank my friends and family for their unconditional support, particularly my husband for convincing me to finish what began as a short story that I had stopped writing. He wanted to know how it ended. To my parents, George and Avon Wilson, for being such good cheerleaders, enthusiastic readers and gobblers of all forms of fiction and for their bravery when reading this story in its roughest state. I wish to thank my friend Bryan Bellomo for also braving that early draft. A forever thank you goes to my sister, Alena, for that life-changing and crucial sister-talk that gave me the courage to give myself permission to write. I miss you every day.

I would like to express tremendous gratitude to my editor, Becky Eagleton. This book would not be readable without her keen eye and red pen.

I shout out my profound love to every sound, set, lighting and technical director I have ever had the privilege to work with during my 30 years in live theatre. You are golden geniuses. Again, I thank my husband, this time for his vast knowledge of all things Civil War, hence my discovery of the actual and horrific events of Fort Pillow. I thank my dear friend John McGehee for sharing his knowledge of 18th century plumbing that led to further information on cholera epidemics (such a cheery subject). I thank the expertise of my father, George Paul Wilson, PhD., Acoustical & Vibration Consultant for Wilson, Ihrig & Associates, Inc. for technical advice on how to construct a multi-directional sound system. My wholehearted appreciation and thanks go to my ‘marionette consultant,’ the tremendously talented Douglas Strich, Puppet Builder for the New York City Parks Foundation. His generous and patient answers to my questions about how those amazing creatures come to life was like getting a chest full of treasure. If I have made any errors, they are strictly mine.

Thank you to my writing mentor Che’Rae Adams, the Los Angeles Writers Center, and the online fellowship of IWU for letting me troll through your freely given support and information. Lastly, I’d like to thank my friend and fellow author, Christine DeMaio-Rice, for introducing me to this crazy new world and guiding me through the process. You are, to use your words, simply sausage.

About the Author

Alisa Tangredi came to the world of writing later in life, following a 30-year career as an actress in theatre, with sporadic employment in commercials and television. Under the name Alisa Wilson, she has written a few short stories and several plays, both full-length and one-act, including:
Art Is Useless When You’re Being Mauled By a Bear
,
Canis Major
,
Laehmly Park
,
Confidence
, and
The Bay of Smokes
, co-written with her sister, the late Alena Kathleen Wilson, for the first annual L.A. History Project (performed at LATC).
The Puppet Maker’s Bones
is her first novel. She lives in Lake Balboa, California, with her husband, Bart, and their two dogs.