The Vanishing (24 page)

Andrew looked up at the railing of the loft to make sure Johnny wasn’t awake, then carefully opened the front door, stepping onto the porch. ‘‘Shoo!’’ he whispered, advancing toward the edge. ‘‘Get out of here!’’

He stopped suddenly, a strange feeling fluttering in the pit of his stomach. He knew that cat. He recognized it. It was the one they had seen on the side of the trail. If the white paws and head had not been enough of a giveaway, its red collar, and the dried blood clumped around where its tail should have been, let him know that this was the same animal that earlier today had been decomposing in the hills above town.

He took an involuntary step backward.

The animal lurched up the path toward the cabin as though it were drunk or disoriented.

Maybe this was a dream.

No. Even as he thought that, he knew that it wasn’t. He glanced back into the cabin to make sure that neither Robin nor the kids had awakened. They hadn’t. Amid all the horror, he felt relief. The overriding thought in his mind was:
Robin can’t see this.

Glancing around the porch, Andrew looked for a weapon but saw nothing he could use. He remembered earlier in the day seeing a rake or a hoe or something leaning against the side of the cabin. Some sort of gardening implement with a long wooden handle. Moving quickly, he dashed down the steps and around the corner of the cabin. Sure enough, there was an upside down hoe angled against the wall between the windows, and he grabbed it, hurrying back.

In the few seconds he’d been gone, the cat had lurched farther up the path and was almost to the porch steps. Several other animals had also found their way to the area in front of the cabin: birds and mice, a rabbit, even a bobcat. All of them were moving in the same strange jerking way as the cat, and he assumed that they, too, had been resurrected from the dead.

What the hell was going on here?

He didn’t have time to think about that now. Grasping the handle of the hoe as firmly as he could, Andrew lifted the blade high above his head and brought it down hard on the back of the cat, cleaving it in two. No blood gushed out of the animal; the halves simply fell where they were, dry organs spilling from the ragged openings on both sides. If he’d thought such action would frighten away the others, he was out of luck. The remaining creatures hopped, danced and staggered toward him, their motions awkward and unnatural, and he swung the hoe like a scythe, mowing them down. None of them tried to fight back or get away—even the bobcat remained passively in place as the hoe sliced into its head—and in a matter of moments the area in front of the cabin was littered with the dismembered corpses of nearly a dozen small animals.

Andrew was breathing heavily, and he couldn’t believe he hadn’t cried out as he’d attacked the—

—creatures. But he hadn’t, and now all was silent. No one had been awakened from their sleep by the noise, and the only lights on were the porch lights in front of the cabins.

Now he just had to find some way to dispose of the bodies.

He could dig a hole, but that would take forever. He could dump them in a garbage can, but they would be found. The best solution, he decided, was to gather the hacked up pieces and throw them behind the trees at the edge of the property. If he was lucky, a bear, mountain lion or some other wild animal would eat them.

He needed something with which to pick up the body parts. Moving quietly, he reentered the cabin, closing the door softly and listening for any sound. All was still. There were garbage sacks under the kitchen sink, and he took the whole box. Once more, he looked up at the loft before going outside, but Johnny remained asleep.

He had neither gloves nor shovel, so Andrew put his hands in one of the black plastic bags and used it as a buffer as he picked up the pieces of dead animal and dropped them into another sack. He grabbed the cat’s head first and dropped it in, followed by the ragged feline body. The garbage sack started to get heavy well before he had cleaned up the entire mess. He didn’t want the bag to break on him, spilling everything out, so he carried what he had over to the line of trees to the east, behind the cabins and out of sight of the camp-ground. He turned over the garbage sack behind a bush. Furry heads and torsos, paws and tails spilled onto the ground, though it was so dark here that it was difficult to differentiate between the body parts. There was a slight breeze, and the sack itself he threw into the grass, hoping it would blow away somewhere.

Then he went back and did it all again.

Finally he was done, and he leaned the hoe against the wall where he’d found it, sneaked back inside, closed the front door, put the box of remaining garbage sacks under the sink and quietly washed his hands with cleanser. Twice.

He crept back into the bedroom, trying to make as little noise as possible.

Robin, thank God, was still dozing peacefully.

He got back into bed, his body wet with sweat, his muscles jumpy from both exertion and fear. He had no idea what time it was, but it had to have been getting close to morning, and he tried to think up legitimate reasons to explain his physical condition should Robin wake before the perspiration dried from his skin and the tension eased from his muscles. Breathing deeply and evenly, closing his eyes, Andrew attempted to fall asleep. He tried not to think of what had just happened, what he’d just done. He tried not to think of anything.

He had almost succeeded in nodding off when he heard a low, familiar noise.

His eyes snapped open. No, it couldn’t be. He must have been dreaming, his mind in that nether state between wakefulness and sleep.

But it came again.

He was wide-awake now, and the sweat felt cold on his skin, like ice water, as he heard the familiar low cry.

Seventeen

‘‘Good work,’’ Wilson said admiringly, holding up the newspaper. Brian’s article on Stewart’s capture was above the fold, not in the coveted upper-right position, but still centered and accompanying a large eye-grabbing photo of a clearly deranged Stephen Stewart being led shackled and jumpsuited to his arraignment.

‘‘Thanks,’’ Brian told him. Wilson was the first person to offer congratulations, although Brian understood why no one else had. Even though they were essentially partners on this story, he was not sure he would have been as magnanimous if the shoe were on the other foot. Something about the competitive nature of the journalistic temperament forbade camaraderie.

‘‘You know the minister Stewart killed?’’ Brian said. ‘‘He’s the one at the church my mom goes to.’’ Brian had already come clean about his father and the letters when he’d called Wilson from Bakersfield.

‘‘That’s . . . very . . . interesting,’’ Wilson said slowly.

‘‘Isn’t it?’’

‘‘Keep it down over there,’’ Ted Sprague said, poking his head over the side of the cubicle. ‘‘Some of us are trying to work here.’’

‘‘On another poll about cartoons?’’ Wilson asked drolly.

‘‘Very funny.’’

‘‘Did you see my article?’’ Brian said with as much innocence as he could muster. ‘‘Jimmy told me that it’s been picked up by over twenty other newspapers nationwide.’’

‘‘Fuck you,’’ Ted said.

Brian laughed.

Mike Duskin walked by. ‘‘Hey,’’ the columnist said, clapping an arm around Brian’s shoulder. ‘‘Nice piece.’’

‘‘Fuck you, too!’’ Ted called out.

‘‘Jealousy is a bitter fruit,’’ Mike said.

‘‘I’m not sure I would call Ted a
bitter
fruit,’’ Wilson mused.

‘‘I’m not gay, and I’m not even going to dignify that with a response!’’

‘‘You just responded,’’ Brian pointed out.

‘‘Go to hell. I’m going back to work.’’

‘‘It really was a good article,’’ Mike said.

‘‘Thanks,’’ Brian told him. ‘‘I appreciate it.’’

‘‘We’ll talk later.’’ Wilson started back toward his desk. He poked his head in Ted’s cubicle. ‘‘Away from prying ears,’’ he said loudly.

Brian spent the rest of the morning on a follow-up to last week’s immigration article, and met up with Wilson for an early lunch. They were the only ones in the break room, and Wilson commandeered the large table in the center, opening his brown paper sack and pulling out a sandwich while Brian scanned the vending machines for something edible. He finally settled on a potato burrito and a Coke, and brought them back to the table.

‘‘So what is the connection between your family and Stephen Stewart?’’

Brian sighed. ‘‘That’s what I’d like to know.’’

‘‘You think there is one?’’

‘‘No.’’

‘‘And yet after killing his wife and putting his kid in a coma, murdering several other locals in an inexplicable frenzy, he traveled all the way across the country and ended up prancing naked around your mother’s front yard. Your mother who’s been receiving letters from her missing husband that match the messages scrawled in blood at the murder scenes.’’

‘‘And whose minister Stewart killed,’’ Brian said glumly.

‘‘Your family’s hip deep in this, my boy. Have you thought about getting some sort of protection for your mother? Or getting her out of Bakersfield for a while?’’

‘‘My sister and her husband are staying with her.’’

‘‘Do you think that’s enough?’’

Brian thought of his mother’s overgrown yard and remembered what Wilson had said about Devine’s wildly flourishing plants. He recalled the photo of Stewart’s bedroom with its junglelike vegetation, and the fact that Tom Lowry’s entire estate had been overtaken by exotic foliage.

‘‘No,’’ he said, standing. ‘‘I don’t. Excuse me. I’ll be right back.’’ Leaving his untouched burrito and drink, Brian hurried over to the newsroom and his desk to call his mom. As he’d hoped, his sister answered. It took a lot of convincing to get her to agree to take their mother with her back to San Diego. He couldn’t really tell her why—the reason was crazy and there were far too many gaps in the story to make any of it believable—but he was eventually able to get across both his fear and a sense of urgency, and she finally agreed to bring their mother home with her.

‘‘It’ll be good for her to get out of here anyway,’’ Jillian conceded. ‘‘Especially after what happened to Reverend Charles.
If
I can get her to go,’’ she added.

‘‘
Get
her to go,’’ Brian said. ‘‘Now.’’

He returned to the break room feeling a little better. His burrito was cold, and he popped it in the microwave. Wilson had finished his sandwich and was eating an apple. ‘‘How’d it go?’’

‘‘My sister’s bringing her back to San Diego with her.’’

‘‘Good.’’

Brian popped open the microwave and brought his food back to the table.

‘‘You know,’’ Wilson said between bites, ‘‘an epidemic of murders and suicides among our financial elite has happened before.’’

Brian unwrapped his burrito. ‘‘How did you find this out?’’

‘‘I did a little background research. As good reporters are wont to do.’’

He reddened. ‘‘Point taken.’’

Wilson smiled. ‘‘That
wasn’t
my point . . . but it’s still a good one. Anyway, this is not the first time this has happened. It may be the first time that it has occurred to such an extent, over such a broad geographical area and within so short a time, but there was a pattern already. I counted eighteen very rich men who either went on public killing sprees or murdered their immediate friends and family in the past hundred years or so. Eleven of them ended in suicide. What I find most intriguing, however, is that prior to this, almost all of the killings took place in California, the majority of
those
in San Francisco. The one exception appears to have been Otis Compson, who lived in Atlanta. But he was a recent transplant—his family came from Sacramento.’’

‘‘That’s interesting,’’ Brian said. ‘‘But does it mean anything? Conspiracy theorists have built a multimillion dollar industry out of coincidences and half-truths. Have you read any of that September eleventh numerology crap? There are nine letters in September, there are eleven letters in Afghanistan . . . None of it means anything.’’

‘‘Maybe not,’’ Wilson said.

‘‘But that’s what a good reporter does,’’ Brian filled in for him.

‘‘Exactly.’’

‘‘What do you think?’’

Wilson took another bite of his apple and chewed thoughtfully for a moment. ‘‘I’m not sure what I think.’’ He looked over at Brian. ‘‘But I’m open to ideas.’’

‘‘Well, my family’s certainly not rich.’’

‘‘Was it ever?’’

‘‘Not to my knowledge.’’

Wilson swallowed. ‘‘I suppose what I think is that we have a California-based phenomenon that causes heretofore sane and sensible individuals to go on murderous killing sprees and/or commit suicide in unusually violent ways. It’s accompanied by unusual plant growth and primarily afflicts the wealthy.’’ He looked at Brian. ‘‘Although perhaps not exclusively. And,’’ he added, ‘‘it’s been occurring on and off for well over a century.’’

‘‘Where does that leave us?’’

‘‘Without a paddle, I suppose.’’ Wilson paused. ‘‘But I do believe the fact that its rate has increased, that we’re getting all of this happening at once now, has some sort of significance. It’s like the pot’s about to boil. We’re in the right place at the right time, and if we just knew what we were looking for, if we only had a little more information, we might . . .’’

‘‘Might what?’’

‘‘That I don’t know. Prevent more murders?’’

Brian was silent for a moment. ‘‘Do you think Stewart’s . . . deformity, I guess you’d call it, has anything to do with anything? I did tell you about that, right? The hair and the slimy skin?’’

‘‘Indeed you did, although I noticed that you kept it out of your article.’’