Poe Page 23

  “No!”

  The man grips Rasputin firmly by the shoulders. “I could do nothing,” he says, his own voice cracking, “but it wouldn’t be Dmitri. It would never be your brother. It would be a monster, and it would kill and kill again to gain more strength, more power. Maria was just the first. If we don’t perform the exorcism, it will say anything—do anything—to claim five more souls. And then I wouldn’t be able to make it leave. A demon that murders six within the cycle of one moon is invincible.”

  The boy wrests himself from his father’s arms and backs away, sobbing. “No! I don’t want the books! I don’t want the ring! They’re Dmitri’s; he’s the oldest!”

  “Son,” says the old man.

  “They’re Dmitri’s!” the boy screams. He bolts out of the house into the dark woods, sobbing. I watch the shadows gather behind him, until he’s disappeared entirely.

  Then I hear footsteps behind me. I turn and find a thin, reedy man, also wearing wet, roughly sewn clothes, solemnly standing in the doorway, a knitted cap in his hands.

  “Should I find him?” he asks softly.

  “Let him go, Nachiel. He needs time,” says the old man with a quavering voice. “And we have a long, hard night ahead of us.”

  He reaches for one of the jars, slowly pinches out what looks like a bit of black ash, and bends over Dmitri, using his thumb to spread a thick line across the boy’s forehead.

  Suddenly Dmitri awakens with a howling scream. His eyes bulge, and his body begins to seize wildly, straining against the straps that bind him. Nachiel quietly shuts the door behind him.

  The man opens one of the calfskin books. “Let us begin.”

  A hand reaches out for my arm, startling me, and I turn to see Poe behind me, her eyes fierce with a burning, luminous intensity. She leans in toward me and softly whispers in my ear.

  “Say my name.”

  The words hang like vapor, then burst into flakes of snow, creating a whirlwind—a blinding white arctic storm that stings my face and my eyes. Poe grips my arm so tightly that it feels like she could break the bone.

  But I pull hard against her. “No,” I want to say. “I need to know what happens next. If the boy survives.”

  But then I remember what I learned from the book Rasputin: Mad Monk or Mystic Prophet?

  He doesn’t.

  Poe hasn’t let me go, and now she’s shaking my arm furiously, as if she’s hoping to dislodge it from its socket. I open my eyes to the cold remains of a fire, charred logs, and curled, black pieces of paper. The room is freezing or a couple of degrees below, and a thin veil of early morning light is just starting to creep through the front window.

  “Dimitri,” says Lisa in a hollow voice.

  Oh, it’s Lisa shaking me awake.

  “What?” I grumble.

  I look over—Lisa grips her cell tightly; her hand visibly trembles. Her lips are a straight line, pressed so tightly together they’ve turned white.

  “What?” I ask again, more softly.

  Lisa closes the phone with a snap, her face pale.

  There is, of course, only one question. “Who died?”

  “They found Nate,” says Lisa, her eyes starting to tear. “In the alley behind the Eagle. At least they found most of him… but his head…”

  She can’t finish the sentence.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE: MAGIC SQUARE

  First Lisa, then Elizabeth tries to talk me out of going back to New Goshen, but I know what I have to do—although know might be somewhat of an overstatement. But it was leaked to the press that a series of numbers were scrawled on Maddy’s and Nate’s backs, which means that there will probably be two more murders, bringing the death toll to six. I need to get my hands on whatever Ernest has managed to translate. I’m a believer now that Daniel or this Sorath is coming for me.

  Either way he’s too late. Because now I’m coming for him.

  Lisa pensively leans against the hood of my Mustang. She’s barely spoken three words to me since I firmly told her I was going, no room for debate. She’s wearing jeans and just the sweatshirt from the night before, and she pulls the arms over her hands to keep them warm.

  “You’ll keep your cell on?”

  The barest of nods. Lisa squints hard at the frozen lake, trying to ice me into making a different decision.

  I quickly lean in and kiss a cold cheek.

  Nada. I don’t exist.

  “You’ll be safe here,” I say quietly. “He has no idea where you—”

  Lisa raises her hand. “We don’t talk about that.”

  The curtain called Daniel once again falls between us. But there is one more thing I have to say, just in case. “I kinda borrowed your mom’s gun. It’s in the glove compartment. I’d feel better if you had it.”

  Now Lisa glares at me. If looks could kill, my heart would be flatlining.

  I swallow.

  Lisa reaches into her sweatshirt pocket and pulls out a small cardboard box, tossing it to me. “Probably would be more useful with an ammunition clip, don’t you think?”

  Ammunition. Right. And then the realization strikes me. “You knew.”

  “Stealing the gun without the bullets was a bit of a giveaway. Very amateur. You take the Glock—I’ve got the Taser and I’m better with a shotgun anyways.”

  “Shotgun?”

  “You didn’t really think there was a guitar in that guitar case, did you?”

  God, I love this woman.

  So it is a shard in my heart when she just walks away as I start the engine, not even turning back for one last wave. But then it’s pretty clear, even though Lisa won’t—maybe can’t—admit it that she thinks Daniel is the killer. Which means she just gave me a loaded gun I might use to kill her brother.

  A hard trade.

  I try not to wonder how—if ever—she’ll forgive me.

  New Goshen is a ghost town. I drive past the deserted Goodwill, past empty garage structures, past Sacred Heart Collectibles, Giovanni’s Liquor, and E-Z Pawn and Loan. All have CLOSED signs. Only one homeless man shuffles down the street, and he glances nervously as I pass by, grips his shopping cart tighter.

  The only real signs of life are the news vans lined up in front of the Eagle, with white satellite dishes and national television news logos. Three reporters stand on the sidewalk being filmed as I pass, and even more crews are placing parking cones on the street, setting up lights and tripods, their equipment connected by thick cables to a large generator that rumbles from the back of a massive diesel truck. A few locals are cashing in with hastily set up folding tables and handwritten signs, like “COFFEE & DONUTS 4 SALE, TWO DOLLARS” and “NEW GOSHEN MURDER MAPS.” In the back of my mind I can see the television executives in corporate offices with city views, calculating all the advertising cash this horror show will rake in, like Mac after the first murder. News is just news until it happens to you. Then it’s tragedy.

  Obviously Ernest’s not at work today, and what with the offices at the Eagle being cordoned off with yellow tape, he probably won’t be there tomorrow, either. More than a minor snag—Ernest has the books, but I don’t have Ernest. I didn’t exactly make friends with my coworkers—my YouTube posting of last year’s disastrous office Christmas party didn’t add to my popularity, which reminds me that there is one coworker who might know where Ernest is, plus I’ve been to his house.

  Mac.

  To save money, the Eagle held the Christmas party at Mac’s house, and after Nate spiked the eggnog, Myrna sang Madonna’s “Like a Virgin” for the karaoke portion of the festivities, writhing on the floor with the microphone trapped between her ample thighs. But one of Mac’s many threats has always been that he’s memorized our home addresses, so that if we give him any shit, he’ll know where to throw the Molotov cocktail. If anyone knows Ernest’s address, it’s Mac.

  I find Mac’s two-story saltbox home, gray with white shutters, but there’s a cop standing watch outside. New Goshen must now have the highest cop-to-
citizen ratio in the country. I keep driving, trying to look inconspicuous, like that’s possible in a normally quiet suburban neighborhood that’s now deathly quiet—everyone’s gone. I park around the corner, open the car door, and step out onto the sidewalk for a moment.

  Take the gun, yes or no?

  OBITUARY WRITER STRANGLED BY GRIEVING FATHER

  Better safe than sorry.

  I slip the gun into my jacket pocket, briskly cross the street, and scale a low brick wall into the backyard of an empty Colonial. I jog across the lawn, a light scattering of snow crunches beneath my feet, and then pry apart a boxwood hedge. The pine branches pull at my jacket and scratch my face as I step through into Mac’s backyard. All the lights in the house are on even though the sun is shining.

  I knock on the sliding glass door.

  A figure shuffles into view. God, Mac looks old. He squints at me, wearing a thin flannel bathrobe and old leather slippers. There’s a start of gray, stubbly five-o’clock shadow on his chin, and in his right hand is a shot glass filled with amber liquid that slops over the side as he slides the door open.

  “Dimitri, myy boyy,” he slurs. “Kind of you to drop by. Even in this ungodly hour. Come in, come in.”

  “I’m sorry about—”

  “Have a drink,” he says. “Itz a drinkin’ kind of morning, if you know what I mean. But you do, dontcha, son? Two dead parents, you not even out of college.” He stares at a spot in the carpet and looks lost for what to say next.

  “Sure,” I say. “I’ll have that drink.”

  He claps me on my shoulder, and I follow him into the kitchen. There’s a sad attempt at some scrambled eggs burnt in a pan.

  “Whatz your drink, son?”

  “Whatever you’re having.”

  He raises his glass to me. “Smart boy. I’ve broken out the Elijah Craig for breakfast. You a bourbon man?”

  “I can be.”

  “Right you arrrre,” he says, pouring and slightly missing the plastic cup. “All out of clean glasses. Nate was supposed to do the washup yesterday.” He hands the drink to me, and I take a sip. Liquid fire pours down my throat, and I start to cough.

  “Takez some getting used to.” He swirls the ice in his glass reflectively. “Dark days, my son, dark days.”

  A slight alcoholic buzz starts. I need to get what I came for before I’m forced to drink the whole thing. “I’m sorry about Nate, Mac. I really am.”

  Mac’s eyes tear up, and his voice is thick when he says “Nice of you to say. I know you two didn’t always see eye to eye.” He pauses for a moment, takes a sip. “What kinda sick bastard would kill a kid like Nate? And do what he did. I juss can’t, I can’t…”

  The words hang, then fade into silence. Mac swirls the ice in his highball glass again; it makes a light tinkling sound. “Shit. Do you think itz that psycho brother?”

  I pause. “Yes.”

  “Shit,” says Mac.

  A longer pause this time. “God, I remember when that happened, when Daniel tried to kill his sister. What a sick fuck. They should have electrocuted that motherfucker. Thatz what they did in the old days with evil motherfuckers. Fried them. Now they have more rights than regular tax-paying folks.” He pounds the table with his fist, and his voice breaks. “Itz not right. Itz not fuckin’ right.”

  There’s a clock in the kitchen, one of those fifties black-and-white Kit-Cat clocks; its wide bubble eyes move back and forth to the tick of each passing second, like it’s looking for something, someone. I need to move this along—quickly.

  “Mac, I know this isn’t good timing. In fact, it’s really bad, awful timing. But I need Ernest’s address. Do you know where he lives?”

  “Ernest, why you askin’ about Ernest?” asks Mac suspiciously.

  “It’s… complicated.”

  “Just funny you ask,” says Mac. “Nate was excited about somethin’. Said he was onto a big story. Said I’d be impressed.”

  “What kind of a story?”

  “Christ,” says Mac, taking a long sip from his glass. “Fuck if I know. Somethin’ about these old books and Rasputin. He overheard Ernest talking about it in The Stacks.”

  Ernest? The Stacks? I remember that Nate had left the office the day I came to give Myrna my condolences and talk to Ernest, but I thought he’d gone outside for a smoke. Had he been hiding out in The Stacks? Did he eavesdrop on our conversation? Christ.

  “Thatz all he really wanted, for me to be proud of him. And I never told him. Never.” Mac covers his eyes with his hand and his shoulders shake with grief.

  “He knew,” I say, the only thing I can think of.

  A bitter laugh. “Thatz sweet of you, kid. But no, he didn’t. I may be drunk, but I’m not that drunk. Give me another bottle of bourbon and maybe I’ll agree with you.”

  “Mac,” I say quietly, “the address?”

  He shrugs his shoulders. “Beats the shit out of me.”

  “Oh,” I say, trying to hide my disappointment. “I thought, you know… you memorized our addresses…”

  “The Molotov cocktails bit? I don’t mean half the shit I say, kid.”

  “Right,” I say hollowly. Now what?

  Mac swallows, looks to the floor. “If you want to go to Nate’s room, pay your respects… it’s upstairs, first room on the right. Don’t worry about waking up the wife; she’s taken enough Valium to down an elephant.”

  “Sure, Mac, I’d love to.” If Nate was working on a story about Ernest, maybe he’s got an address written down. A long shot, but then I’m fresh out of other ideas. I leave Mac in the kitchen dully staring into the bottom of his plastic cup, accompanied only by the lonesome sound of the Kit-Cat clock tick-ticking away.

  Nate’s room. Barbells in the corner. A calendar on the wall with a voluptuous model in a white bikini—she reclines on the hood of a red Corvette, her blond hair cascading over the grille while she arches her back, seductively holding a finger to her red lips. A twin-sized bed, simple oak, with crumpled black sheets and a white and navy-blue plaid comforter. Crude shelves nailed to the wall hold an assortment of empty beer cans, each a different label, and the stink of old beer and unwashed gym socks makes me want to crack open a window, but I can’t without attracting the attention of the police officer outside.

  But there’s also a desk, which must have been far too small for his muscular body, and a manual typewriter. Nearby is a mesh trash can full of crumpled paper. On the desk sits a thick dictionary—it looks well used. Also a copy of The Elements of Style. I gently unfold the first folded ball at the top of the pile.

  It’s a crossword puzzle. There are quite a few erased letters—he got most of the words wrong the first time—but it’s complete. The next folded ball is also a completed crossword puzzle. Which is strange, because his biggest complaint about my writing was the long words I used. On the third crumpled ball I find notes in the margins, neat handwriting that’s easily recognizable—Ernest’s. Maybe he was working with Nate, because the next page appears to be a vocabulary list: “precipitous,” “equivocate,” “unction,” “obdurate,” “rubescent.” Maybe that’s why he’d gone down to The Stacks in the first place: not to eavesdrop but to learn.

  Christ, Nate was trying. He was really trying to be a better editor.

  The very idea collapses my legs from beneath me, and I drop to the floor, my back sliding against the wall. Blood rushes to my head; I can feel it pounding thickly—and a visceral heat, a burning rage, starts to roil in my stomach. I reach into my pocket for the gun. The cool, smooth handle feels heavy, and good.

  Then I catch a glimpse of a slip of paper that has fallen behind his desk. I reach out, unfold it, and find a handwritten note scribbled with the blood-red Sharpie I’m so used to seeing on my copy.

  Ernest. 125 East Elm Street. 4 P.M. Bring the smokes.

  I jam the paper in my back pocket and race out the door.

  The Cape Cod homes on East Elm Street are small and simply kept; a few have gables, and al
l of them have neat stamps of front lawn. The towering elm trees are old and big. Their thick branches create an arch and cast spotted shadows on the recently shoveled sidewalks. But the street is completely deserted; not a single car in a driveway or a barking dog—not even a cat in a windowsill.

  What if Ernest’s gone too?

  I step on the gas, passing by 130 East Elm Street—empty; 128 East Elm Street—empty; until I see 125, the only Cape on the street with wooden shingles. I sigh with relief when I see that under a white metal carport is a light blue Prius, its trunk open. I pull over to the side of the road and watch for a moment.

  Ernest comes out the green front door, trying to heft a cat carrier into the backseat. He slips, and I jump out of the car and jog over, worried he could break a hip. But as soon as he sees me, his eyes grow wide with terror and he almost drops the cat; it yowls a complaint as it slams against the wire screen. Maybe Ernest thinks I could be the killer.

  “Here,” I say, ignoring the fear in his eyes and grabbing the handle of the cat carrier. “Let me help you with that.”

  Ernest’s lip trembles, and he nervously glances at his front door.

  This is just plain ridiculous. “Ernest, do I really look like the spleen-eating type?”

  “And what, pray tell, does the spleen-eating type look like?” asks Ernest.

  “Seriously, Ernest, if half a century of smoking hasn’t killed you yet, I don’t think a serial killer has a chance.”

  He gives just a hint of a smile. “Lung cancer I could handle,” he says. “Let’s just say the beheading got my attention.”

  “Well, when I murder you I’ll be sure to remember that. No beheading, I promise. But where should I stab you first? Do you have any preferences?”

  Ernest sighs wearily. “Smart ass. Get the cat—I don’t want Herman to freeze to death in the car. And come inside. I have something for you.”