They kill, p.5
They Kill, page 5
Sierra thought about catching up to the old woman and insisting she allow her to walk her home, but now that she’d established the woman was all right, her thoughts turned back to her brother. She still believed she’d mistaken someone else for him, and she knew she needed to get back to her class. She’d run out on them without explanation, and she’d already been gone for too long. Karolyn was undoubtedly tending to the children until she returned, but Karolyn was likely upset that Sierra had flaked out on her while she was showing a prospective student and his mother around. And if by some miracle it had been Jeffrey at the window, he would never smile, wave, and go on his way. He’d want to see her again as much as she wanted to see him. Wouldn’t he? A thought whispered through her mind then. Who knows what the dead want? It was a disturbing notion, and she put it aside. She knew that if she didn’t at least look around the corner now, it would bother her for the rest of the day.
Just a quick peek, she told herself.
She walked to the corner, more slowly this time, but when she got there, she hesitated. She told herself she was being foolish. Whoever it was she’d mistaken for Jeffrey, he would be long gone by now. Still, she couldn’t help feeling that when she turned the corner, the man who looked too much like her dead brother would be standing there waiting for her, mouth stretched into a mirthless smile.
She turned the corner.
The sidewalk was empty.
An unpleasant odor hung in the air, the smell of trash that had been left out to rot in the summer sun. She wrinkled her nose in disgust and wondered if something was wrong with the sewers in the district. They were as old as the rest of the area and most likely needed some serious repairs. She forgot about the smell and looked around, checking to see if the Jeffrey lookalike had crossed to the other side of the street. There were a few people over there, senior citizens mostly, but no Jeffrey clone. She hadn’t really expected anything else, but she still felt disappointed as she walked back around the corner, intending to return to her class. But as she walked by the place where the man she’d followed had touched the brick wall, something caught her eye, and she stopped to examine it. The spot where the man’s fingers had brushed the wall was soft and crumbling, more like grayish sandstone than brick. There were five lines, one for each finger, each line no more than three inches long.
She stepped closer to the lines to get a better look at them. She reached out to touch one of the lines, but then she quickly drew back her hand, as if she was afraid the crumbling brick was toxic and touching it would hurt her somehow. But she told herself not to be so stupid, and instead of merely touching a single line, she put all five of her fingers in the lines and traced their path. She didn’t know what she’d expected to feel. Some kind of psychic connection to the man who’d touched the wall? A sense that something strange had happened here, that the laws of nature had been violated? That the man’s touch had somehow altered the substance of the brick, had aged it?
Whatever she thought she’d learn by touching the lines, all she succeeded in doing was dislodging more of the powdery gray substance, which drifted down to the sidewalk. She’d never noticed any other places like this on ArtWorks’ outer walls, but then it wasn’t as if she’d conducted a thorough examination of every brick that had been used in its construction. There were probably other areas, and she simply hadn’t noticed them before. And the man hadn’t created these lines. They’d already been here, and when he’d noticed them, he’d run his fingers across them, just as she’d done now. A simple explanation for a simple event that her imagination had blown out of proportion.
Satisfied that she’d solved this little mystery, she started to head for ArtWorks’ entrance, when one more thing drew her gaze. Next to the lines, so small that she hadn’t noticed them at first, were two words etched into the bricks’ powdery surface.
HI SIS
* * *
Corliss stood across the street from ArtWorks. When Jeffrey had first approached the building, Corliss had been curious whether the man would go inside or walk on past without recognizing the place where his sister worked. But Jeffrey had split the difference. He’d stopped at one of the front windows, waved to his sister, perhaps with only the dimmest recollection of who she was, then continued on his way. When Sierra ran out of ArtWorks a moment later in search of her dead brother, Corliss had smiled. He couldn’t have orchestrated the encounter better if he’d tried.
He now watched Sierra as she read the tiny message her brother had left for her. How would she react? Would she stand and stare, unable to make herself believe what she was seeing? Would she try to rub out the letters in an attempt to deny their existence? Or would she let out a noise – anything from a squeak or a soft moan up to a full-throated scream? She did none of those things, though. After a moment, she turned, walked back to the building’s entrance, and stepped inside.
Interesting, Corliss thought.
He would’ve loved to remain and observe Sierra more, but he had work to do elsewhere. That was all right, though. He knew he’d be seeing her again soon enough.
He’d followed Jeffrey into town on foot to make sure the resurrected man made it, but he saw no reason to travel like that now, not when he had other, more efficient options available to him. The fingernails on his right hand became ebon claws, and he cut the air with a vicious swipe. He heard a cry of pain in his mind, piercing at first, but it quickly degenerated into a whimper. A rift in reality opened before him, and he could feel unseen energies bleeding from it. He stepped through, pinching the rift closed behind him. No one had seen what he’d done, but the next dozen people who walked through the space where the rift scar hung invisibly in the air would experience the onset of a sudden debilitating migraine that would last for days, the pain so bad that its sufferers would pray for death. Corliss knew about this aftereffect, but not only didn’t he care, as far as he was concerned, it was extra added value.
* * *
“I understand,” Karolyn said. “But the way you ran outside like that, without saying a word to me or the kids…. It’s not like you.”
Sierra wanted to tell the woman to mind her own business, but she considered Karolyn a friend as well as a boss. She felt she could tell her something crazy without being judged. Besides, Karolyn had the tenacity of a pit bull. If she thought there was something wrong with someone and she might be able to help, she’d keep bugging you about it until you finally told her what was going on. So Sierra told her about seeing a man at the window who reminded her of Jeffrey and how she had to go outside and see for herself if it was him, even though she knew it was a stupid thing to do. She didn’t tell Karolyn about the marks in the brick left by Not-Jeffrey’s touch, nor did she tell her about the short message she’d found etched into the brick. HI SIS. That was too crazy to tell anyone about. Besides, she didn’t want to think about the message and what it might mean.
By the time Sierra had finished, Karolyn and she had slipped all the crayons into boxes and put them back on the storage cubby next to the table.
“So?” Sierra asked. “Think I’m ready to check in to the funny farm?”
“I believe the more politically correct term these days is nuthouse.” Karolyn smiled when she said this, but her smile quickly fell away. “If you’re asking whether I think mistaking some random guy for your brother means your mental health isn’t what it could be, then the answer is no. I think it’s only natural for grieving people to think they see and hear their loved ones from time to time. But I do think it might not be a bad idea for you to consider going back into therapy.” She held up a hand before Sierra could say anything. “You’re obviously still hurting, and I think it would help you to have someone to talk to about how you’re feeling. Someone who knows what they’re doing instead of a busybody like me.”
“I tried therapy, and honestly, I don’t think it did much for me.”
The psychologist she’d seen had been nice enough, but the antidepressant she’d put Sierra on had made her thoughts sluggish, and she felt sleepy all the time. Sierra had quit taking it after a month. She figured she couldn’t deal with her emotions if a pill prevented her from experiencing them fully. Although if they made a pill that would remove all her memories of the night Jeffrey died, she’d be tempted to take it. Jeffrey had had a fight with his boyfriend that evening, and he’d called her to have someone to commiserate with him. She’d tried at first, but she’d never liked Marc Naranjo. He was an okay guy, she supposed, but he hadn’t been a good match for her big brother. Jeffrey was laidback and easygoing, while Marc was nervous and high-strung. He was insecure too, so he could get jealous whenever Jeffrey looked at another man – or another woman, for that matter. That’s what they’d fought about that night. Jeffrey was friends with one of his coworkers, a woman named Vicki Washington. Vicki loved mock-flirting with Jeffrey, and he loved their playful back-and-forth banter. Marc hated the way Vicki acted, and no matter how many times Jeffrey told him it was all in good fun, that Vicki felt safe to flirt with and tease him because he was gay, Marc remained jealous of her. That evening Jeffrey and Marc had gone out for dinner, and during their meal, Vicki texted Jeffrey a picture of herself in some sexy lingerie she’d recently bought and wanted his opinion on how she looked. When Marc asked Jeffrey who’d texted him, Jeffrey – naively, in Sierra’s opinion – showed Vicki’s photo to Marc. Predictably, Marc lost his shit and started yelling at Jeffrey right there in the restaurant, accusing him of being a liar, unfaithful, and a closet hetero. Jeffrey had fled the restaurant in tears, got into his pickup, and drove off into an oncoming storm.
As much as Sierra hated Marc for driving Jeffrey out into the storm that night, she hated herself even more for how she’d reacted when her brother called her. He’d been looking for support, and all she’d done was take his call as another opportunity to criticize his boyfriend. Not only had she not helped him, she’d made things worse. She was as much to blame for his death as Marc, or even Courtney Marsh. More so, because she was Jeffrey’s sister and she should’ve been there when he needed her, and she wasn’t.
She hadn’t seen Marc since Jeffrey’s funeral, and they’d made sure to stay away from each other then. Despite her feelings toward Marc, she wondered how he was doing today. Did he feel guilt for his role in Jeffrey’s death? Or had he moved on and was now dating someone else, her brother just another name in his sexual history? She wondered what Marc would say if she told him she’d seen Jeffrey this morning, alive, and that he’d left a message for her carved in brick. She was surprised to find herself tempted to call him. Yes, they hated each other’s guts, but they shared a common bond in Jeffrey. If there was anyone in the world who could understand her guilt and grief, it would be Marc. It was a laughable idea, though, and she immediately dismissed it.
“Do you know what still bothers me now, a year later?” Sierra asked.
Karolyn shook her head.
“Why do bad things happen? Especially to good people like my brother. What’s the point of doing anything when your life can be snuffed out in an instant? How can you enjoy anything when Time steals it from you as soon as it’s given to you? What’s the point of continuing with life, with going forward?”
Sierra hadn’t intended to dump so much on Karolyn, but once she started, she’d been unable to stop herself.
Karolyn looked at her, stunned, her gaze filled with sympathy and concern. She looked as if she was struggling to come up with a response, but before she could speak, the front door opened, and a father came in with his young daughter. It was time for Sierra to play teacher again.
Karolyn gave her a sad, understanding smile, gave her arm a long squeeze, and then moved off so Sierra could go greet her student. Sierra put a smile on her face that she hoped didn’t look as fake as it felt and walked toward the father and daughter.
“Hi, Lindsey! How are you today?”
Chapter Four
Grace sat on her couch, staring at a blank TV screen – the cable had been cut off last week – and sipped slowly on the dregs of a bottle of Old Crow she’d found hidden in the cabinet beneath her bathroom sink. She had no memory of putting it there, but she was glad she had. It was always good to have a little put aside for emergencies.
As she drank, she fumed about Sierra. She had no idea why the ungrateful bitch had stolen her purse. It wasn’t like she had anything in there anyone could want. If she’d had any money, her total liquor supply wouldn’t have consisted of one almost-empty bottle of bourbon, which was rapidly on its way to becoming completely empty.
“She did it to fuck with you,” she muttered. “That’s all. Did it out of sheer fucking malice.”
But now that she’d gotten some alcohol in her system, her throbbing headache had subsided from agonizingly intolerable to uncomfortably distracting. A big improvement as far as she was concerned. With the reduction in pain came an increase in mental clarity – a little, anyway – and she wondered if her purse wasn’t somewhere in her apartment after all. She hadn’t found it when she was searching her apartment looking for booze this morning, but the way her head had been hurting, she might’ve overlooked her purse. It was possible, wasn’t it? And even if she had seen it, that didn’t mean she’d remember it. Her memory wasn’t so great these days. Not that she was getting old. She night not be as young and pretty as she once was, but she was hardly a decrepit hag. If she were being honest with herself, that was one of the reasons she hated Sierra so much. She hated her youth, health, and most of all the possibilities that lay before her. Career, husband, children…or maybe travel to interesting places where she would do interesting things. Whatever Sierra might want from life, she had time to go for it, time to make as many of her dreams come true as she possibly could. Time to avoid ending up (almost) old, unwanted, unloved, and poor.
Grace tried to take another sip of bourbon and found the bottle empty.
“Fuck!”
She hurled the bottle at the widescreen TV on the wall. There wasn’t much strength behind the throw, and while the bottle cracked the screen, neither shattered. The TV remained attached to the wall, and the bottle thunked to the carpet.
She glanced at the empty bottle, and an awful realization hit her: she was out of alcohol. She had nothing to drink in her apartment and there was no one she could borrow money from. Her kids wouldn’t give her any – the little traitors – and asking her ex was out of the question. Not only would he turn her down, she’d have to listen to him lecture her about getting help for her ‘problems’. No fucking thanks. Sierra was out, and of the two units on the second floor, one was empty, and the other was home to a single mother who was almost as poor as Grace. She didn’t know anyone else in the complex, and of the friends and coworkers she’d once had, none of them would speak to her anymore after her repeated attempts to get money from them.
She felt the first fluttery stirrings of panic in her chest, and her headache began to worsen once more. She got off the couch and began searching frantically through her apartment with a thoroughness that would’ve impressed a seasoned crime-scene investigator. She found plenty of empty bottles that she hadn’t bothered to take to one of the dumpsters on site, but she didn’t find any liquor. The Old Crow truly had been the last of her supply. By this point, she was in full panic mode. If she didn’t get some more to drink soon, she’d start going into withdrawal, which would be a special kind of hell – one she wanted to avoid at all costs.
She gave up looking for booze and began searching for money to buy booze. She checked behind the couch cushions, checked the kitchen and bedroom dresser drawers, checked the pockets of clothes hanging in the bedroom closet, all without luck. But when she checked the coat closet, she discovered a wadded-up ten-dollar bill in the pocket of a raincoat she’d owned before the birth of her first child. She sat on the couch and smoothed the ten on the coffee table, sliding her fingers over the bill gently, almost lovingly. Tears trickled down her careworn cheeks, and she laughed with relieved delight. It was almost enough to make a girl believe in god.
There was a knock at the door then, three sharp raps that made her jump. Her first thought was that someone had come to steal her money. Maybe Sierra, who’d somehow sensed she’d found the ten and had come back from work to take it, just like she’d taken the purse.
Grace was still dressed in her robe and nothing else, otherwise she might’ve stuffed the ten into her bra. Her robe had pockets, but she didn’t feel the money would be safe there. It was the first place someone would expect her to put it. Maybe if she pretended like she wasn’t home, whoever it was would—
The knocks came again. Three raps, louder and more insistent this time. Whoever it was at her door was determined to speak with her, it seemed. Maybe so determined that they’d break down her door and…. A horrible thought occurred to her then. Had she remembered to lock the door after her confrontation with Sierra that morning? She looked at the door, and sure enough, it was unlocked. So whoever was there wouldn’t need to knock down the door. All they’d have to do was try the knob, and once they discovered the door was open, they would come in and demand she turn over her money.
She couldn’t let that happen.
She jumped up from the couch and ran for the kitchen. The throbbing in her head tripled in intensity, became so strong it nearly sent her to the floor. But she grabbed hold of the counter in time to steady herself. She had several cookbooks on the counter, and she grabbed one on making low-carb meals, opened it, and stuck the ten between two pages in the middle of the book. She closed it, put it back with the others, then returned to the living room.
