Decatur (24 page)

“Murder? That was an accident! Gar had nothing to do with it,” Father Troy said, pushing his palm down hard on sharply angled piece of broken glass. When he raised it, blood was coming out the center of his palm like stigmata. “The innocent will be protected, Agent,” he said as tears rolled down his face.

“Mark! What are you doing to yourself?” shouted Father Weston, grabbing a kitchen towel. He pulled on the priest’s hand and wrapped the towel around it as Max ran for the antiseptic in the medicine cabinet. Father Troy felt his invisible shields rising up and closing in on him as they scurried around talking, coaxing him, and then shouting. It didn’t matter. He was safe behind his shields. The stigma was a sign, Gar was innocent and he was going to do nothing whatsoever to help anyone who thought otherwise.

Father Weston managed to get Father Troy to his bedroom once they had bandaged his hand. He knew it was useless to talk to his fellow priest any more tonight. Max was hanging up the phone when he came back out from saying an
Our Father
over the nearly catatonic Mark Troy.

“I woke up the locksmith, Weston. He’s on his way over. We both agree you’re getting these locks changed. The agent’s going to give me a lift back to my apartment,” Max said as Father W rejoined them in the kitchen.

“What about Marilyn?” Father Weston asked.

“That’s our job. I’m going to have local police cruiser to swing by every couple of hours in her neighborhood, but I think Marilyn’s alright for tonight at least. Gar’s probably going to lie low somewhere and hope the Suzanne Cleary ‘accident’ blows over.” Agent Tooley said crossing his arms over his chest. He had to get back in control and quick.

Max bit his lip. “I’ve got a class at noon so you’ll have an early lunch at the Surrey with the agent and fill her in then. Are we clear?” Max asked in a way that said he was brooking no arguments. The change in the peace-loving Father Troy was deeply disturbing to everyone, especially his friend, he could see. Weston’s eyes were blood shot and he was looking longingly at the liquor cabinet even as Max shook his head. The priest nodded, thinking about what he would tell the parish council about Gar and Father Troy, not to mention the Bishop. He would try to be as discreet as possible but changing the locks was a necessary expense.

Out in the silver government-issued Ford sedan Max sat quietly in the front seat as Agent Tooley drove the car through the plain darkened streets of Decatur.

“You ever dealt with anything like this before?” asked Agent Tooley finally. The Father Troy he had met when he first interviewed Gar wasn’t anything like the priest in the parish house tonight. It creeped him out.

“No, I’ve heard of such things. But it’s different up close and personal,” replied Max. He thought about the package Gretchen Wendell had slipped him before she got back in her cab, now locked in his apartment. When he unwrapped it he had found a Browning service revolver from World War II and its chilling provenance. The gun had a history, one that made it valuable on the black market of relics, memorabilia, and artifacts, according to Gretch. She had given it to him with the understanding that he would use it but also not let it fall into the wrong hands.

“Yeah. It always is, the first time in battle,” said Agent Tooley as the sound track of choppers started up in his head. “Don’t let your guard down,” he said as if reading Max’s mind.

CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Escape

Gar got up with the sun the next morning enjoying his new perch directly under Marilyn’s apartment. Taking a long shower he fingered the wound from the knife, it wasn’t too bad and the scrapes were starting their supernaturally quick heal.
Good, that was still working for him.
He put fresh bandages on and covered up with his tee-shirt. Still the wounds felt different from in years past, they niggled at him, reminding him how time was running out and if he failed… he wouldn’t fail. Still, three hundred and nearly thirty-three years had passed too quickly, and now he was down to it.

He threw a couple of towels over Harry’s body and made instant coffee from the old man’s supplies while he thought over his options. Suddenly inspired, he dug through the kitchen cupboards looking for items to pack for a picnic. Marilyn was going to have to take the day off, that is all there was to it. Now that he hadn’t gone back to the parish house Father Troy might be camped with Father Weston outside the Surrey looking for one or the both of them.

Around nine he heard Marilyn and Rowley thunder down the steps and he thumped on the door to the hallway for old time’s sakes. They were gone around twenty minutes and then came back in, moving more quietly up the stairs.

Rowley stopped at Harry’s door when he and Marilyn came in from the morning sniff and ‘do your business’ walk. Something was there in the dust and fading Pinesol smell, something ugly, bloody, with that faint whiff of Gar. Rowley’s nose twitched. What was it coming from under Harry’s door? Marilyn was pulling him back up the stairs with a shushing gesture. Harry had banged on the door on their way out as usual this morning and she was trying not to have a repeat.

Rowley watched her as she got dressed to go to work, planting himself in the hallway where he could also keep an eye on the door. Things didn’t feel right. She gave him a cookie and a kiss on his head, with her shampoo and shower smell perfuming over the stink that Gar had left. Telling him to be good, she shut and locked the apartment door. Rowley felt the emptiness of the apartment without her for a moment and then hopped up on the sofa and positioned himself on the pillows where he could sniff the breeze through the open window and watch her walk down North Street in her black waitress uniform. It would be a long vacant stretch now before he would see her again, that was their life together; the days were always lonely except for Saturday afternoons and the glorious all day thing called Sunday. He was about to take a nap because there was nothing else to do when he heard something, it sounded like the front door downstairs being opened but in stealthy sneaky way, the way the squirrels would slink towards the bird feeder Marilyn had in their tiny backyard because the squirrels knew they didn’t want Rowley to see them poaching the seed. His ears pricked up. Harry rarely went out and then only yelling and screaming at the neighbor kids. He watched out the window intently when the man called Gar appeared on the front steps whistling softly and carrying a basket slung from a strap. Then with a quick look over his shoulder he began to run, not like he was scared but with purpose showing on his wide cunning face.

Gar took a quick look out on the street. Kids were in schools, adults at work; mostly, the coast was clear. He was in a rare mood following his raid on Harry’s apartment. He had managed to put together some saltines and sardines along with an apple and after rooting around found an old fishing basket with a strap. It looked cool, and artistic for a picnic basket. Good. He’d see if the Front Porch was open and get something fun. Marilyn would need to be charmed to skip out on work, thought Gar, as he started running down the street; he would cut over and beat her to the candy and ice cream store on her way to work. There, he decided, was where he would surprise the source and spring his plan for an impromptu picnic at the cemetery. The weather was a little iffy but it would be okay.

Rowley felt a blast of icy fear smack his heart. Gar, he had been right, there was something that smelled coming from downstairs. Sniffing deeply he detected a thin ribbon of death and beginning rot in the air. Harry was dead, it would be days before the humans would smell him, Rowley realized. Marilyn would hate that but that wasn’t important now. Harry was dead because he had tangled with Gar when the mirror had flown apart last night. And now Gar was running down the street with a basket, what did that mean? Rowley remembered how the doctor with the soapy clean hands once took them to Nelson Park, a place they never went, in his convertible. There was a basket there too, a big one, with lots of food inside
. Picnic: where you eat outside, and then lay on
blankets.
Gar was going after Marilyn with that basket. He was going to hurt her but he was making it look like a picnic. Rowley jumped off the sofa, whining. He barked but it was useless, no one was here to let him out of the apartment. He began to feel panicky. Marilyn needed him and he didn’t think he could live without the scent of her fingers. Gar was a killer. Before he quite knew what he was doing he was over by the window, it was open wide with a rickety screen. Rowley pushed at it with his snout. It gave, pulling away from the white wooden frame of the window. But his body was too far below, he could only place his paws on the sill, he couldn’t figure out how to pull himself up, the window was chest high; he could only push on the screen with his snout. No, he thought. Gar couldn’t take Marilyn away from him. He ran back into the hallway, barking an alarm, looking at the window hard like the puzzle it was to him. Then he knew. He began to run, feeling his animal power in his legs, all the sleep out of him; he was pure motion now, lifting off, leaping towards the open window, and flying, flying out as the screen sailed below him.

The sticker bushes broke his fall and the window screen stopped the worst of the thorns from plunging too deeply into his hide. Falling off the bushes to the ground, Rowley got up and shook himself all over. He was okay, time to keep running.

The Front Porch opened at ten, mostly to capture the nickels and dimes of the eighth graders who would race over from Woodrow Wilson Junior High during recess to buy candy. Adele was surprised and embarrassed when the big man named Gar came through the door that Tuesday morning, looking sort of debonair with a vintage fishing basket slung over his shoulder. She hadn’t forgotten the fool she had made of herself but he was relaxed and smiling at her like nothing had happened.

“Hey there Adele, you’re looking good this morning. Fresh. What have you got in your candy jars that’s really fun?” Gar asked

“Fun?” she repeated, feeling a flush of pleasure at his words, the embarrassment vanishing. “Well, how about some candy strips?” She pulled bright colored strips of paper off a roll, there were little buttons of cinnamons, lime and grape drops at intervals on the strips. “Kids love this stuff.”

“Give me a dollar’s worth,” he said as she unrolled and cut three long strips of the stuff in purple, green and red colors. He draped them around his neck like the kids did and threw her a kiss and was back out the door, with a dollar lying on the marble counter top.

Rowley had never run the streets of their neighborhood like a stray dog but today he didn’t care, he had to follow the man Gar, he was going for Marilyn with that basket. Crossing Wood Street was dodgy. Cars made no sense to Rowley and Marilyn always made the choice as to when to cross the street. He hesitated for a second not knowing why cars stopped and started. It all seemed random and unfeeling, with no connection to the natural world. Feeling reckless he decided it he would never know when it mattered, so he just ran out. Gar was getting out of sight. There was a screech and a big metal station wagon swerved as Rowley smelled burnt rubber. He didn’t look back even as the fear shot through him.

Marilyn was trying hard not to think about the strange call of last night as she walked to work.
It was a prank from some kid or a wrong number it just had to be
. Thank God, she would soon be juggling Walt, Amanda, Scott and all of the customers in her section, not to mention helping Betty and Mona if they needed it. All thoughts of Gar and the shattered mirror, the Map Room and sessions with Max, Gretch Wendell’s theories and most of all that stupid stupid prank phone call would be pretty much forced out of her mind, she knew, as the order-up bell was relentless. You could pour yourself into a lunch rush at the Surrey and if you worked hard at it not think about anything but the moment. So she was really taken aback when she saw Gar sitting on the Front Porch steps with colorful strips of candy pressed into brightly colored paper draped around his neck. He got up with that charismatic smile and gave her a two finger salute, an old trout fishing basket slung over his shoulder like you might see in a window display of Bachman’s men’s store with fishing reels and hunting jackets. It was a goofy, surprisingly sweet picture on a spring day to see a big man with golden eyes saluting her on her way to work.

“Milady, I beg a favor. I have a picnic but no one to dine with. Will you play hooky with me?” Gar asked.

“Hooky?” Marilyn repeated. She hadn’t played hooky in twenty years. “I’ve got work.”

“Not if you play hooky you don’t,” said Gar, twirling the paper candy strips like a kid.

“I’d have to call,” she said, feeling a daring come over her. It seemed like a God-send suddenly, not to be putting pats of butter out. This might be better than pouring coffee, it might really take her mind off things, and she just wanted to take her mind off things.

Gar hitched his thumb at the Front Porch. “Bet there’s a phone and I’m a very good customer,” he said.

He took her hand then and they walked into the ice cream parlor. It looked like what Marilyn had imagined: jolly, with big candy jars and a marble-topped counter. A woman with graying hair in her late thirties or early forties stood at the counter looking flustered as she and Gar came in.

“Adele, my girl needs to use your phone,” Gar said, as Marilyn felt a little thrill at the description and Adele felt like an idiot.

“Sure,” Adele said, just wanting them to leave. The girl was a beautiful woman in a cheap black waitress uniform that couldn’t diminish the glow coming from her as she stood hand in hand with Gar. She lifted the hinged shelf and let Gar’s girl come behind the counter.

Marilyn dialed the numbers in a dizzy state of guilt and desire. She hadn’t missed work but three or four times in eleven years. Scott answered and Marilyn made her voice sound like it was coming from beneath the ocean. “I’m sick, Scott. Migraine. Can’t get out of bed. Sorry. Yeah. Tomorrow. Sure,” she said, hanging up feeling like she was back in school and had just ditched class. Not that she had done that more than once or twice. Still, it was so liberating, she thought, I’m alive, not crushed by endless memories and oddities.

Adele kept her head down not looking at either one of them. Leave, Adele thought. Go away and enjoy your illicit coupling but a man that makes you lie, that’s gonna come back to haunt you, she said silently to Marilyn as a dog the color of caramels began barking in at them through the screen door.

“Rowley!” Marilyn said and Rowley thought his heart would burst. She was safe. She rushed out the door, kneeling down, grabbing his collar, and put her lovely face into his furry neck. “What? How did you get here? How’d you get out?” She asked him, feeling him all over and finding the thorn that pierced his side. She pulled on it gently as he looked over her head into the deadly eyes of Gar shooting those golden sparks all over the porch of this sweet smelling store. “This has never happened before. I know I locked the door and Harry doesn’t have a key.” She held up the thorn in a considering way. “The only way out would have been to jump out the living room window into the sticker bushes. What in the world would have caused that, Gar? You don’t think there’s a fire, do you?” Marilyn asked, all the silliness of calling in sick collapsing like a sand castle under a wave of worry.

Gar wanted to kill the dog then and get it over with. “Harry, your damn neighbor. Probably had a fit over something and the poor mutt couldn’t take it any more, could you pup?” he said in a hearty confident way as he rubbed Rowley’s head.

“Well I’m going to talk to him. That just takes the cake. Come on Rowley, let’s go home,” Marilyn said as she pictured Mona and Betty in less than an hour running around the restaurant trying to handle the lunch crowd by themselves. Why had she done that to them? They’d get through it but it would be hell, what with Scott trying to help and just messing it up worse. Maybe she could “recover” and go in anyway after she gave Harry a piece of her mind.

“No!” Gar sounded angrier than he wanted to. “Come on, give me a chance. You can talk to Harry later. Let’s go to the cemetery.”

“But I don’t have a leash for Rowley,” Marilyn protested, the mood of playing hooky broken as she looked at her dog. He could have been killed.

“Here,” Gar pulled his rope belt out of the loops of his pants and gave it to Marilyn, “Use this. This day was made for us.”

Marilyn stood for a moment, confused and torn between wanting to take Rowley home and go into work like normal, and the idea of being with Gar away from the real world tempting her again. She just needed an escape to get her mind off things. “Okay,” she said slowly, feeling the moment take on weight like she was making some life changing decision.

Fairview Cemetery was deserted. Gar had fed her cinnamon candy all the way there and her tongue was red and hot. The day’s clouds had thickened but Marilyn didn’t care, her dog was safe and she and Gar were going to have a wonderful picnic, a real escape, down by the lake. He had a way of making her feel special but not in the way her mother had always talked about. They were walking hand-in-hand with Rowley on the rope leash in the older section of the cemetery where the grave markers were bleached and worn by time. Up on the hill overlooking the weeping willow-rimmed lake, the ruined mausoleum loomed with its blind and broken sentry angels. Marilyn gave it a quick glance as her stomach unexpectedly dropped like she was on the downside of a roller-coaster ride. “We’re going to the lake, right?” she asked with a little smile as she cocked her head.