Port of Sorrow (13 page)

CHAPTER
28

Finn awoke with a sharp pain stabbing him in the neck, having fallen asleep in an awkward position while gazing at the words in a drugstore paperback. He had tried to make the words form sentences, knowing the author, one of his usual favorites, had put his heart and soul into telling an exciting story, but his mind wasn’t up to the task.

“You’ll rot your brain with that fiction crap,” Selene would say to him before diving into the latest copy of
People
magazine. To her,
People
was perfect. It came out once a week and that’s exactly how long it took her to read each issue.

“How did they know?” Selene asked him once.

“Know what?”

“How many articles to put in so it would last exactly a week?”

“Some people read it in five minutes waiting for a haircut.”

“They don’t read it,” Selene protested. “They might flip the pages. But you can’t read it that fast. There’s movies, television, books, celebrities, all sorts of stuff. You have to read at least two articles a day to make sure you’re finished in time for the next issue.”

“It’s a mystery then,” Finn said.

“They are sure smart. Maybe they’ll do a story about me one day and I can ask the reporter how they knew.”

“Good idea.”

“Yeah,” Selene agreed. “That’s what I’m going to do.”

With a groan, Finn rose to his feet and stretched. His back popped and his knees cracked as he bent to touch his toes, while bruised and discolored flesh told him not to push his luck.

Outside, a swirling mist covered the morning, turning the sun into a weak flashlight low on the horizon. Finn studied the empty streets as he stretched, his imagination turning every shadow into something ominous. As a child, he would have studied the fog with mischievous wonder, convincing himself that within its folds were undiscovered treasure maps and chests of gold. Now all he saw were monsters.

After his shower, Finn dressed in T-shirt and jeans, pulled on his leather jacket and headed out into the fog. Its ghostly tendrils played with his freshly shaved face, cooling the skin with drops of salty moisture.

The streets echoed hollowly as Finn strolled to the edge of town. The emptiness caused him to wonder if he had missed the Pied Piper’s call to follow along.

The first face he encountered belonged to Abery as she lay sleeping on her garden bed under a multicolored patchwork quilt. Her face was half covered by the blue veil, her eyelids flickering in dream.

Finn watched her for a moment before quietly opening the gate and walking to the converted shed. Joseph was asleep inside, and Finn was glad to note that his breathing sounded less laborious.

“He’s going to be okay,” Abery said from the doorway.

Finn turned around sheepishly. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“You didn’t,” she replied. “My dream ended and I awoke. I’ve never seen the point in sleeping when there are no more dreams.”

“How do you know when they’re over?”

Abery shrugged. “You just do.”

Finn stared at her for a minute as though trying to make a decision, then asked, “Can I buy you breakfast?”

Abery looked shocked. “People will talk if they see us together.”

Finn smiled. “That’s something I’m used to.”

Abery smiled back. “Okay,” she said. “I haven’t dined out in years.”

They walked four blocks to Jenny’s Truck Stop & Grill, where they ordered two plates of the Trucker’s Special: two eggs, sausage, bacon, ham, grilled tomato, hash browns and sourdough toast. Peanut butter and jam on the side.

Everyone in the restaurant dropped their voices to whispers when they saw the lady in the crumpled blue dress sitting across from the smooth-faced man. Abery didn’t seem to notice, she was too busy taking tiny bites of her breakfast and smiling with delight.

One of the truckers was reading the Seattle Times. Finn winced at the headline:
Second murder stuns town
. Below it was a picture of Selene in a bright yellow dress, smiling and happy. Beside her was a small mugshot of Paul the cook. A subhead read:
Parents mourn virgin stripper’s death
.

Finn looked away to concentrate on his breakfast. The story would contain nothing he didn’t already know.

Over coffee, Abery said, “Harold would love this. Nothing pleases him more than layering bacon on top of toast, then a fried egg, some hash browns, a blob of ketchup, and the final layer of toast. He picks it up in both hands, admires it for a moment, then digs in. I get so disgusted when the egg yolk squeezes out the sides and goes all over his face, but Harold says that’s the best part.”

“He sounds like a special man,” Finn encouraged.

Abery grinned. “You’ll love Harold. Everyone does. Soon as he meets you, he’ll offer a cold beer and ask the name of your favorite baseball team. It don’t matter who you root for, Harold likes them all. Everybody says he’s too friendly for his own good, but I won’t have him any other way.”

“Do you have any idea what happened to him?”

Her grin faded. “He used to hang with a rough crowd, but he stopped after we met. I worry that maybe he had some unfinished business to take care of before we wed.”

“Do you know his old friends? Maybe I could ask around.”

Abery shook her head, the veil rustling with age.

“The worst one left town years back, and the rest drifted into their own things. I never see them. Course, I certainly don’t go looking.”

After breakfast, Finn and Abery returned to the house to find a woman waiting by the front door with a young boy of about six at her side. They were both dressed in soft shades of gray that matched the fog.

An ankle-length woolen dress hid the woman’s legs, while a shapeless suede and leather jacket hid the rest. But beneath her deliberate porcelain face, a swirling angora scarf — looking as delicate as her skin — danced unrestrained. The apple-cheeked boy wore charcoal slacks atop shiny leather shoes, and an itchy-looking V-neck sweater covered his starched shirt and private school tie. The whole ensemble was wrapped inside a lined jacket that added false broadness to his shoulders.

Abery smiled at the woman before kneeling down to be eye-level with the boy.

“And what’s your name?” she asked.

The boy pressed himself against his mother’s legs, his lips tight and eyes wide.

“His name is Thomas Joseph,” answered the woman.

“Well, Thomas Joseph, I suppose you’ve heard I’m a witch.”

The boy gulped and his lower lip began to quiver.

“That’s okay,” Abery added. “I don’t mind people calling me a witch, so long as they realize I’m a good witch to good people.”

Finn watched, fascinated.

Abery stood straight again to face the mother. “What’s the trouble?” she asked.

“Show her your hands, Thomas,” the woman said sternly.

The boy shook his head, forcing the woman to grab one of his hands and hold it out for Abery to examine.

The boy’s hands were dotted in warts and tiny ones under his fingernails were bleeding.

“Do they hurt?” Abery asked.

The boy nodded.

“And what does your doctor say?”

The boy built up his courage. “He . . . he says I shouldn’t play with frogs. But I don’t play with them. I don’t even collect tadpoles.”

Abery smiled warmly. “Do you know that people buy warts from me?”

“Really?” The boy’s eyes grew wider

“Oh, yes.” Abery nodded and rubbed her hands together. “But my supply is running low. So, I’ll make you an offer. I would like to buy your warts if you’re willing to sell?”

Abery pulled out a shiny half dollar.

“You understand, of course, that I buy wholesale and I want all of them. You’re not going to try and hold on to one or two are you?”

The boy shook his head.

“OK.” Abery removed a small glass jar from her pocket and waved it over top of the boy’s hands. “When you come back to see me next week, all your warts will have left your hands and moved into this jar. When the transfer is complete, I’ll give you this coin in payment. Does that sound fair?”

The boy nodded, his face beaming.

“Good,” she said, “then it’s a deal. I’ll see you next week.”

The woman’s starched white brow furrowed. “Is that it?”

“That’s it,” Abery replied. “The warts will be gone within seven days.”

“But how is that possible?”

“I’ve bought them.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“Of course it doesn’t, but Thomas and I have struck a bargain.”

The woman seemed dumbstruck for a full minute before asking, “What do I owe you?”

Abery smiled. “What do you do?”

“I’m married to an architect.”

“That’s not what I asked,” Abery said softly. “I want to know what you do, what your talents are.”

“My mom’s a great cook,” Thomas piped in.

Abery beamed wider. “Then cook me something that I can share with my friends. I’ll look forward to it.”

The woman was struck dumb, so she simply grabbed her son’s arm and walked away.

Finn couldn’t help laughing.

“Great trick,” he said. “But what are you going to do when the warts don’t go away?”

Abery turned to him, her face perfectly serious.

“I’ve bought the warts. They will no longer bother him.”

And for some reason, Finn believed her.

CHAPTER
29

Big Brother heard the car crunching over gravel, its tires swerving quickly to the right at the cedar stump to avoid the pit, then quickly to the left to avoid the trip wire.

One of these days he would change the layout of his traps just to test Little Brother. Although last time he did that, Jay Smithers came waltzing by with a jug of home-brew, tripped the wire and had his head ripped clean off by a branch studded with razor blades.

He often wondered what it was about Smitty that made the brussel sprouts from his garden taste so good that year.

The car crunched to a stop, kicking up a storm of pebbles in its wake. With glowering eyes, Little Brother shoved open the door and charged onto the porch.

Big Brother left his rocking chair, but didn’t raise his hands in defense. The first punch was a knuckle-cruncher that jarred his teeth and knocked him back a step. That one, he deserved, but before Little Brother got any further ideas, Big Brother lunged forward to plant his bone-thick forehead square on his brother’s nose.

Blood splashed across both their faces as Little Brother crumpled to his knees and began to whimper. He’d always been queasy about the sight of his own blood.

A few swigs of home-brew and an icepack later, the two brothers sat side by side on the porch steps, listening to the mating calls of the birds.

Finally, Little Brother spoke.

“Why did you do it?” he asked.

“She was a risk, little brother. You said yourself she was testing the marks on the boy’s back.”

“But that wouldn’t have tied to you.”

“Maybe not, but it would eliminate other suspects. Hell, just to clear their names, you might end up with the whole town volunteering to take bite tests. Then where would we be?”

“You’re losing control of this. Three people are dead and Barbara was a cop. The F.B.I is sending someone down to look into it.”

“I’m sure you can muddy the trail, little brother. I’ve got faith in you.”

Big Brother sipped his beer, allowing Little Brother some time to contemplate the wisdom of his words.

LITTLE BROTHER, SHELTERED
in the shadow of his brother, stared out at the thick grove of trees, watching ghosts of lost youth dance along the edge. They were calling him to their side: Welly, Gilles, Harold, Smitty, his younger self, and the clearest ghost of all — Big Brother.

They were dancing around a pole, singing a song he had tried to burn from memory. Tied to the pole was Jennifer; sweet, beautiful Jennifer. Tears were streaming down her cheeks, dripping onto the torn bodice of her Sunday dress.

Big Brother taunted her, forced them all to taunt her, made her scream and shiver and wet her panties. He tore the panties off her and hiked up her skirt for everyone to see the bald vulnerability of her.

Jennifer was too weak to resist.

The ghosts sang louder, their bodies twisting and churning with the evil inside them.

Little Brother bit his bottom lip as he remembered how Harold broke rank and tried to stop it. How he rushed to Jennifer’s side, frantically clawing at the rope with his useless, stubby nails that had been chewed down to the quick.

He watched now as the ghost of who he used to be helped the others drag Harold away, teasing him for being weak . . . a homo . . . a pussy.

When the nightmare invaded his sleep, this is where it would end, the point where he forced himself to wake. But the daytime ghosts didn’t fade away. He watched in horror as Big Brother tore off her dress before smashing his fist into Jennifer’s face to stop her screams.

Little Brother saw the excitement in his brother’s eyes at the sound of breaking bones and gushing blood. He had no interest in the girl’s body — only in her pain.

Jennifer’s unconscious form was finally cut down from the pole. With a sneer at the terrified faces of the others, Big Brother threw her over his shoulder and vanished into the woods.

One by one, the five remaining ghosts began to dissipate: Harold, then Smitty, Wells and Gilles . . . and finally, lastly, himself.

All of the boys had joined in the search for the missing girl. None of them dared break their vow of silence, though none believed Big Brother’s claim that he had snuck Jennifer aboard a Greyhound bus bound for Seattle.

Because of that day, and every sleepless night since, Little Brother was helpless to stop the evil that had returned to his hometown.

Little Brother looked away from the shadows. “You planning on putting a new roof on this summer?”

Big Brother nodded and grinned.