Prowlers - 1 (18 page)

You are surrounded by them all the time, he thought. You just can't always see them.

The idea chilled him. He stood in the middle of the cemetery and glanced around at the names engraved on the stones nearby. Boer. Slikowski. Farchand. O'Rourke. Geary.

Are you here? he thought. Then he glanced at the casket beside Kate's grave. Are you here, Kate? I'm sorry if I was a jerk. I'm sorry for what happened to you.

Jack shivered and dosed his eyes tightly. If any of the ghosts were there, he did not want to see them. Not right now. He did not know if just thinking of them, calling out to them in his mind, would draw their attention, but that was something he did not want to do.

"Hey," Molly whispered. 'Are you all right?"

He nodded. Rain dripped onto his shoulder from the edge of the umbrella, but he wanted to make sure Molly did not get wet, so he ignored it. Let the rainfall, he thought, and remembered a song that went something like that.

Let the rainfall.

"I've just had enough of churches and cemeteries for a while," he replied softly.

Molly had an arm around his waist and she squeezed him tight. "Me too, Jack. Me too."

Her usually unruly red hair was pulled tight in a bun, and a few stray strands blew across her face in the moist breeze. Her face was so pale that some of her freckles seemed to have faded, but Jack was sure it was just the gray day. The sun would bring them out again, he knew. Molly had always been a pretty girl. It occurred to Jack as he looked at her that while she was merely

pretty most of the time, when she was truly happy, smiling or laughing—or when she was in emotional torment—she was gorgeous.

Molly seemed to have somehow risen above all the pain of Artie's and Kate's murders. Though tired, she looked almost angelic.

Jack had always thought Artie was lucky to have her, lucky she put up with him. Now Molly would go on without him. Eventually she would meet someone new, have another boyfriend, never knowing that Artie was there, nearby, able to watch her at any time.

Much as he grieved for the pain Molly was in, he felt far worse for Artie. You should go on, man, he thought.

The answer came back unbidden from the back of his own mind: Artie had not yet gone on. Could not go on until he found a way to stop the Prowlers. Now it was up to Jack to help him with that.

The reporters crowded around like hunting dogs on a scent. They knew the story was here, but they did not know what the truth of it was. They could not, Jack thought, have begun to imagine what the truth was. It had occurred to him more than once that the police must have linked all of these crimes and been downplaying their conclusion in order to avoid causing a panic. But that

was just guesswork. Maybe the police knew, maybe they didn't.

Kate's parents cried for her, but they did not know.

Molly.

Jack wished he could tell her, but Artie would never

forgive him. And he had all eternity to haunt Jack about it if he wanted to.

Only Courtney and Bill knew, and they were only half convinced. Jack was pretty much on his own. But he had seen the monsters, and he knew he had to figure something out, find some way to stop them. If that meant going to the police, that was what he would have to do. And hope they didn't lock him up in an asylum somewhere.

Even when it was over, it wasn't over.

When the priest had said his final words and blessed Kate for the last time, and the mourners had walked stone-faced past the media vultures and back to their cars, that was only the beginning of the day of grieving. It was a tradition Molly had never understood, but the Nordlings invited everyone—everyone without a camera, at least—back to their home.

But even though Molly didn't understand it, she went. Kate's parents would have been hurt if she had not. Jack had been hesitant about it—he had never even met Kate's parents—but Molly told him she wanted him to go, and he agreed. They rode over in Jack's eight-year-old Jeep Cherokee, neither of them speaking much. As he had so often lately, Jack seemed distracted, glancing out the window and in the rearview mirror every few seconds.

Once inside the Nordlings' home, though, Jack disappeared. Molly spotted him from time to time, speaking to one of his old Boston Catholic High School

teachers or to some kid he knew from his four years there. But for the most part, he seemed to linger on the periphery.

By the time Molly caught up to him, they had been at the Nordlings for nearly three hours. It was after four in the afternoon when she found him standing in a corner of the kitchen, drinking Sprite from a plastic cup and trying to appear unobtrusive.

"You're avoiding me."

Jack blinked, obviously a bit taken aback. The clock on the wall ticked steadily. The chatter from the other mourners had diminished as the afternoon wore on, but there were still a great many people in the living room and dining room. In the kitchen, the detritus from the various foods that had been provided had built up; casserole dishes and trays and glasses covered the table and most of the counter space.

"I haven't been avoiding you," he replied, his voice flat.

Molly flinched. A twinge of sadness touched her heart. She glanced around to be sure no one was nearby, then she moved in closer to him, taking one of his hands in hers. "Jack, talk to me," she said, heart aching. She searched his warm brown eyes, saw how tired he was. But there was more than pain and exhaustion there. Molly thought she saw confusion as well.

"I don't know what to say," he confessed, an ache in his voice.

A bone-deep melancholy swept over Molly, a sadness completely unlike the grief she felt because of what

had happened to Artie and Kate. Every emotion was raw, and each one was frayed to the breaking point. With all she had already lost, she needed Jack to lean on. She knew he needed her as well, though maybe not as much.

Stray locks of her red hair had escaped, and Molly brushed them away from her face. She gazed up into Jack's eyes. "We're all that's left, Jack," she said, clutching his hand even more tightly.

Mrs. Gerritson, the biology teacher from B. C. High, popped quickly into the kitchen to slide a stack of dirty dessert dishes onto the counter. She glanced apologetically, at them, obviously realizing she had interrupted something. Molly waited until the woman had slipped out to speak.

She let go of Jack's hand and leaned against the refrigerator beside him. It hummed against her back.

"I had other friends, Jack," Molly said. She nodded as if to reassure herself of that. "But while I was with Artie, I drifted away from them. I spent so much time with my boyfriend that they moved on without me. I guess it happens. The only one I stayed really close to was Kate, and she's ..."

Molly bit her lip and stared down at the tile floor. Jack laid one of his large, strong hands on her shoulder for comfort, and Molly leaned into him, grateful for the support.

"With all the time we spent together, you and I and Artie, well. . ." She turned to face him again but could not lift her eyes. She was not used to opening her heart,

particularly when it was so raw. When she continued, she did not look up. "You're about the best friend I have, I think. It's just you and me now, and you've been so quiet and stuff, I just... The funerals are over. Without Artie, there's nothing keeping us together. Not school, not anything. I don't know if I can handle it if you let our friendship go, y'know?"

"Oh, Jesus, Molly no." His voice cracked with emotion.

Molly finally raised her eyes to Jack's face and saw nothing but pain and horror there.

Then he smiled. Her friend smiled, and Molly knew it was going to be all right.

"I'm sorry, Moll," he said quickly. "I had no idea you were thinking all that stuff What a jerk, huh? God, I've been so wrapped up in my own head with all this . . . and other stuff I've had on my mind." Jack hugged her tight enough to cut off her breathing.

Molly felt as though ice was shattering all over her, including her mouth, which stretched into what felt like its first smile of the day.

"I'm not going anywhere," Jack told her. "Nowhere. You got it? You're stuck with me now. Somebody's got to play big brother and keep an eye on you."

"You've always done that," Molly told him. As she held on to him, her eyes fell upon the collection of magnets scattered across the face of the refrigerator. Most of them were Kate's. Molly had been with her when she bought a number of them, including a set featuring the Powerpuff Girls. Bubbles, Blossom...

She could never remember that last one.

With a deep breath, Molly pulled away from Jack and stared up at him again. "Know what? I don't think I can cry anymore. I need a break from tears and hurting and all of it."

"What do you want to do?" Jack asked.

"Feel like going to the movies?"

Boston had fewer than its share of movie theaters. There were mutliplexes at Copley Place and in Kenmore Square, but not many beyond that, except for the Capitol. Located right on Tremont Street across from Boston Common, the Capitol Theater was a faded movie palace that specialized in foreign films, independent cinema, and little weekend festivals. They had an allnighter every Friday night, and the marquee announced that the following week it would be Eastwood spaghetti westerns.

Jack loved westerns.

"Look at that," Molly said as they walked up Tremont and she spotted the marquee. "You'll be in heaven next week."

Her voice was tight, a bit forced, and he knew they were both thinking the same thing, that if Artie were alive it would have been guys' night out. But they had agreed that they needed a little time off from hurting so much, so Jack did not put a voice to his thoughts.

"If Courtney will let me take next Friday off," Jack replied. "This week I've pretty much left her

hanging"

Molly bumped him as they walked along the cracked concrete sidewalk. "I'm sure she doesn't mind, Jack. It isn't like you're calling in sick or something. We should

go-"

Jack gave her a sidelong glance. 'You don't even like

Clint Eastwood."

"I don't mind him. Maybe I need to see more of his movies."

With a laugh, Jack shook his head. 'All right. Let me talk to Courtney. And I appreciate your sacrifice."

As they walked up to the box office, Molly gave a little laugh as well. They had driven back from Newton, left Jack's Jeep in one of the few parking spaces that were reserved for the pub, and walked up to the Capitol. They hadn't bothered to get dinner after all the food they'd eaten at the Nordlings', but all their travel had taken time, and it was after six o'clock. Now, at the box office, they stared at the movie times and tried to figure out their next move.

"Quite a dilemma," Molly muttered.

Jack agreed. The latest George Clooney flick, a supernatural thriller that had gotten excellent reviews, had been out of the first-run theaters since before Christmas, but the Capitol had it now. The problem was, it had started twenty minutes earlier and the next showing wasn't until a quarter to eight. Their other option was a kung fu comedy Jackie Chan had made in China about a dozen years ago.

"The dubbing is probably really, really awful," Molly said.

"But it starts in ten minutes," Jack replied. 'And we could use a laugh."

And maybe I'm not in the mood for a supernatural thriller, with or without George Clooney.

Which was how they found themselves sitting in the darkened theater a short time later, a big tub of popcorn on Jack's lap, laughing out loud at some of Jackie Chan's antics. The film was a bizarre mix of elements. One minute it was played for laughs, and the next it was all-out action with some real suspense. And Chan's acrobatics were extraordinary. Jack had never really been a fan, but he had only seen one or two of the man's American films. This was something else entirely.

Molly laughed right along with him. Though she had said she didn't want any popcorn, she raided his bucket throughout the movie. They sipped watered-down sodas and once in a while

leaned over to mutter something to each other. A couple of times they were shushed by a couple sitting behind them, a thirtyish guy with a goatee and square glasses and a diminutive woman whose pale face and black hair made her look a bit Goth without any obvious effort to do so. Jack wanted to tell them off. There were only about twenty other people in the theater—it was a pretty early showing—and they could have sat anywhere else in the theater. But he knew it was rude to talk during the film, so he kept his mouth shut.

From time to time during the film his attention was drawn to a girl who sat alone in the front row. He had spotted her when she walked into the theater just a

few minutes after he and Molly had. Her face was full and round, and her eyes were almost impossibly large. Her raven-black hair was lustrous and she was all curves. When she had first come in, their eyes met; then she glanced at Molly and moved on, down to the front row.

Half a dozen times, when he had glanced at her, the girl was turned slightly to look back at him, almost as if she could feel his eyes on her.

Jack was glad to be there with Molly. It was important for both of them, and he cared for her deeply. But he could not suppress a tiny twinge of regret that he had not run across the startling girl with the huge eyes at another time.

Molly leaned over to him. "I'm really glad we did this," she said, her voice low.

"Me too."

The guy shushed them again. Jack rolled his eyes, smiled to himself and tossed some popcorn at Molly, just to cause trouble. Molly stifled a laugh and glared at him, her eyes flicking toward the seats behind them. Jack pretended to throw some more popcorn at her, but then ate it instead.

On screen the action was heating up. Jackie Chan was infiltrating the headquarters of a gang of drug traffickers he had already humiliated with various household appliances and a garden hose, but now he was set to take them down once and for all. The beautiful female cop who had become his sidekick carried a gun, but Jackie just had Jackie. No need for guns when he