Slice (32 page)

E
IGHTY-TWO

J
essie was still trying to absorb the information that the FBI agent, Patrick Castile, had given her this morning. “We were never entirely sure that Emil Deetz had been killed in Mexico,” he had said.

Castile had some other things as well, things about always having the situation under control and never believing Jessie to be in any jeopardy, but it was that statement that kept ringing through Jessie's mind.

The words unnerved her even more than Aunt Paulette's account of finding Bryan's body in the woods. Her aunt was pacing around the kitchen now, trying to convince Jessie that they were dealing with a ghost. But Jessie thought the foe they faced—the foe the whole town faced—was much more flesh and blood.

“Aunt Paulette,” she said, clutching her mug of coffee in both hands as if she were holding on for dear life, “if the FBI says that Emil might not have died in that shoot-out, then that's what we have to fear, not ghosts or avenging spirits.”

Jessie was angry that the FBI hadn't informed her of their doubts about Emil's death. But would she really have wanted them to tell her? By believing Emil was dead, she had found the freedom to get on with her life. She had been able to put her fear and her nightmares behind her.

But now the fear had come back.

Aunt Paulette had stopped pacing and was looking at Jessie intently. “There is something unearthly going on here, Jessie. I feel it. I sense it.”

“I know the experience of finding Bryan's body was traumatic for you, but . . .”

Aunt Paulette resumed her pacing. It was clear to Jessie that her aunt hadn't slept all night. Her eyes were ringed with dark circles.

“How do you explain why I got lost in those woods for so long? They were like nowhere I'd ever seen. And the silence . . . the uncanny silence.”

“It was getting dark, Aunt Paulette. . . . You just lost your way.”

“No!” She spun on Jessie, her eyes wild with emotion. “There is something supernatural about that boy! He led me in there! He got me lost! He wanted me to find Bryan's body! He's possessed by Emil's spirit! That's what I believe.”

“There is nothing supernatural about Aaron,” Jessie said. “After spending the afternoon with him, I was completely reassured about him. He's a sweet, lonely child.”

“He's a ghost!”

Jessie smiled indulgently. “No ghost could eat that many hamburgers and put away so much pie.”

“I don't know how to explain it,” Aunt Paulette said. “But he's not of this earth. He's . . . undead somehow.”

“Aunt Paulette, you know I keep an open mind about your belief in the supernatural, but in this case . . .”

“Jessie, listen to me. Doesn't he look like Emil?”

Jessie dropped her eyes to the table. “He has dark eyes and hair. . . . That's all.”

“Even the smile, Jessie.” Aunt Paulette leaned on the table with her hands, looking directly into her niece's face. “And his last name, for God's sake!”

“A coincidence,” Jessie said quietly, even though she didn't sound very convincing, even to herself.

“Don't you see, Jessie? He's telling us who he is!”

Jessie closed her eyes. No, she didn't want to think this. . . .

“It's Emil,” Aunt Paulette said. “It's Emil, come back as a child. His ghost is taunting us. He appeared to me in town as an adult, but he also appears as he looked as a little boy. That way he can insinuate himself with us . . . and with Abby!”

“That's nonsense!” Jessie said, louder than she meant to. She stood up and walked across the room, not wanting to admit to herself how much her aunt's words frightened her. “Aaron's just a lonely little boy who's being neglected by whoever's taking care of him. He's not a ghost! He's not Emil!”

“I'm going to find out who he is,” Aunt Paulette said. “I have my ways, Jessie. And I'll use them. Because if I don't . . . you and I and Abby will be the next to have our throats cut!”

C
hief Walters was back at her desk, going through the pile of papers that had accumulated there, when her cell phone jingled. She saw it was her daughter calling from Philadelphia.

“Emma!” she said happily into the phone.

“Mom, what the
hell
is going on in Sayer's Brook?” Emma's voice sounded worried. “It's all over the news today. Another body found . . .”

The chief sighed. “Yes, sweetie. Bryan Pierce. Do you remember him?”

“Yes,” Emma said. “I can't believe it. A serial killer operating in our little town. Mom, please be careful.”

“The FBI's taken over,” Walters said. “We just mop up the mess from here on in.”

“Any suspects?”

“Well . . .” Walters wasn't going to reveal too much. But suddenly she had a question for Emma. “Hey, sweetie, do you remember that fortune-teller we went to see before you got accepted to school?”

“Yeah. Madame Paulette. What's she got to do with it?”

Walters laughed. “Madame Paulette is one of our witnesses, who claims she may have seen the killer. What do you remember about her?”

“Well, I remember she was rather eccentric with her long gray hair and bright red lipstick. . . .”

“Absolutely. Which is why I'm not banking on her reliability. After all, she said you wouldn't get into your top pick of schools. . . .”

“I didn't, Mom.”

The chief frowned. “Huh? Yes, you did, honey. You got into Wesleyan.”

“Wesleyan wasn't my top pick. I wanted to go to Emerson.”

“No, honey, it was—”

“You're remembering this incorrectly, Mom. Madame Paulette was right. I didn't get into my top pick, but that was a good thing, because Wesleyan turned out to be so much better for me than Emerson ever would have.”

“Oh,” Walters said. “I thought Wesleyan had always been your top choice. . . .”

“No. It just seemed that way, because I ended up liking it so much.” Emma laughed. “So maybe you ought to reconsider Madame Paulette's reliability.”

“Emma, honey, I have to go. I'll call you later.”

“Okay, Mom. Be careful!”

Chief Walters sat at her desk staring straight ahead.

It had been a lucky guess, she told herself about Paulette Drew's prediction of Emma's school. Learning that she'd remembered the incident incorrectly was hardly cause for Walters to reevaluate Drew's position as a witness.

But still . . .

The FBI thought Emil Deetz was behind the killings. Paulette Drew thought it was Deetz's ghost. Wolfie had been convinced that the killer was John Manning—with some kind of assist, knowing or not, from Jessie Clarkson.

Walters's gut told her the right answer might somehow be a combination of all of the above.

E
IGHTY-FOUR

“
I
t's my mother's recipe for fried chicken,” Manning was saying, as he and Caleb carried in trays of crispy wings, breasts, and drumsticks. “She was from Alabama, so it's got all the best Southern ingredients.”

“This is awfully sweet of you,” Jessie said.

“I figured you all wouldn't be up to making dinner tonight,” John said, giving Jessie a smile. “I've got some whipped potatoes to bring over, too.”

“Mr. Manning is a wonderful cook,” Caleb said. “I've often told him if he weren't such a successful author, he'd make a terrific chef.”

“It smells great!” Abby chirped, as John handed her a drumstick. She began munching on it like a hungry little chipmunk.

“Let's eat out on the picnic table,” Jessie suggested. “It's such a lovely afternoon. We can watch the sunset.”

She grabbed a pitcher of lemonade and a handful of paper plates and led them all outside. Caleb ran back over to the house and brought over the potatoes, a hunk of butter melting all over them, and they began their feast.

“Thank you so much,” Jessie said.

John smiled over at her.

For a few moments, she could push all thoughts of death and fear from her mind. She could forget that someone—something—was out there that wanted to hurt her. She could forget all of Aunt Paulette's crazy suspicions.

“I wish Aaron were here,” Abby said. “He'd like this fried chicken.”

Jessie thought about the little boy, and wondered where he was. She worried about him, out there by himself, obviously uncared for.

John leaned in toward Jessie. “What have you learned about him?” he asked in a soft voice.

“That he's a scared, lonely little boy,” Jessie told him.

John looked at her a little quizzically.

“We have nothing to fear from Aaron,” she said firmly.

“Mommy,” Abby said, looking up with a face covered with grease, “can I go trick-or-treating with Aaron?”

Halloween was now just a couple of days away. Jessie hadn't told Abby about Bryan's death, but she couldn't allow her to daughter to walk through the neighborhood at night. “I tell you what,” she said. “We'll have a Halloween party here. Aaron can come. Will you come, too, John?”

“Sure,” he replied. “But how will you let Aaron know? Have you found a way to reach him?”

“Oh, he'll be here,” Abby said confidently.

Jessie thought she was right. Aaron would know to come. They didn't have to tell him. He would just come.

And that thought didn't frighten Jessie at all.

E
IGHTY-FIVE

F
rom his perch on a log at the entrance to the woods, Aaron watched them. The setting sun cast a red glow on his little face.

He sat there, listening to their laughter. He could smell the food. He was hungry.

Very hungry.

What a happy family they seemed.

He watched them with his dark eyes.

E
IGHTY-SIX

T
he chief 's phone rang again. It was Harry Knotts.

“You better get back out here to Hickory Dell,” the detective told her.

“What's happened?”

“We finally tracked down the Pierces' housekeeper at her sister's house. She told us that she'd taken Heather's car, and that Heather was home.” He paused. “She was right.”

“Don't tell me,” Walters said. “You went into the house and discovered yet another murder.”

“
Three
other murders,” Knotts said. “The kids were dead, too.”

“Dear God,” Walters said. “I'll be right there.”

E
IGHTY-SEVEN

G
ert Gorin pushed her way to the front of the crowd of people trying to get as close as they could to the Pierce house. She'd caught a glimpse of the bodies, draped with sheets, being carried out into the waiting vans. A woman beside her was crying.

“Children!” the woman was saying through her tears. “Now that monster is killing children!”

Gert snorted. She wasn't going to pretend she'd ever liked those two brats. But it was pretty terrible, nonetheless.

It was hard to see what was going on. The police and the FBI were all over the place, but they had turned off all their searchlights, and the moon wasn't cooperating either. It was a cloudy night. It felt like rain. Gert shivered.

“Makes you feel none of us are safe,” she said out loud, to no one in particular. “Makes you wonder which one of us is next.”

The woman beside her only cried harder.

“If you ask me,” Gert said, still loud enough so that everyone around her could hear, “this all started when Jessie Clarkson came back to town. I hope the FBI is looking into that strange little coincidence.”

“That's right,” someone in the crowd murmured, and there were other sounds of agreement from the mob.

But not everyone was in assent. “I hardly think you can blame Jessie for any of this,” came one voice from behind Gert.

She spun around. It was old Mr. Thayer.

Gert sniffed. “I'm not blaming her. I'm merely pointing out the coincidence.”

“That's very unfair to Jessie,” Mr. Thayer said, his eyes stern. “She has been horrified by all of this.”

“But you can't dismiss the fact that all of the murders have been committed by slitting the victims' throats.” Gert folded her arms across her chest and looked defiantly up at Mr. Thayer. “Same modus operandi of Emil Deetz.”

Mr. Thayer just shook his head. “Not the children, apparently. Poor little Ashton and Piper died from broken necks, as I've heard. An accident on the stairs.”

The crying woman hurried away, unable to bear anymore.

“Still, I hope the FBI is questioning Jessie,” Gert said.

“They have been harassing her to no end,” Mr. Thayer said.

Gert suddenly felt uneasy. It was that strange sensation she sometimes got, that sixth sense that someone was watching her. Once in a while, peering through her binoculars, she'd see the person she was spying on turn and stare directly back at her. Such moments sent shivers down her spine—to be caught in the act, so to speak. Gert had a similar feeling now, as if someone was watching and listening to her accusations against Jessie.

She looked around. There, a few feet away, standing unobtrusively among the crowd, was that strange, dark-eyed, barefoot little boy.

He was staring at Gert.

She shuddered.

“I'm going home,” she said to Mr. Thayer. “And I'm going to lock all my windows and double-bolt my doors. I suggest you do the same.”

Gert hurried off down the street into the dark shadows. She was trembling. She couldn't understand why. But she didn't stop trembling until she got back home and heard the reassuring sound of Arthur's baseball game on the television set.

“What are you doing?” her husband asked her.

“Locking all the windows,” she told him. “There's a killer loose. I'm not taking any chances.”

“Good idea,” Arthur said, his eyes still on the game.

Gert thought about taking a peek across the street at Jessie's house with her binoculars. But she decided against it. Tonight, she was leaving well enough alone.