The Jennifer McMahon E-Book Bundle (124 page)

“Open your eyes, Charlie,” she said.

“Tara, what are you —”

“I’m Neptune,” Tara said, tightening her grip around Reggie’s neck. The smile was gone now and her eyes looked dark and cruel. Her hands were cold and smelled like cigarettes. “And I’m giving you one minute to save my latest victim. Tell me why I do what I do.”

“This is stupid, Tara,” Charlie said.

“Answer the question,” she instructed, tightening her grip. Reggie tried to swallow and couldn’t. She held perfectly still, tried not to even breathe.

“Because it’s an addiction,” Charlie said impatiently.

“And?” Tara squeezed just a little tighter. Reggie made a gagging sound and reached up to pull Tara’s hands off her. She gripped Tara’s wrists, pulled and twisted, but Tara held tight.

“Quit it, Tara! You’re hurting her!” Charlie said, jumping up off the couch.

“Stay back and play by the rules, or she’s dead. I’m not Tara, I’m Neptune,” she hissed, voice deep and gravelly. When she spoke again it was a shout, “
Now why do I do what I do
?”

Reggie felt light-headed. She dug her nails into Tara’s wrists, tried to speak, but no words would come. She was inside a tunnel and there at the end of it, looking down at her, was Tara. Only she wasn’t Tara. She was a Neptune. A man with a shadowy face and lobster claws for hands—it wasn’t skin she was pinching and pulling on, not human wrists but a hideous exoskeleton.

“Tara!” Charlie grabbed her around the waist, yanking her off Reggie and throwing her to the floor. Reggie gasped, sucked in air. Her hands flew protectively to her aching neck, her crushed windpipe.

“You fucking idiot,” Charlie said, pinning Tara’s wrists to the ground, sitting on her hips so that she couldn’t move.

Tara smiled up at him. “You feel it now, don’t you?” Tara asked. “It’s power, pure and simple. The girl’s under you, her life is in your hands. It gives you a big old hard-on and there’s only one release. You’ve gotta kill her. And when you do, the whole universe is there in your hands. You’re like God.”

Chapter 15

October 17, 2010

Brighton Falls, Connecticut

R
EGGIE WOKE UP IN
a cold sweat, heart pounding. She’d dreamed she was tied up in a dark cave and that someone was slipping a ring onto her finger. Then chopping her hand off.

Until death do us part
.

“Shit,” she said, sitting up in her childhood bed, under the same quilt she’d slept under growing up—a Drunkard’s Path pattern her grandmother had made. The grandmother she’d never met, who’d died giving birth to Vera. When Reggie was a little girl, she’d heard the story and pictured her mother exploding out of her grandmother’s belly, like it was the force of Vera’s very being that killed Monique somehow.

Reggie looked down at the pattern, remembered her mother staggering through the front door, straight for Reggie, curling up beside her, breathing gin-soaked secrets under the quilt. Drunkard’s Path.

The quilt, once a vibrant red and white, had faded to blotchy pink and dingy yellow. Reggie could see the tiny stitches done by hand connecting the blocks together, making the shapes into a path that seemed to stagger and sway.

Reggie stared up at the ceiling, the plaster crumbling and water stained. The roof must have been leaking for some time. Some of the stains were built of many rings, reminding Reggie of a topographical map. She studied the imaginary landscape on the ceiling, picturing mountains and valleys, wondering what it would be like to live there.

The door to her room creaked—she looked over and saw it closing slowly. Someone was behind it, out in the hall.

“Hello? Lorraine? Mom?” There was a shuffling sound, footsteps going back down the hall.

Her cell phone began to buzz. She rolled over, reaching it off the bedside table, and saw the glowing numbers on the digital clock: 7:32. Shit. She rarely slept past six. The phone vibrated in her hand and she checked the display: Len.

“Hey, you,” she said sleepily into the phone, one eye still on the door.

“Didn’t get you up, did I?”

“Nah. You know me, the queen of the early birds.”

“How’re things in Worcester?” he asked in almost a mocking tone, like he somehow suspected she wasn’t there at all.

“Not what I expected,” Reggie answered, telling herself she was being paranoid. Len was just being goofy. There was no way he could know she was lying to him. Still, guilt gnawed at her belly, and as good as it was to talk to him, she was eager to get off the phone before he picked up on it.

“And is that a good thing or a bad thing?” he asked.

“Hard to say.”

“Mmm,” Len said. He was silent a minute, waiting. She heard one of his cats meow, listened as he picked up his coffee and took a sip.

Reggie squirmed, switched the phone to her other ear.

“I’ll call you when I get back to town,” she said. “We can have that picnic.”

“Sounds like a plan,” he agreed.

“Talk soon, then.”

“Reg?”

“Yeah?”

“Nothing.” He sighed. “I’ll see you when you get back.”

She got out of bed and stretched. The room was the same way she’d left it, which was damn creepy. There was a framed M. C. Escher print above her bed—
Drawing Hands
: a lithograph of three-dimensional hands drawing themselves into existence. Some of her sketches were still on the bulletin board, including a self-portrait she’d done in charcoal—the lines blurred, her eyes two dark hollows: a ghostly raccoon girl looking up from the paper, asking her future self why she’d come back.

Reggie turned from the drawing, opened the closet door, and found the few pieces of clothing she’d left behind when she went off to college. There, on the top shelf, right where she’d left it, was the memory box.

A month after her mother’s hand was found, Reggie was sent to a counselor who specialized in grieving. He was a doughy-faced young man with sad eyes who was fond of argyle sweaters. One of the exercises he had her do was to make a memory box: a special treasure box full of Vera memorabilia. Reggie had used one of her grandfather’s old wooden cigar boxes, and, following the dough-boy’s instructions, had stuffed it full of things that would always remind her of her mother. Then she’d buried it on a shelf at the top of her closet and left it behind when she ran off to start a new life. Not exactly what the grief counselor had had in mind, but it worked for Reggie.

Reggie reached up and lifted the box down, blowing a layer of dust off the top. There was a full-busted, scantily clad woman on the label, leaning against a large globe. With trembling fingers, Reggie opened the hinged lid, peered in, and saw a jumble of notes, matchbooks, a folded page torn from an old magazine—her mother, the Aphrodite Cold Cream girl.
Treat Yourself Like a Goddess
.

Reggie snapped the lid closed and tucked the box back up on the shelf.

The room felt stuffy and airless. Reggie went to the window and tried to lift it, but it was stuck shut. She was about to pound on the bottom of the frame, then glanced down at the bandages from yesterday’s window glass mishap and thought better of it.

She pulled on a pair of jeans, grabbed her messenger bag, and went into the hallway, stopping to peer in at her mother, who was fast asleep. Vera’s mouth hung open, lips and chin crusted with sticky, white drool. The door to Tara’s room was closed, and she walked up to it, listening, but no sound came from the other side.

Reggie slipped down the stairs, carefully avoiding the ones that creaked—her body on autopilot, remembering little details she hadn’t thought of in years.

The kitchen was tidy but still smelled like smoke. She set her bag down by the table and inspected the damaged drywall—it would be an easy repair. She’d also need to take measurements and buy glass to fix the dining room window. She’d pick up materials when she went into town.

After searching through Lorraine’s carefully arranged cupboards, she finally came upon an old Mr. Coffee machine, a box of filters, and half a can of Chock full o’Nuts. God only knew how long it had been sitting in the cupboard, but it was better than nothing. While the coffee sputtered and perked, Reggie pulled out her sketch pad and made some notes. She made a grocery list, a reminder to go to a building supply place for window glass, drywall, tape, and Spackle, and to call the social worker to get the name and number of the shelter where Vera had been staying. She wrote down the name
Sister Dolores
and circled it. Then added,
Learn and clean and serve
.

There was a low knocking sound and Reggie froze, looking up at the ceiling, wondering who’d gotten up. Then she heard it again, louder this time. It was coming from the front door. Smoothing her hair, she went to the door, glanced through the window, and saw a young man in a cheap suit with overly large ears. A salesman? Or Jehovah’s Witness, maybe? Curiosity got the better of her and she cracked the door.

“Can I help you?”

He showed her a badge, and she had to work to hide her surprise. “Detective Edward Levi, Brighton Falls Police. I was hoping I could speak with Ms. Dufrane.” His large ears were redder than his face.

“Which one?” Reggie asked.

He looked taken aback.

“There are three Ms. Dufranes here at the moment, Detective.” She smiled when she said it, wanting to show him she wasn’t being a smart-ass.

“Yes, of course,” he said, rocking forward slightly to make himself look taller. “Vera. I’d like to speak with Vera Dufrane.”

“I’m afraid she’s asleep.”

“And you are?” He took out a notebook.

“Her daughter. Reggie Dufrane.” She watched him write down her name, misspelling it—
Redgie
. He held the pen so tight his fingers went pale. He fumbled in his blazer pocket and took out a business card, passing it to Reggie.

“Maybe you could call me later? When she wakes up?”

“Detective Levi,” Reggie said, looking down at the card with the embossed Brighton Falls Police Department seal. “I’m not sure you’re aware of my mother’s condition? She’s very sick, both physically and . . . otherwise. And the Worcester police and FBI already questioned her in the hospital.”

He nodded. “I understand. But no one from our department has met with her, and the crimes took place here in Brighton Falls. It’s procedure.”

Reggie smiled again, wondering why on earth they’d sent this young, bumbling detective. Then a sinking thought occurred to her—maybe this was the best Brighton Falls had to offer.

“Of course. You can see for yourself. I’ll call you later to set up a time to meet with her.”

“I appreciate it,” he said, backing up and nearly losing his balance on the steps.

“D
ID
I
HEAR SOMEONE
at the door?” Lorraine asked, coming into the kitchen once Reggie had settled back down at the table.

“Brighton Falls’ finest, looking to talk to Mom,” Reggie said, holding the business card out to Lorraine, who glanced down at it, scowling.

Lorraine made a little clucking noise. “He was here yesterday, before you arrived. It seems he’s been assigned the Neptune case.”

Reggie laughed. “Well, it’s comforting to know they’ve put their very best cop on the case. The kid looks like he’s in high school, for God’s sake.”

Lorraine shook her head. “I know his parents. He graduated at the top of his class from Yale. He could have gone anywhere to work, but he chose to come back home and join the Brighton Falls Police Department. He’s their brightest star these days, rising right through the ranks. His mother’s very proud.”

“I’m sure she is,” Reggie said, unable to keep the sarcasm out of her voice.

Lorraine shuffled to the stove and put on the kettle.

Reggie looked back down at her list. “I don’t suppose you have wireless here?”

“Wireless what?”

“Um, Internet access? Wait—do you even have a computer?”

Lorraine shook her head. Reggie wasn’t sure if she imagined a certain smugness in Lorraine’s expression.

“I’ve been looking around—the place could stand some repairs, Lorraine,” Reggie said as she stood up, went to the counter, and poured herself a cup of coffee. It tasted like sludge, but she forced it down. “You need someone to come out and do some work on the roof. The slate shingles are in rough shape. It’s leaking in places. The boards underneath are probably rotted out, maybe even the rafters, too. Get one heavy load of snow and you’re in trouble.”

Monique’s Wish wasn’t in great shape, but at this point, it was still fixable. God knew Reggie had seen worse. Last year, she had done a passive solar retrofit she’d designed for a Quonset hut an old hippie couple had turned into their full-time home outside of Bennington—the
Boston Globe
did an article on it. It was an original hut that had been on the property since it was purchased as a surplus military building in 1948. When Reggie first saw it, she didn’t have much hope. But then she’d drawn up plans, gutted the building, reangled it, added insulation, put in masonry walls and floor for thermal mass, and covered the south side with windows. It ended up a light, cheerful place that the couple heated with only one cord of wood all winter. The
Globe
had quoted the owners as saying, “Dufrane is a magician. She makes the impossible possible.”

Lorraine pursed her lips as she fished a tea bag out of the box.

“Look,” Reggie said, “if it’s a question of money—”

Lorraine scowled. “It’s a good strong house. Father built it to last.”

“All houses need upkeep, Lorraine.”

The phone rang and Lorraine practically leapt for the old black rotary dial on the kitchen wall. Reggie couldn’t believe the phone still worked—it was probably old enough to be considered an antique.

“Hello? Yes, this is she.” Lorraine listened for a minute, then scrunched her face up as though she had smelled something hideous. “No! No comment. No. Absolutely not.” Lorraine slammed the phone down.

“Everything okay?” Reggie asked.

“It was a reporter from the
Hartford Examiner
.” Lorraine’s voice was shaky. “It seems they know your mother is alive.”