The Suicide Motor Club (13 page)

The cross had felt awkward in her hand, just a little too wide for her grip. It was not meant to be held by a hand her size.

After Mass, and after they had both gone to confess, Wicklow drove her back. She closed her eyes as requested so she would not see the town's name but felt the car stop sooner than she expected; he had pulled over.

“Open your eyes,” he said.

When she did, his image had barely come into focus before he slapped her face. Hard. His eyes remained impassive.

She suppressed the urge to strike him in return, grabbed the fabric of her dress. A tear of pain wormed its way out of her left eye, the one above her stung cheek, and she felt ashamed of the tear. She did not want him to see that he had hurt her.

“Why did you do that?” she said, the corners of her mouth turned down, her hands still grabbing the dress so they would not form fists.

“Because you smiled when I mocked a priest.”

“What?”

“You heard me,” he said. He winked at her.

“You had no . . .” she said, choking on the next word.

“I had every right. I am forging you into a weapon. Your desire to please another even at the expense of your devotion is a flaw in that weapon's temper. I strike you as a blacksmith strikes a sword, not in anger, but in defiance of those you are consecrated to destroy.”

She swallowed hard. She hated that what he said made sense to
her. She hated that she felt guilty for hating it. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand.

—

NIGHT 5.

Jude woke.

She had the impression someone had softly closed her door.

The crack beneath the door was black.

The bulb's off. Is someone out there?

She reached for the vial of holy water she kept by her bed, prepared to break its seal and throw water in a cross pattern, prepared to say certain Latin words she had memorized.

She also took up the Italian cross, clutched it to her.

Nothing moved in the hallway, at least not so far as she heard.

But why is it black out there?

Did I lock the door? Of course I did, I must have.

She glanced at the heavy old iron door key on her nightstand.

The crickets outside stopped their chirring.

What time was it? Her stomach still felt full from the rich dinner of venison stew the Bereaved had eaten together.

“It isn't deer season,” Jude had said when Maryanne served them.

“It's frozen,” Lettuce had said. “We've got a meat freezer.”

From the profound silence of the house, up from the basement perhaps, she heard the music. That pop song, tinny and just too far away to identify.

Now the crickets sang again and obscured the music.

She set the cross on her dresser and took up the room key, padding across the old wood floors in her bare feet. She thought she heard the boards in the hallway creak, but it might just as well have been her. She held the vial of holy water one-handed, its cap in her teeth, ready to twist it open and throw.

What would she do if one really came through the door right now, white and lamp-eyed and wicked, showing its obscene teeth? It seemed like a fairy tale that they should be out there, hunting in the night unrecognized by men, even though she knew they were.

Have you witnessed proof of evil on the earth?

I have.

Evenin', miss.

She tried to remember a psalm but only got the chorus.

Thou art with me for thou art with me for thou art with me.

She fitted the key into the hole, tensing as metal slid barely audibly on metal. She turned it.

It was already locked, just as she knew it would be.

The keyhole looked black.

She thought she heard a hushed voice but couldn't be sure. Was she missing Nathalie and their late-night conferences, their “diet of whispers,” as Nathalie called it?

Nathalie with her wild mane of hair and her wholly innocent eyes.

Even her overbite was oddly charming, the way her upper lip had to curve down and back when she said a
p
or a
b
. Gentle, half-mad Nathalie. Judith felt the absence of a friend now more than ever. How much she would give for someone's hand to hold, someone to compare notes with.

Did you hear it? Did you hear it, too?

She withdrew the key.

She bent to the keyhole and peered out.

Black.

Her nose filled with a pleasant, musky scent.

Aftershave? Too nice for aftershave. More like incense.

She stayed where she was, squatted down on her heels, listened to her heart hammering in her chest.

I'm jumping at shadows.

Now the keyhole went red. She saw the far door, Shane's door bathed in eerie infrared.

Someone must have changed the bulb, that's all.

But the bulb hung in the center of the hall, just near her door. Whoever changed it would have to stand in her line of sight, turn another light on to see.

Somebody just switched it on, then.

The switch was nearer to Hank's room.

Why was it off?

Just as she was about to stand up, a shadow crossed her eye's path.

She couldn't be sure, but the impression she had was of a priest's black vestments.

Wicklow.

Did he lie?

Is he still a priest?

She went to sleep only after a long vigil troubling herself with how little she knew about those to whom she had entrusted her life.

And perhaps her soul.

St. Petersburg, Florida

THE OLD MAN STOOD IN THE MAP ROOM, SWEATING THROUGH HIS CLOTHES. HE
could have afforded an air conditioner, but it killed him to spend real money he could save simply by being uncomfortable. Life was uncomfortable, and the harder you worked to keep discomfort at bay, the more you suffered when your efforts failed. And they always failed.

The old man pushed the button that started the tape again. There was a good deal of static on the line. The private dick he used in Pennsylvania didn't have high-grade equipment—he was mostly just an adultery-and-minor-lawsuits guy, but the old man could make everything out. This was his second time listening, so this time he took notes. The private detective spoke first.

“Milner, James. Milner Information Services, Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania. Client, T. Calvert. Conversation between Katherine L. Cutter, whereabouts unknown, and Anne Cutter, Lititz, Pennsylvania. 9:21 pm, July 4, 1969. Begin tape.”

(static)

“Hello?”

“Happy Fourth a' July, Momma.”

“Katherine?”

“It's Calcutta, Momma, I told you.”

“I can only call you Katherine.”

“Call me what you want, Momma, but it's Calcutta.”

“Where are you, baby?”

(static)

“On the road.”

“Like always. But where?”

“Missouri, Momma.”

The old man stopped the player and picked up his yellow legal pad, scribbled on it, pressing
play
when he was done.

Missouri

“Someplace safe?”

“Nice hotel with Jesus out front. I been there before.”

AVALON GARDEN!

“When you comin' home?”

“Soon, Momma.”

“How long's it been since I seen you?”

(static)

“A year.”

Says one yr since seen mother—bullshit

“It's been more than a year. It's been . . .”

“It's just been a year, Momma, you get confused.”

“Oh. How old are you now, baby?”

“Never mind that, Momma, I just called to see if Ray's been coming over like he said he would.”

“You sound like you always did. In your voice.”

“Ray, Momma, did my brother come over with your medicine?”

“And I know you shouldn't sound like that no more 'cause it's been so long, but I just love you so much and I love your voice.”

“I love yours, too.”

“Have you met a boy? Is that why you're callin'? Oh, I hope it is.”

“I met a boy, yeah.”

“Is he nice?”

“I wouldn't date a boy wasn't nice.”

“Good girl. He isn't stayin' with you in that hotel?”

“Different room, Momma. I'm not like that.”

“Hotel's okay when you're married. Everything's okay when you're married, everything that makes babies, anyway.”

“I need to know about Ray.”

“You would have such pretty babies.”

“No babies, Momma, I hate 'em.”

“Hush now, you don't.”

“I do.”

“Ray's boy's drivin' now.”

“Eddie.”

Eddie/Edward Cutter (nephew) 17 y/o,
dope user

“Eddie's drivin' his daddy's car, yes he is. Drove over to see his grandma all by himself.”

“Did he bring the medicine?”

“I have all my medicine.”

“'Cause Ray's not always good at doing what he says.”

“I know it.”

“And you need somebody now.”

“I need you, baby. Baby Katherine, I need you. When you comin' home?”

“Soon, Momma.”

“Why do you call me and don't come home?”

“I would come if I could, Momma.”

“Tell me what's happening, Katherine. Please.”

“Don't get upset, Momma.”

“But why?”

“Don't cry. You cry, I'm hangin' up.”

“No.”

“I will.”

(static)

“No.”

“Should I not call anymore?”

“I couldn't stand it if you didn't call.”

“I should throw this number away.”

Bullying/control w/emotional threat.
This girl probably a jerk before.

“No. I need my baby girl.”

“I know it. That's why I call.”

“Please don't not call.”

“Please don't ask me when I'm comin' home.”

“Why, baby?”

“Just don't. You don't ask and I'll keep callin'. That's our deal.”

“I can't help it.”

“I know. But try.”

“I'll do better. Are you seein' anyone? Romantically, I mean?”

“A nice boy.”

“That's good. You eatin' good?”

“Getting all I need.”

“You was always skinny.”

“I am still.”

“It's getting hard to remember what you look like. It's been so long.”

“It's been a year, Momma.”

“No . . . It's been . . . '63? '64? I was still in the blue house.”

Blue house Magnolia Street, Mannheim PA 1947–67

“A year, you hear me?”

(static)

“You there, Momma?”

“I'm here. I just drooled on myself. Like a baby. Like my mouth don't work no more.”

Aural Mesmerism—dangerous—ask W can they all do that?

“You just drool sometimes, Momma.”

“I know it.”

“It ain't nothing.”

“Don't get old, Katherine, it's rotten getting old.”

“I won't.”

“You sound good.”

“You takin' your medicine? How many kinds a' pills now?”

“Five. I think five. Ray makes sure.”

“Liver pills, heart pills, blood pressure pills, right?”

“Two kinds a' blood pressure pills. I was a hunnert eighty over a hunnert.”

“Is that real bad?”

“Pretty bad. But not no more. Ray makes sure.”

Health poor, 5 meds,
stroke risk
? Time limited (mine too—ha ha)

“He still at the plant?”

“Yeah. You should call him.”

“I don't call Ray.”

“You should call him, because he confuses me about you.”

“Tell me again what I looked like when I was a little girl.”

“You looked like you had cinnamon in your hair, and cream for skin, and your feet were so tiny you coulda worn bottle caps for your shoes.”

“I like that, Momma. You always say pretty things.”

“Baby, why does Ray say you're dead?”

“Ray's ignorant.”

Ray knows

“Why would he say that? I'm talkin' to you right now.”

“You are. It's better you don't talk about me to Ray. Or nobody else.”

“Katherine, baby . . .”

“I gotta go, Momma.”

“He nice to you, that boy?”

“He likes the same kinda things I do, 'cept we keep different hours . . .”

The old man raised a white eyebrow, reached for the button to stop the tape.

“. . . but he ain't really anybody. You hear? He ain't anybody.”

He hesitated, then forgot what he was going to write down.

“What?”

“Nothin, Momma, I didn't call.”

(static)

“I didn't call.”

(static)

“Hello . . . Is someone there? Who is this?”

(click)

All Souls Ranch

DAY SIX.

Judith stood behind Shane as he aimed.

“Put pressure on it from both directions. Push a little with your back hand, pull a little with your front. That'll keep you steady.”

Shane jerked a bang out of the gun, sending up a panache of dirt six inches behind and to the right of the pale green honeydew.

“Relax,” she said, “You can't jerk it. Just breathe and squeeze.”

Bang!

Better, but still a miss.

Lettuce called from where he cleaned his shotgun and smoked.

“I already told him. Just let me handle this.”

“Wait,” she told Shane. “Don't shoot just yet but keep it aimed.”

She put her hand on his right forearm and it felt more like hard, humming wood than flesh.

“There's your problem right there,” she said. “Give me the gun.”

He handed it to her dutifully.

“Hey,” Lettuce said.

“Now shake your arms out, Shane. Like a dog after a bath.”

He grinned a little at that.

“There you go, smiling's good. All that hate's got a purpose, I
know it, but you can't let it get in your muscles when you shoot. This is easy, right?”

Shane shook his arms out good.

“Hey, really,” Lettuce said, standing up. “I mean it. You're not supposed to touch a gun.”

“I'm not.”

Judith handed the gun to Shane.

“Now aim again but this time your arms are wet spaghetti. You don't use any more strength than you have to, and you breathe. Don't shoot till I tell you.”

Judith cut an eye to where Lettuce started his approach, looking very much like a bull trotting up to see who was putting a leg over his fence.

She focused on Shane.

“Now line it up. Can you see just a sliver of daylight on either side of the notch?”

“Yeah,” he said.

“Good. Hold it. At the end of your next out-breath, before you breathe in again, you just squeeze that trigger easy like you got all day to do it.”

Lettuce stood a few feet off, ready to physically pull the insubordinate girl away if he had to, but not until the man shot. Safety was safety.

Bang!

The honeydew rocked, a neat hole appearing not in the center, but at about two o'clock on the dial. Had the melon been a head, the bullet would have thumped solidly over the left eyebrow.

Lettuce breathed out through his nostrils.

He locked eyes with Judith.

Judith stared back.

“Your student,” she said, walking away.

She saw Somchai coming out of the barn with heavy garbage bags.
The dogs jumped and wagged around him, so he showed them something and then threw it hard and far. They chased it and he loaded the van and drove off. As the border collies ran, play-fought over it, and ran again, their contest took them just in front of her and she saw what Somchai threw.

A deer hoof.

“Nobody freezes a whole deer,” she said to nobody.

Nobody agreed.

—

LETTUCE SPOKE TO WICKLOW NEAR NIGHTFALL ON THE SIXTH DAY. JUDITH STOOD
near them in the barn, her arms crossed. When Lettuce finished, Wicklow spoke, seeming to stand over the larger man.

“Did she shoot the gun?”

“Well, no. But she handled it. You said she wasn't to handle it.”

“She wasn't.”

“And I told her not to.”

“Why not?” Judith said.

“Because firearms aren't the most effective tool against them,” Wicklow said. “I don't want your power as a holy vessel compromised by touching an instrument for killing.”

I don't feel holy

“Is that what we do to them?” she said. “Is it killing?”

“That's a thorny question. We destroy them.”

“And how many have you destroyed?”

“You're changing the subject.”

“I need to know.”

“Do you see what I mean?” Lettuce said. “Insubordination.”

“She's not the only insubordinate. I like her zeal for action more than yours for the flask.”

Stung, Lettuce flushed a deep red from his collar to his scalp.

Judith pressed.

“How many? One?”

“No.”

“More than one or not even one? Because if it's not even one . . .”

“More,” he said, as close to shouting as he ever got, “and that's the end of your interrogation. You trust me or you don't. We go after them together under my command or you go back to your grate and your prayers and your chandlery. If they'll have you.”

She fumed but said nothing.

“Courtesy is a good start,” he said. “But I require obedience. You swore it once, to your order.”

“And broke that oath.”

“That's right. Because your purpose is here, and God knows that.”

“Do you speak for him now?”

“In matters touching the malevolent dead, I do.”

Lettuce said, “Not following orders gets people killed.”

“I agree with that,” Wicklow said, then looked at Judith. “Do you?”

She furrowed her brow.

“I do,” she said. “Is this man my superior?”

Wicklow said, “Yes.”

Judith looked at both of them.

“In or out, Sister Clare.”

Judith pressed her lips together at that.

Both men stood completely still, waiting for her to speak.

She opened her mouth.

The telephone rang.