Deadly Messengers (15 page)

Kate turned her head away as she pulled the trigger. Flesh and skull fragments still splattered her face and her clothes; the blood hot on her skin. A spray of gore had hit her eyes, stinging them closed. When she opened them again, Ellen’s body lay slumped in another expanding pool of red that circled her head like a spilled tin of paint.

A blanket of quiet followed as though the bullet had not only silenced Ellen but also extinguished all energy and air from the house. The sudden peace, a reminder soon those who would stop her would come.

The police will come
.
Until then, keep moving.

From behind her came the sound of a door unlatching. Then, crying. She turned, her arms outstretched, the gun, solid and warm in her hands. Her twelve-year-old daughter Samantha stood outside the bathroom. A few feet away, in the bedroom across the hall, her uncle and aunt lay in merging pools of blood.

Kate looked at her, memories swimming into her mind. She loved this child, her first born. Twelve years ago, she was the symbol of all things good, of a happy future that never came.

Samantha’s gaze traveled across to the open bedroom door and the bloody scene inside. Her hands flew to her mouth. A scream escaped her lips. Slowly she looked back at Kate, then her stare moved to the gun.

“Mo-om? Mo-oo-om? I don’t understand.”

Samantha’s words grew distant as though her daughter were being pulled away. The memories and feelings she had for this girl, also, traveled away. When she looked at her, really looked, she felt nothing, no connection.

“Mo—.”

Kate pulled the trigger, because that’s what she knew she must do. That was the action required to get the message through.

She missed.

Samantha, young and agile, bolted the split-second before, sprinting forward and throwing Kate off balance. Before Kate could gather herself, her daughter sidestepped into the kitchen and disappeared from view, her ponytail flying behind her.

She needed to find the girl, but time pressed in on her. She felt
them
coming: the police, the others, people who would stop her.
You must take four.
Five, though, would be even better than four.
As many as she could.

Kate moved quickly after Samantha into the kitchen, ready to do what was asked of her. But the room was empty. The sudden sound of the slamming back door alerted her to her mistake. Why didn’t she get hold of the key somehow and lock it before she’d begun.

Chairs lay askew from the table, pushed haphazardly away from the table, one upended on the floor. Stacked next to the sink, a party load of dirty plates and coffee cups. Along the bench sat left over cake and cookies, and a plastic grocery bag filled with torn gift wrap. A spilled milk container rested on the floor in front of the open fridge door.

A rustling paper sound came from the pantry.
Samantha?
She’d imagined her gone, escaped.

Stepping over the milk puddle, Kate reached for the slatted pantry door, tugging it open to reveal a small, narrow room with cans, produce, and food stacked neatly on shelves.

The noisemaker crouched at the end on the floor, amid bags of rice and potatoes. The dog, some kind of weird half-poodle, half-labrador, looked up at her, his eyes glowing in the darkened space. She couldn’t remember its name. She didn’t like dogs. Or cats. Or people, come to think of it.

Suddenly the name came through as though gears had shifted in her brain.
Crispin!
His name was Crispin. Crispin bared his teeth and expelled a
Hound of Hades
growl just as she pulled the trigger. A single yelp, and the dog fell sideways to the floor.

As she stared at the animal, the pain in Kate’s neck and head eased a little. The fever-pitch ache had dwindled to a level just above pulsing. Kate sighed in relief. Maybe the pain was going. Maybe this was her reward.

She exited back to the kitchen to the realization it was now just her and the silence. Instinctively it came to her: nobody remained. She was alone in the house. She
could
rest. Kate had her four and her divorce—twelve years in the making.

Now she needed to—.

What was it she needed to do? If she’d done what was necessary, if she’d sent the message, then the voice said…

… you wait.

What for, she didn’t know, but wait she would.

Kate moved through the dining area into the living room, where something caught her attention. She stopped before the window facing the street, pulled back the lace curtain and peered outside. Something about the colors—blue and red, blinking in rhythm—called to her like in a dream.

Two police cars, their lights flashing, had parked in the driveway. Another oddly had stopped in the middle of the road. She hadn’t heard them arrive. Then again, she’d been busy.
Focused
. It was only now after she’d taken her four, while she waited, that she could relax.

Movement up the street caught her eye. Samantha stood twenty feet down the road, a blanket over her shoulders. A woman, beside her, a woman Kate didn’t know hugged her. Several police squatted behind open car doors. Waiting, just like her.

A voice spoke to her. Not the voice in her head, but another voice outside, calling her name.

“Kate Wilker, please put down your gun and come out with your hands up.”

She looked through the curtains at the man leaning halfway into his car. In his fist he clutched a small microphone. His mouth, a single line barely moving as he spoke.

“We don’t want any more people hurt.”

Her hand went to her neck, kneading the skin, her fingers digging, pushing into the muscles. Yes, the pain had calmed right down. Her head almost felt normal again.

She brought the gun up to the window. The barrel, gray with a dark, polished sheen, glinted in the sunlight. The weapon suddenly felt heavy as though the light particles had added to its mass.

Above the window, a dreamcatcher hung from a hook. Samantha had a smaller version of these Indian things; her daughter’s, also, hung in her window. This one, a cobweb of string, crystals and glass, shed glorious, colored sparkles and lines in all directions like a multi-dimensional rainbow.

Her daughter once told her she’d learned in class these flimsy ornaments, pretty as they were, filtered out bad dreams. Only good thoughts could enter a room under their mystical watch. Kate wondered if it were true.

Another thought crossed her mind:
I love my children.
I’ll miss my children.

Her eyes followed the lines as they danced about the room. As she tracked them, she noticed the wrapping paper and abandoned gifts lying on the floor and the chairs: a Lego set, a ball, a pack of balloons, a loom weaver, console games, a doll and more.

She tried to understand what they meant, tried to remember why she would miss her children. Sudden silence closed in on her. She remembered on their visits, this house was never silent, their family get-togethers
always
loud,
always
boisterous.

All she heard now: the sound of her heart beating so loud it was as though it had left her body and floated next to her ear. Her foggy mind as though feathers had nestled into the crevices and dampened her feelings, muting her personality.

The last thing she remembered clearly was her sister-in-law, Annette, talking
at
her, as per usual. Then her mind was blank like it had shut down or she’d blacked out.

Until now
.

Until right now, as she stood at this window. Near the dreamcatcher … the dreamcatcher, like her daughter’s … her daughter, who was outside in the street … with the police … who were there for Kate … because of something … something she’d done. She didn’t know how she knew that, she just knew and, she knew she was awakening from a nightmare that she didn’t want to remember. Because something had gone wrong, something had gone terribly wrong. That’s
why
she was alone.

Where was everybody?

Why would they leave without telling her? Did she go to the bathroom, the bedroom, somewhere? Was she unwell? Did she fall asleep? She remembered something about the bedroom, something
terrible
about the bedroom. While she was gone, in the bathroom, the bedroom, what did they do? They all ran outside?

Something
was
wrong.

She turned from the presents scattered about the room to stare out the window again. With each breath leaving her mouth, she found her the air catching, as though there were holes in her lungs where the air leaked out before it could feed her body.

This must be what drowning feels like.

Outside, two more police cars joined the fray, one now on the lawn, one in the driveway, all angled toward the home. Behind the open car doors, police brandished guns, and those guns were aimed at the house. A big black van moved slowly past to park down the street. The words on the side: Metro Police S.W.A.T.

What?

Kate’s heart flew into her mouth. Something was happening in here, inside this house, and they’d left her behind.
How could they?
Her knees felt weak as a barrage of thoughts smacked into her mind:

Was she trapped?

Could she die?

How could her husband leave her?

Randall? He could be a fool; she’d nicknamed him Idiot Boy, for his forgetfulness. Would he really leave her behind, even if he were panicked?

Unless …
unless,
the children were in danger! If anything happened, he’d prioritize the children. She would, too.

That’s what he’d done. He’d been busy saving the children, and he’d forgotten her. She found her breath again. At least the children were safe.

Suddenly, Kate became aware of a weight in her right hand, warm and heavy. She looked down, to see she held the gun from the car.
What?

No, wait. This was good.
Thank God, at least she could protect herself.

From outside, an amplified voice drew her attention from the gun.

“Kate, it’s okay. We need you to come out.”

Kate ignored the voice. Now she’d seen the gun in her hand, the one from the glove compartment, the one for emergencies, she needed to understand what was happening to her. What
was
the emergency? She raised the weapon to her face for a closer look.

Yes, it was their gun.
Why
did
she have it?

A red dot appeared, dancing on the gun, shivering along the dark gray metal.

Now
,
how did that happen?

Had she pressed a switch and turned on a light inside the thing? Did it even have a light switch? She couldn’t remember. It mustn’t be her gun, then. It must be a toy, one of the kids’, a very good replica.

Her gaze followed the dot as it ran down the front of her shirt. That’s when she saw the blood-red fluid clinging to her clothes like pieces of dark berry cake mix.

What is that? Sauce? Wait, blood?

The crash of shattering glass barely registered in her mind. It sounded distant and charming like the tinkling of twirling ice in a cocktail glass.

Then everything was gone, disappeared into a blackness so thick she couldn’t breathe. The tinkling sound—the ache in her neck—the shimmering red dot—the colors of the dreamcatcher, dancing about the room—all disappeared in a flash of white, just before the black.

Kate was falling, falling, faster and faster, into a pit of night that felt oddly warm and comforting. Two thoughts fluttered into her mind before she gave herself over to the pillowy softness:
The dreamcatcher worked; it’s made everything warm and good—I hope my dreams
will
be good.

Then finally, before her mind flickered out:
Thank God, the gun’s not real. Real guns kill.

IT TOOK KENDALL A WEEK before she found the time to look over the research given to her by Doug McKinley.

Since then, her interesting encounters had filled her time. Some good. Some bad. The hospitality of the families of the Kenworth Home victims was astonishing. While some wouldn’t see her, many welcomed the opportunity to talk about their lost loved ones. After each interview, she found herself drained and worn from the inside out. For a few nights, she struggled to sleep, the words of the families echoing in her mind.
Devastated. Shattered. Barely coping
. No shortage of adjectives to describe the fallout of the death of a loved one.

She’d submitted her story on the fire yesterday, including a couple of prime quotes from Doug McKinley.

“Every day I wake up and I say to them, I live for you today.”

That was a Facebook meme if she ever saw one. She saw the picture in her mind accompanying the words: a cat lying on its side or curled up in a chair staring at the camera.
I live for you today.

She giggled at the thought—then immediately felt guilty. What happened to that poor man’s son was heartbreaking. She needed to find a better way to cope with this assignment than making jokes.

She needed more for her story in order to stand out from the pack of articles. She’d even contacted one of the investigating detectives. That encounter fell into the not-so-good basket.