Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers (107 page)

Her angular cheeks, sharp nose and narrow jaw were all touched with flecks of blood. One big glob was in the hollow of her right cheek and had long since dried to a cracking scab. She was standing in the shadow of the house, although the trees above were still touched with the setting sun. Her eyes were hooded in darker shadows, and we were spared the reptilian stare that had chilled my marriage to a deep freeze. It was the same face, minus the blood, she wore while squashing spiders with her thumb. Didn’t just squash them, ground them into furry-legged mush.

Aside from random outbursts of temper, there was always a stillness to Gerda, a quietude that bespoke of a calculating nature. Or an emptiness. Now she stood before us with her forearms raised at ninety-degree angles to her upper arms. She didn’t move or even seem to breathe.

Waiting. Like a goddess of the damned, bored with life and death.

I looked at Tabby and the hard set of her jaw, thinking her teeth might shatter. No doubt she was flipping crime-scene photographs in her head, wondering whether Gerda deserved the mercy of a bullet.

I ached to go to Petey, who was now pumping his little arms in the air, fists balled. I played my own photographs, and though his arms looked fine, wondered if Gerda had done anything to the parts we couldn’t see. Like maybe carved a swastika on his tiny forehead or put spiders in his diaper. I was afraid to move before Tabby ordered the script of how this would all play out.

“Hello, Albert,” Gerda said, focusing on me and ignoring Tabby and the gun. “What’s new?”

I was struck again with Gerda’s fierce beauty. No one ever said that Gerda wasn’t one hell of a striking woman. She was still slender, almost gaunt. Her coat was open and I could see the hard line of her rib cage under her blood-spattered T-shirt and the hint of upper abdominal muscles.

Her blue jeans were almost entirely covered in blood. A strong wind materialized and whipped her platinum blonde hair across her cheeks. A strand of the hair got caught in the sweat shimmering on her forehead and caught in the still-drying blood. She made no move to push the hair out of her way.

She must have been strong to drag Mister Poochy to his untimely planting. Unless she’d had help.

Max-sized help.

The wind came again, and we all stood there quietly, watching Gerda’s straight hair blow about her like a tattered wind gauge. No one said anything. I don’t think anyone knew where to begin. To say we caught Gerda red-handed would have been an obvious and easy pun. She made no excuses and gave no explanations.

“Blood sacrifice is so intoxicating,” Gerda said, as if calmly discussing a bad hand at the bridge club. “But I guess you know all about ‘intoxicating,’ don’t you, Albert?”

“Move away from the baby,” Tabby ordered.

“My baby,” I said, as if I were the one with a gun.

“Mine now,” Gerda said. She stood there watching us. Perhaps calculating. Perhaps empty and devoid of anything human, or any care for life. Actually, I felt as if she were watching me, although I couldn’t tell, for her eyes were still hidden in deepening shadows. Perhaps it was the angle of her head. Or perhaps I was imagining it.

“Why, Gerda?” asked Tabby. Gone was the cop, replaced by the heartbroken sister. Her voice shook. “You were her friend.”

Gerda said nothing.

“You were the entire family’s friend. We all liked you.”

Save for her hair dancing in the wind, the woman standing in front of us did not move. Her voice seemed to emanate from stilled lips. “I know how to be liked when I wish. Right, Albert?”

I could have sworn she licked her lips in a lascivious gesture, the first sign of movement, and it was a serpent’s ploy, sinuous, seductive, and very deadly.

A cloud moved in front of the sun, throwing the back yard into deeper shadows. But somehow the shadows revealed Gerda’s face to be sharper, more angular, and harder than ever. A little foot kicked out from the baby seat, followed by the soft mew of something little and innocent.

“Petey loved you,” Tabby said. “Now you’ve killed his mother.”

“Save it, Tabitha,” I said. “You might as well be beating a confession out of a brick.”

Tabby raised the gun to probably head height. “Then maybe I will make her talk. We can always call it self defense. Blood on the shovel, she rushed us, what else could we do?”

“You shoot her in the head and you get nothing. Just a rush of revenge and then the hard reality of an aftermath where none of us lives happily ever after.”

“Might be worth it.”

“And you get time for murder or manslaughter. And what about Petey? With just me around to raise him?”

“Dear God.” Tabby lowered the gun slightly but still held it firmly. “You’re right.”

She lowered the gun a little more and pulled the trigger.

The shot was deafeningly loud. My initial reaction was to cover my ears, but it was already much too late by the time my palms got to them. I jumped, Petey yelped, Gerda jerked and stumbled back, but damn if she didn’t stay up. Maybe she was high on drugs and witchy herbs and funny mushrooms. A hole appeared on Gerda’s thigh, followed instantly by the fresh gleam of blood. This time it was her blood, but it all looked the same after a while.

She didn’t move her head or lower her hands. She didn’t cry out, though she whistled a little when she sucked in a lot of air. Her left leg was quivering. She favored her right, but other than that, you’d never have guessed this woman had just been shot. In fact, she didn’t actually seem to even
care
that she had been shot.

I was fairly certain that Tabby shouldn’t have shot Gerda, and that I had witnessed what some might call police brutality or reckless endangerment. I would also admit that if Gerda had indeed sliced Amanda’s throat open, she deserved the shot to the leg. Still, I felt that I needed to stop Tabby from taking cheap pot shots at my ex-wife. No matter what, I was a firm believer in justice. If Gerda was the killer, then we needed to let the court system punish her or send her off to the psychiatric ward for good. I did not want to participate in a witch hunt, especially for a woman I once loved, even if she really was a witch.

I eased over next to Tabby. “You can’t do this. You’re better than this. Please, no more shooting.”

“You’re right. That was very unprofessional of me to shoot a murderer in the leg unprovoked. They would probably have my badge, wouldn’t they?”

I didn’t know what to say. “Yeah, probably.”

“Well, fuck it.”

She squeezed off another shot. This time Gerda went down, pitching forward. I was pretty sure this next shot got her in the same leg, perhaps three or four inches from the last. Both shots hit meat, and not bone. I would have heard the bone crack, I’m sure.

This was getting out of hand. I considered wrestling the gun out of Tabby’s hand, but then figured she was probably stronger than me. Plus I didn’t know how many bullets that thing held. She might have a few to spare for me, too.

Now I almost wished Gerda would actually say something to Tabby, anything to stop the unprovoked attacks. I was weirdly fascinated by Gerda’s pain threshold. I mean, didn’t it hurt like hell to be shot in the leg? Twice? And yet she was now lying face down in the freshly scooped dirt, clawing quietly at it with her soiled fingers. Not even a whimper.

Then again, Gerda had never been much of a complainer. From her periods to the time we had been sunburned on our honeymoon and still had rolled in the blankets all night. Not to mention she’d actually married me in the first place. Yeah, I guess the woman did have a high threshold for pain.

Tabby stepped forward, holding the gun before her. It was trained, as far as I could tell, on the back of Gerda’s head. I was not going to stand by and allow an execution, especially that of my ex-wife, no matter how horrible she was. I moved over to Tabby and pushed her gun down.

“No more shooting,” I said.

“Okay,” she said with reluctance, the faraway glaze leaving her eyes. “You’re right. I should really stop now. But is it wrong that it feels so right?”

That’s what I’d said to myself the whole time I’d been cheating with Amanda. Human logic. Or maybe just human.

Tabby was in a strange place of power and revenge, and I don’t even know if she knew what she was saying. I suspected she had only one thing on her mind: vengeance. As in, sayeth the Lord. Well, last time I checked, she wasn’t the Lord, and I’d never been much on memorizing Bible verses, anyway.

I stepped in front of Tabby. “No, we wait for back up.”

“I never called back up. We handle this here and we handle this now. No one will blame us for killing her. We’re doing the world a favor.”

“No. You can’t do this.”

“Are you going to stop me?”

I inhaled. “Yes.”

That
did
stop her, at least gave her a moment of pause. I reached in my pocket and fumbled for my cell phone. When I had it in my palm, and as I flipped it open, Tabby snatched it out of my hand and tucked it behind her.

“Ah, shit. That was a nice phone.”

She stepped back and raised the gun. But this time it was pointed at my forehead. “Step back, Al. You started this mess. I’ll shoot you, too.”

“No, you won’t.”

“Please step back.” She was breaking down. Losing her nerve. Her lower lip was quivering, and so was the gun.

“Tabitha. You are not a murderer.
She
is the only murderer here.”

“She killed my sister.”

“I know. But this is not the way to deal with it. You are better than this. You are better than her.”

She lowered her gun, and lowered her head, and in that moment, I heard a curious sound from behind me. It was the baby, laughing for joy. I turned sharply and Tabby looked up.

Gerda had risen on one knee, and she was holding little Petey in front of her.

“You wanted me to say something to you,” said Gerda. “Well, how about this: put your gun down, bitch.”

Now
that
was the Gerda I knew.

Petey clung to Gerda’s hair, his tiny fists bunched with the stuff. Gerda’s chest and clothing, and especially her two fresh wounds, were covered in loose dirt. She held Petey before her, and then turned, her filthy hands around his throat.

“Toss aside your gun, or I claw his throat out. You have three seconds.”

Tabby ran forward, her arms taut before her, gun up. She was looking for a good shot at Gerda’s head. But Gerda had Petey by the throat and used him as a shield. Petey was crying now, kicking and flailing. He looked like he was doing a Russian folk dance. I could see the child’s soft flesh squishing through Gerda’s fingers like bread dough.

It was the first time I’d seen my son in the flesh, and now his flesh was bruised. I fought off the urge to grab Tabby’s gun and finish the job myself.

“For the love of God, Tabby, put the gun down! She’s killing him!”

She stopped, looking thoroughly panicked and mystified. Meanwhile, Gerda was still counting.

“Two....”

I didn’t know if she was counting down or up, but either way she was going to tear the kid’s larynx out with the passing of the next number. Tabitha saw the inevitability of it as well. She needed a kill shot, and Gerda’s head and heart were protected by the baby.

“Okay, you win.” Tabby in that instant did something utterly amazing. In one swift movement, she replaced my cell phone with her pistol, apparently cramming the gun in her waistband.

She threw my cell phone into the nearby brush, where it landed with a rustle and clatter. Gerda wasn’t really looking, too busy hiding behind the baby to see what really happened, and dusk was setting in. It worked. Gerda released her grip on the child. Now that Petey could gather a full breath, he let loose with some howls of unhappiness. Tears poured from his gorgeous, round eyes, the poor guy.

Tabby held her arms out to either side. “The gun is gone.”

Gerda looked suspicious, and glanced to where the cell phone had disappeared into the brush. I think she realized that she could have been duped, but there was nothing she could do about it now. All she had was a baby, and maybe the shovel if she could reach it.

“Step back,” she hissed.

We stepped back.

“Further.”

We stepped further.

“What are you going to do, Gerda?” I asked. “It’s over. We know you killed Amanda and that man there.” I wanted to say the police were on the way, but Tabby had just blown that lie out of the water.

“I’m going to leave with my boy, and I’m going to start over,” said Gerda. Her voice sounded perfectly reasonable, as if what she had just said wasn’t the world’s craziest statement.

“He’s not your boy,” I said.

“His mother is dead. I am his new mother.” Gerda’s voice was tight and filled with pain. She pulled herself up to her feet, still holding the baby, favoring her right leg.

“You killed his mother,” said Tabitha. “You killed my sister.”

“Yes, I did. She was in the way of my baby. You see, she had the baby I was always supposed to have, by the man I was supposed to have it with, at the time I most wanted one. It works out perfectly.”