Page 31 of The Bane Witch
31
Collision
Bart whines incessantly, pulling me from a heavy sleep, laden with disturbing dreams—Henry coming up behind me in the café, Myrtle’s ghost walking the forest at night, Regis dead in a pool of vomit with Verna standing beside him. It’s as if every fear I have is being projected across my sleeping mind, made all the more vivid by the mushrooms I keep eating. I know we aren’t subject to a plant’s poison as bane witches, but I no longer believe they have no effect on us. Or maybe it’s just that I’ve been doing nothing the past three days but lying down in the dark, like an animal, chewing everything she left behind. It’s overkill, I know, but I don’t want to be caught off guard ever again.
It was a mistake bringing the dog with me. The constant trips to the surface to let him out put me at risk of being found. But he stood outside the door barking until I let him in, so I didn’t have a choice. I don’t dare pet him, for fear the toxins will leech out of me and into his skin. But he seems to understand, cowering in an opposing corner, watching with those big, soft, empathic eyes. And it’s been nice to have someone to talk to, even if he can’t say anything back. Apart from Bart, I am more alone in the world than I have ever been, which is saying a lot for someone who has lived my isolated past. And caring for him in whatever limited way I am able has given a modicum of structure to my days and nights, keeping the human in me alive, even just a bit, so that the witch cannot have all of me. But to be safe, I limit most of his potty breaks to after dark, feed him beans and tuna directly from the cans.
This time however, when I crack the door and he darts out, I see that it’s morning. That early, diffuse light is setting the world aglow like something from a dream. “Bart!” I try to whisper-yell as he springs into the underbrush after a squirrel, but he ignores me. I have to remind myself as the irritation sets my teeth on edge that his independent streak, annoying as it is, is the only reason this living arrangement works at all.
I cross my arms over my chest and look around, trying to find some calm. The woods are magical at this time, though the chill is beginning to seep beneath my jacket. In another couple of months, this shelter will become miserable without a heat source, dangerous. Something tells me—a niggling beneath my ribs, the feathers I keep in my pocket, a matching set—that I won’t need to be here long.
I cup my hands around my mouth and blow, duck back into the dugout to grab a mug of water. The carboy is nearly empty. I grab it by its plastic neck, the remains of my water supply sloshing in the bottom, and begin to climb back up. I can refill it at the cabin before it gets any later and the risk of being seen increases. Though I do not relish the idea of hauling it back alone.
Nearing the surface, I’m startled by a strange sound. I pause, clinging to the stairs, and listen. At first, I think it’s the hum of a distant engine. But it’s too early in the season for a snowmobile, and they don’t allow motorboats on the lake. Then I realize it’s much closer, much lower than that.
It’s Bart… growling.
I roll my eyes and heave myself up the last few steps. Stupid dog must have spotted something bigger than a squirrel this time, like a fox or a buck. At the top, I climb out, the carboy before me. Once I get fully to my feet, I start to scold him. “You goofy dog, there’s nothing that can get us all the way out—”
The words fall from my lips like pebbles, dropping to the ground.
He’s standing about twenty feet off, eyes focused on me, a curious look skirting his face. He is fixed, so still that the backdrop of swaying green needles and falling leaves is the only thing that makes me aware time has not completely stopped. I know without a doubt who he is, though I’ve never seen him before. The latex cap is slick to his head, not that it matters. It’s clear he shaves. Not just his head, but his whole body. I can smell the coconut fragrance of the women’s shaving cream he uses. He’s wearing some kind of green waterproof suit—vinyl or PVC—zipped up to his chin, legs tucked into strange rubber boots with the soles melted down. He has a pair of tweezers in one pocket and a plastic bag lined with petroleum jelly. From his hand, the paracord dangles in a colorful loop. It’s new, a piece he’s been saving just for me.
His face is pink, pinched, soft around the brows with eyes set too close together. But beneath the tender flesh, his bones are hard and cold like galvanized steel. They cry out for blood. On the outside, he’s a stranger, oddly put together, a fish out of water in this environment. But on the inside, he is menacing, deliberate, removed. On the inside, he is Henry to the core.
The tremble begins at my feet, knocking my knees together as it travels up my legs and spine, setting my teeth to chattering. The fear is sharp, strong—it overwhelms me, all my brave ideas about killing this man melting at my feet like frost in the sun. The years that Henry tortured me rise up from the forest floor, taunting. I feel the weakness inside me cowering. I am just a woman after all.
But then I see Myrtle’s fierce smile as I left her that morning. Hunt well. And the woman transforms, gives way, for something far older and far darker to take over.
I drop the carboy at my feet, the last of the water spilling out onto the ground. We are locked in each other’s gaze, suspended by the experience of finally materializing that which we have hunted for so long, like bugs caught in amber. And then I do something he wasn’t prepared for.
I charge him.
It takes a split second for the alarm to register on his face, for the signal to move from his brain to his feet, and in that time I am gaining speed, ground. My teeth gnash the air, every part of me committed to tearing his flesh from his bones. I will savor his death like wine, like that expensive Riesling from Alsace Henry couldn’t shut up about.
But then he does something I am not prepared for.
He runs.
I tear through the forest behind him, certain he cannot outpace me, or at least not Bart, who has bolted past me in pursuit. But he’s faster than I anticipated, and he’s scared. His adrenaline spikes are fueling him even as my body burns to catch up, the magic driving me on.
I lose all sense of direction in the chase. Branches and limbs slap past me, tearing at my hair and clothes. I am certain to be striped with scratches when this is over, but I don’t care. I can taste him on the air, that acrid bile of fear, the deep rot inside him like a tumor, the tang of all his sins. It sings to me, his flavor. It makes my blood throb in my veins. I am so close now, so close that if I spit it might land on him. But I want the satisfaction of seeing him die. I don’t want to hurl my poison loosely in his direction. I want to sink it into him with my own teeth.
I stretch a hand before me, reaching for the hood of his jacket, when a collision from the left sends me spinning to the ground, so hard I feel my shoulder give beneath me and think it might be dislocated. Dirt grinds into my teeth, and my head swims even when the world stops moving. I blink again and again, trying to clear the bright spots before me. As soon as I can, I get to my feet, pushing myself up slowly, shakily.
He is only a few feet away, hands already on his knees, heaving like he might vomit. When he looks up, it startles me. I know his face, but I’m not sure from where.
“Are you all right?” he asks, breathing heavily.
I stumble back a step. “Stay away from me.”
He stands to his full height, hands on hips, that chiseled jaw like a magazine ad. His hair is a ribbon of black, glossy like polished granite. His shoulders those of a linebacker. He’s beautiful, really, but he’s an unknown variant, a piece that shouldn’t be on the board in a very deadly game. “Mrs. Davenport? Are you Piers Davenport?”
The name has struck me speechless, and he doesn’t look like he’s truly asking. He looks like he already knows.
“Who wants to know?” I ask, wiping the dirt out of my mouth.
The muscles behind his eyes slacken with relief, making him look sleepy and happy at the same time. He steps toward me.
I put a hand out. “I meant what I said. Stay back.”
His brows cross over his eyes, but he quickly shifts gears. “My name is Investigator Emil Reyes—”
“Investigator?” I scrutinize him. Those biceps and that overall air of authority. I should have known. “Are you a cop? Did Regis send you?”
He seems confused. “Regis? I’m sorry. I’m from Charleston. South Carolina. We’ve been following your case.”
“You’ve been following me?” I take another step back.
“Investigating,” he tries to say.
“Where’s your uniform? Your ID?”
He looks down at the sweatshirt and jeans he has on. “Investigating and then following. Please, Mrs. Davenport, I’m here to help you.”
“Stop calling me that,” I growl at him. “That’s not who I am anymore.”
“Can we go somewhere and talk?” he asks, eyes pleading.
“Not until I see your badge.”
He pulls it out for me, holds it up.
“Toss it there,” I tell him, pointing at the ground. “And then step back.”
He debates and finally acquiesces.
I approach the shining emblem warily, keeping one eye on him at all times. Only when I am standing over it do all the pieces shift into place like a motherboard firing up—that face, so handsome and helpless at once, the name, the job. I know this man. Almost as intimately as I know Henry or the Strangler. His isn’t a life I’m destined to take, but one I was destined to save. He’s the cop who was choking that night, the one I rescued in the restaurant. What he’s doing here is a bigger mystery than what I am.
Convinced he is who he says, I walk back several steps, sighing. “Pick it up,” I tell him. “I recognize you.”
He looks relieved, a flash of something akin to fondness in his dark eyes. “I owe you a debt,” he tells me. “It’s why I’m here.”
“Well, you should have stayed in Charleston,” I tell him, hearing Myrtle’s own sass in the tone of my voice. “Hasn’t anyone ever told you no good deed goes unpunished?”
“What?” His eyes narrow, perplexed. I guess he thought I’d be happy to see him.
“Nothing,” I say. “Come on. I have somewhere we can talk. But you have to walk in front of me. And no matter what, you can’t touch me. Not for any reason.”
His eyes practically cross with the questions hovering between them, but he nods in agreement. “Okay. Lead the way.”
I point south. And he begins walking.
I WAIT FOR him to deposit himself in a chair at the table, and then I get a glass of water, trying to keep my eyes from straying to the living room, to the sofa where she was. “How did you find me?”
He clasps his hands on the table. “Wasn’t easy. Instinct, I guess. And a bit of luck. You left a few clues, bits of evidence in your wake. Once I figured out you didn’t drown but fled, it was just a matter of following them.”
I tug at my lower lip, annoyed. “I thought I was so careful.”
He gives me a tight smile. “You were, but everybody leaves something. They found your life vest in the marina. There was a stain—same color as the pokeweed berries from the note and the bridge. And then the report came out about the man in Virginia, and the video from the hotel lobby, the car in Syracuse. I found the shirt you left behind in the cemetery there. The neck was rimmed with hair dye. I asked around campus and a girl admitted to driving you to the bus station, said you mentioned Crow Lake. From there, it was just a little detective work to find your aunt, connect her to you through the same maiden name. Birth certificates and census records confirmed the relation, and I came here. But the motel and house were empty, so I—”
“Risked getting yourself hopelessly lost by stumbling around the woods?”
He grins. “It was a hunch.”
“A pretty good one,” I admit.
He shrugs. “I heard the dog, followed the sound, ran into you chasing that man.”
“Literally,” I add.
“I saw my chance and I took it. I didn’t want to lose you. Who was that guy anyway?”
I try to hide my annoyance at having been intercepted. It may be his fault, but he didn’t do it on purpose. “A squatter. They get ’em up here all the time.” I take a deep breath and square my shoulders, setting the glass on the counter beside me. “What are you doing here, Detective? Come to haul me away? Arrest me for jumping off a bridge? If you’re good enough to put all that together, then surely, you’re good enough to put together why. ”
“I know why,” he’s quick to confirm, and his eyes lower respectfully. “I may not know everything he’s put you through, but what you didn’t take a picture of, I can imagine.”
I lean back against the counter by the sink skeptically. “Can you?”
“We have a connection, you and I,” he says, watching me.
He’s not wrong, but if he’s operating on some misguided principle that he knows me, knows what I need, then it’s my job to set him straight. “I appreciate your gratitude. I do, truly. And I will always be glad that I was there for you at that precise moment and able to act quickly. But don’t let coincidence cloud your judgment or delude you, Detective. There is a wealth of information about me that you can never know and that I am not at liberty nor under any obligation to tell you. Besides, I haven’t got the time.”
He only smiles, which is not exactly the reaction I was expecting.
“I got into law enforcement because of my mother,” he tells me. “She was a victim of domestic violence. The things I witnessed growing up, they stayed with me.” He taps his chest with a finger. “In here. You can’t unsee stuff like that. It burrows into you, changes you. Not always for the better. She got out finally, no thanks to the police or anyone else for that matter. Just fear and willpower, and the grace of God, according to her. But the tall man altered us all, and I’ll never forget or forgive him. You’re not the only one with a Henry, Piers, and you’re not the only one who knows what it is to run.”
I close my eyes, hating the idea of his face, younger, smaller, lined with worry and panic. “I’m sorry. I didn’t know.”
He shakes his head. “How could you?” Leaning forward on the table, he says, “I know my appearance here is uninvited and must come as a shock, but believe me when I say, I came to warn you.”
The confidence I felt earlier chasing the Strangler, the killer instinct, seems to puddle at my feet. “Warn me?”
“You’re not safe here,” he says, brutally quiet. “If I found you, so can he.”
My fingernails dig into the counter’s overhang. Henry. My stomach burns and I clutch it helplessly, the fear a living thing in my body. Henry is coming. “When did he leave?”
“Before me. He won’t have some of the things I did at his disposal, but I’ve met your husband. He’s smart. Smarter than he deserves to be. And very little escapes him. It was brazen, what you did, trying to frame him for your murder. I can admire that, even if it is illegal. But it’s backfired. You have to know what that means.”
“I know,” I tell him quietly. “And I appreciate your concern, that you came all this way. But I can’t leave. Not now. Not yet.”
A troubled expression crosses his face before he presses his lips together. “I’m here unofficially, but I can take you into custody, ma’am. I’ll do that if it’s the only way to keep you safe.”
“Are you threatening me, Detective?”
He doesn’t respond.
I level my gaze on him. “You can’t keep me safe. I appreciate that you want to try, Emil. I do. You’re one of the good ones. And I know you feel like there’s some kind of score to settle between us. But you have no idea what you’ve stepped into the middle of. You’re in over your head.”
“With all due respect,” he says confidently, “I’m not afraid of your husband.”
I smile at him. “I’m not talking about Henry.”
Slowly, he reaches into a back pocket, pulls out a set of handcuffs, lays them on the table between us.
“Those look pretty official to me,” I tell him. When he frowns, I say, “I get that you want to be the hero here, but I don’t need you to save me.” Carefully, I set my palms against the tabletop and lean down. “I’ve had enough of the male ego to last me a lifetime. Thank you for giving me a heads-up, but let me give you a warning in return. If you lay so much as a finger on me, I promise you will seriously regret it.”
He sighs, wiping his palms across his thighs and looking away. When he turns back, the hard lines of his face have softened. Beneath the testosterone-fed exterior, I realize a little boy is lurking, wounded, afraid, empathetic. “You know, it was my sister who told me you weren’t dead. But even if you were, she didn’t think I should feel sorry for you because it meant you were finally free. And she would know. My sister is the one who got it the worst out of the three of us. She grew up with a twisted sense of what love was supposed to look like, fell into one bad relationship after another. The last one nearly killed her. Without my help, I don’t think she or her beautiful daughter would be here today. I did what I did for her not as a cop but as a brother. And I’m sitting here before you now, not as an investigator but as someone who cares about what happens to you, who is concerned for your safety. You don’t have to listen to me, but aside from him, I’m the only one coming for you.”
“I wouldn’t say that’s true.”
The voice is such a shock that the water glass slips from my hand, shattering into dozens of jagged pieces across the floor. She stands in the doorway of the cabin, leaning against the frame. How she opened it without anyone noticing, I’m not sure. But an edge of wariness steals over me, the knowing that among our kind there are gifts, unique abilities that can’t always be explained, like Myrtle’s night vision.
Her hair is pinned up at the base of her neck, a soft golden-streaked knot of smoothed-over curls. The suit is Chanel. Black and white, with a long skirt and pockets she will never use. The leather boots gather up her calves, heels like ice picks. But it’s her eyes I can’t look away from. One second blue and the next green, radiant, as if backlit, impossibly large. They are set into her caramel skin like beryls. She smiles and the sun seems to rise with the corners of her mouth, brightening the cabin.
Emil Reyes immediately scrambles to his feet. He holds a hand out, but she doesn’t take it. “Have I seen you before?” he asks, eyes scrunching up.
She puckers a lip. “Perhaps,” she says mysteriously. “They are always taking my picture without permission, plastering me in the magazines and papers. Who can say?”
I glance from him to her and back, noting the way his eyes widen as something registers behind them.
“I have seen you!” he says with a snap. “You’re that Spanish film star! My sister loves your movies.”
She gives him a cursory nod. “That was many years ago in Barcelona,” she tells him demurely. Her eyes lock suddenly on mine, as deep and unforgiving as the sea. “I’ve brought your aunt a gift.”