When You See Me (Detective D.D. Warren #11)(46)

“People may still remember—”

“Then they can rat out a dead man. Who cares?”

“The police are everywhere.” The mistress, her voice shrill. “Federal agents, local officers. We’ve been talking to others—”

“Excuse me?”

The mistress falters. “I’m just suggesting . . . The police have discovered at least two of the graves. They’re pulling records, conducting interviews, even learning the trails. We need to stop, think—”

“Shut. Up. You do not think. You do not consult others. Need I remind you exactly how this works?”

“Please.” The master’s voice, lower, placating. “Just consider. This has been a good arrangement. For you, for us, for everyone. It’s all been extremely fortuitous—”

“Profitable.”

“Surely it doesn’t hurt to take a small break. Just till the risk lessens.”

Silence. The Bad Man thinking? The Bad Man considering?

“When will the police attention lessen?” he asks at last. There’s a tone to his voice, a silky smoothness that suddenly makes the hair stand up at the nape of my neck. I have heard that note before, in another room far, far away from here. “As you say, the town is crawling with investigators. They’ve found bodies. They’re not just going to go away.”

“We could give them what’s left of the cabin.” The mistress, less shrill, more tentative.

“No.”

“But you said . . . rat out the dead man.”

“It won’t work.”

“Why not?”

“Because she’s here. And if she sees, she might remember. Then it won’t be about one dead man.”

“I mentioned Walt Davies.” The master again. “You know how he is. Shoots first, questions later. With any luck, they’ll fill him with lead, then we can lay all of this at his feet.”

“You idiot. Then there will be even more police in the area.”

“If we could just take a break.” The mistress pleading. “Even for a couple of weeks. Until the immediate attention dies down.”

“It doesn’t work like that. You know it doesn’t. But I think you’re correct.” A small rustling sound. The Bad Man shifting around the room. “The best way to get the police to leave is to provide them with the answer they seek.”

“No.” The voice is so soft this time, I’m not sure who’s spoken. A noise. I can’t place it. Then again: “No. Please no.”

“They’re looking for a monster,” the Bad Man murmurs. “Yes, absolutely. Let’s give them one.”

Fresh goose bumps. I’m in my mother’s kitchen. I’m in the basement hall. I’m a little girl. I’m a voiceless servant.

I am frozen in terror over what is going to happen next.

“No, no—”

“Shhh . . .”

“NO!”

A gurgle. A sob. A scrabbling sound, like claws against stone. The house shifts uncomfortably around me. I can almost hear its mournful sigh, as I step out of the shadows and force myself toward the heavy wooden doors. As I peer through the cracked opening, into the room.

The Bad Man stands tall, a terrible, hulking form.

The master cowers at his feet.

The mistress, on the other hand . . .

The Bad Man has moved behind her. He holds a bloodred rope in his hand. A sash, I realize, from the mistress’s embroidered silk bathrobe. He has the tie wrapped tight around her neck, lifting up, up, up, her neck at an impossible angle.

I stare at her. I watch as her face goes purple. As she twitches and shakes and trembles, the incredible strength of the Bad Man lifting her all the way off the floor. He is not human. No one who can do that can be human.

I don’t look away. I force myself to bear witness as she finally gasps. Her head sags forward. The monster releases her, and just like that her body crumples to the floor.

The master is still hunkered low, crying pitifully.

I feel a curious sense of relief. That she is gone, that the Bad Man has finally turned on one of his own. Yet I’m shivering uncontrollably.

The mistress, the almighty mistress, is dead. And the Bad Man killed her as easily as snapping a twig.

“Get up,” the Bad Man orders the master.

Will he kill the master next? Good God, what will become of the rest of us, if there’s only the Bad Man left?

I back away then. Turn and flee awkwardly toward my room, gulping for breath. But it’s not air I need. It’s words. Words and letters and sounds. Something, anything to communicate, because the police lady will be coming again, and this time . . .

I need to think. I need to plan.

The end is coming, but not like I thought it would.

Run. I hear my mother’s voice.

I want to be a little girl again. I want to hold out my arms and have my mother scoop me up and hold me close. I want to hear her voice murmur my name. I want to be our pack of two, mamita and chiquita.

I want things I can never have.

Because the Bad Man took them from me.

I duck inside my room just in time to hear the heavy wooden doors groan open, then footsteps once more hit the hall. The Bad Man. Not even a break in his stride as he passes my room, heads upstairs.

The house shudders into silence.