thing when we looked into Diabolos Whistler’s coffin-the rot, the haphazardly stitched neck-all the cruel rewards of a prophecy that would never be fulfilled.
Lethe had no more patience for her father’s words.
The moment had arrived, and she’d reached her own conclusion.
She said, “You lied, father.”
Lethe started toward me, cleaved cheekbones gleaming in the flashlight’s glow. “I don’t know what your game is,” she said. “I don’t know what’s between you and my sister and that little girl, but you’re not walking out of here, and you’re not taking her with you.”
“My bargain was with your father,” I said. “Besides, there’s nothing you can do to stop me.”
“But I can do something to that little girl. I’ll finish the job I started, only this time I’ll rip her to shreds.”
“You’ll do nothing, Lethe,” Whistler commanded.
Blue irises flashed in her bloody face. “Quiet father,” she warned, “or you’ll go first.”
She started up the trail. The beach grass lashed her like long knives, like the deep pain of disappointment and betrayal that sliced her heart.
There was nothing I could do to stop her.
But Whistler could. A cold gust of wind blasted over the waves and the beach, and Whistler welcomed its gray embrace. His bristling cloak flared like a catclaw thicket come to life as he rose on the storm, and he closed on his daughter from above, gathering the cloak around her like a net of midnight, wrapping her in his unforgiving embrace.
Lethe fought him, and the sound was the scream of a hurricane. Bony gullies appeared in Whistler’s cloak as she struggled, scratching for freedom, tearing a window in blackness darker than midnight.
The wind tumbled them both. A vein of scarlet spouted from the shroud-Lethe’s arm, skinless fingers scrabbling a brutal path to her father’s spiked neck. Something spilled from Whistler’s wounds, something as dark and shiny as blood, and father and daughter were caught in a twister of it, a razored whirlwind of lashing nettles that sliced the dead deeper than the truth, so much deeper, slashing a relentless path until the only thing that remained was a tattered black vapor that whipped through the beach grass like a shadow fleeing the light.
The storm was the master now. It carried father and daughter into the night and past it, leaving behind the beach and the hearse and the boxed thing that would never move.
I stood alone in the rain.
I didn’t know where Whistler and his daughter had gone. I didn’t care.
I only cared about what they had left behind.
The little girl waited for me in Whistler’s ruined chapel, still hiding behind that cobwebbed cross. “I knew you’d come back,” she said.
“I always keep my promises.”
“Then you’ve got one more promise to keep.”
“What’s that?”
Circe smiled. “Take me away from here.”
Her delicate fingers crossed through the cobwebs without rustling them, but I hardly noticed. I was so happy to see a smile on her face, so happy that she was safe, that I reached out for her hand without thinking.
Our fingertips came together like magnets. Circe’s hand passed through mine. There was nothing I could do to stop it.
The chill of her fingers sent an ache through my bones. I curled my fingers into a fist. Blood pounded in my hand, but there was no warmth in it.
And there was no warmth in the little girl’s eyes. No more. It was gone.
“You lied to me,” she said.
“No.” I swallowed hard, knowing that it was too late, but going on all the same. “I didn’t lie. I didn’t mean to-”
Her hand passed through mine again, and the coldness froze the lie in my throat.
“It’s true,” she said. “I’m dead. I’m a ghost.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” I explained. “That’s why I didn’t tell you the truth. That’s why I lied.”
We sat there in silence. The only sounds were the guttering torch and the girl’s sobs, but it seemed I heard the pounding of my heart.
“You shouldn’t stay here,” I said finally.
“I won’t. I’ll go back to the bridge.”
“That’s good.”
I took the torch from the wall and started up the stairs. We left the bottle house together and crossed the beach to the trail that led into the woods.
No breadcrumbs there, but we both knew where the trail led. To a special place, a place where the little girl belonged.
I wished I could go there with her.
Circe felt the same way. “Please come with me,” she said.
“Not now. There’s something I have to do. But I’ll be back.”
She looked away quickly, but not quickly enough. I saw the doubt in her eyes.
“Don’t tell me any more lies,” she said. “All I want is the truth.”
I nodded.
The truth was all I wanted, too. One woman could give it to me. Her name was Circe Whistler.
PART FOUR:
I BURY THE LIVING
I am tied to the stake, and I must stand the course.
1
Cerberus’s teeth gleamed in the harsh glow of the hearse’s headlights.
But I wasn’t looking for a bronze dog. I flicked a lever near the steering wheel and the headlights flared to bright, blinding the guards lurking in the shadows near the rear gate of Circe’s compound.
Two men with black robes and very large guns. They looked like Spider Ripley’s brothers, and maybe they were. Maybe they were waiting for Spider to show up in a big black hearse.
The men exchanged glances and a few words, standing there like a couple of bowling pins.
A seven-ten split.
It was an easier pickup then I’d had at the funeral home. I slammed my foot against the gas pedal. Cerberus’s bronze teeth savaged the Caddy’s left front fender as I clipped the statue. Gunfire pitted the windshield. But it was too late.
I picked up the spare.
