It was Tattoo. He was watching something mounted on his handlebars. If I wanted another shot at him, now was the time. This time I’d twist him until all his bones were broken.
And I just happened to be sitting in a car.
I drove to the mouth of the driveway. I was about to turn to follow him when a line of ten or twelve trucks and vans cruised by.
I cursed at them and wrung the steering wheel. The last pickup went by with a bed full of poinsettias, and I pulled out after it.
To me, the line of cars seemed as slow as a parade. I tried to peer around them, but I couldn’t see the front vehicle, let alone Tattoo. Eventually, they all pulled into the fairgrounds. Had Tattoo pulled ahead and vanished around the next turn of the road, or was he in the fairgrounds?
I turned with the other vehicles and followed them in.
They drove to a low corner of the parking lot and onto the field. None got stuck in the mud, but it was a near thing for a couple of them. I parked at the edge of the grass and looked out over the grounds. People rushed around, setting up stalls in the early light. They were already selling things—Christmas ornaments, tiny jars of what looked like preserves, warm clothing, Yule logs, and model train kits.
The pickup with the poinsettias pulled up beside a tent, and a woman with long gray hair began carrying the plants inside. Three men followed her in with a big gas heater.
The snow machine was silent, and the ground beside the field house was coated with snow. I wondered what would happen if I ran out there and jumped around in it.
The people were smiling. There were no cards, no happy greetings, but I did see them shaking hands and hugging one another. Washaway, their community, had gone through a tough couple of days, but these folks were determined to keep going—to celebrate. If the hugs seemed to be more out of consolation than joy, and if a couple of the people wiped gloved hands across their cheeks while they spoke, that just showed their strength and connection to one another.
And I hadn’t gotten inside any of it.
I didn’t see Tattoo anywhere nearby, so I didn’t belong here. I backed out of my spot and took the side road to the church. It was closed up tight, and the windows in Dolan’s house were dark. The upstairs front window was still open. The pastor had not come back here.
I drove toward town. The sky was finally bright enough that I could turn off my headlights. I would be easily recognizable in the Neon, but short of stealing a new car there was nothing I could do about it.
In town no one stopped me, and I didn’t come across any roadblocks. I drove by the Sunset B and B and pulled into a little gravel road. There was a space on the far side of a stand of trees, and I parked there. It didn’t hide the Neon all that well, but it was better than parking on the street.
I ducked between the trees. The Sunset was encircled by a neatly mowed lawn, but beyond that was a fringe of heavy underbrush. I pushed through it, little chips of ice breaking off the branches and melting against my clothes, until I reached the back of the building. Damn, it was cold.
The closest ground-floor window—in the kitchen—had a light in it, but all the windows in the upper floor were still dark. After a little figuring, I decided my room was the one on the far left. Catherine should be there; I hoped she was.
Movement in the lighted downstairs window made me duck low. Nadia entered the room with a bag of flour in her arms. She looked at the window, and for a moment I thought she was looking straight at me. Then she tucked some stray hairs behind her ears, and I realized that she was looking at her reflection.
She sighed, took a bowl from a high shelf, and moved away.
I breathed a sigh of relief and crept, shivering, along the edge of the property. I couldn’t find a stone to throw at the window, but I did find a small piece of bark. That would do.
As I drew my arm back to throw it, the kitchen window darkened. I ducked low again, but it wasn’t Nadia blocking the light. It was an irregular spatter of red fluid.
Blood. There was blood on the window.
I threw the wood chip at Catherine’s window and ran to the building. I couldn’t see into the kitchen, but I could see shadows moving back and forth on the grass. I couldn’t tell how many people were making those shapes, but it was more than one.
The upstairs window opened. “Catherine!” I hissed.
She stuck her head out and looked down. “Ray, what the—”
“Enemy in the building,” I said. Maybe that wasn’t the best way to say it, but her expression showed she understood. She leaned back and, after a few seconds, stuck her head out again.
“Get up here!” She tossed a heavy quilt out the window, letting it hang down to me.
At least the effects of the ghost knife had worn off. Was it because the spell wore off after a while, or did sleeping reset her personality? “Is that a joke? Come down before you get killed.”
“Ray,” she said, her voice harsh. “Get your skinny ass up here.”
Fine. I stepped away from the building, took two running steps, and jumped up. I set my foot against the windowsill and grabbed hold of the quilt.
I knew Catherine hadn’t had time to tie it to something solid—and how would you tie off a quilt, anyway?—so I expected it to come loose and drop me back onto the lawn. That didn’t happen. I began pulling myself up hand over hand.
Suddenly, the quilt began to draw back through the window as though pulled by a winch. I was so startled I nearly let go. Instead, as I came to the open window, I let go of the cloth and grabbed hold of the sill.
“Christ, what the hell was that?”
