Kealan Burke - Kin

“You said you didn’t bring her to a doctor.”

“Correct.”

“So who cut her opened?”

“We did. At her request.”

“The hell for?” Krall was outraged.

Suddenly Momma’s midsection lurched upward, pushed from within, sending maggots tumbling, and he took another involuntary step back. The truck rocked on its wheels.

Papa reached into his coat and produced from within a pocketknife, the edge well maintained and razor-sharp. “Momma died from fear, Jeremiah,” he said. “She knew our world was comin’ to an end, and couldn’t bear the thought of us bein’ claimed. They already poisoned our baby girl, and then Luke. She loved that boy and wanted to take him back. To give him another chance.” He smiled. “So that’s what we done.”

He bent low, stuck the blade between two of the stitches, and began to saw at them. The pressure from within the corpse subsided. It took only a moment for the thread to snap, the flesh to gape, and when it did Krall joined him in looking down.

“Jesus Christ Almighty,” Krall whispered in horror.

“Rebirth,” Papa said simply, as both men stared down at the fingers slowly wriggling out from inside Momma-In-Bed’s corpse.

“What are you doing up?” Kara asked. “It’s late.”

Claire shrugged, and fingered the cell phone on the kitchen table, setting it spinning. She watched the slow revolutions until it came to a stop, then did it again. “Couldn’t sleep.”

“Well, you should try. I have some pills.”

“I don’t need pills. I’m sick of pills.”

Kara, dressed in a pair of red silk pajamas, came around the table and sat down opposite her sister. Claire’s eye was swollen from crying, the lid puffy, and there were dark bags beneath both sockets. Her hair, always so lustrous, was lank and tousled. Kara didn’t imagine she herself looked any better. She had slept a little, but not much. Worry for her sister, and the memory of her conversation with Finch had kept her awake.

She looked around the kitchen, quiet but for the sound of Claire playing with the phone. It seemed odd seeing the room like this. Ordinarily such a hodge-podge of activity, for both girls and their mother loved—or had loved, at least—to cook, in the early morning hours, it seemed abandoned despite their presence, the sun not yet risen to give it the cheery glow they were used to seeing. The clock on the microwave told her dawn was still an hour or so away.

“We should make breakfast for Mom,” Kara suggested. “It’ll be nice.”

“I don’t feel up to it,” Claire said. She continued to stare at the phone until Kara felt compelled to do the same. Earlier, she had walked in on her sister and found her on the phone, her dead boyfriend’s number on the nightstand, and had quickly deduced what she was up to. Saddened, and more than a little frightened, she had attempted to talk some sense into Claire, then watched as her sister went rigid with shock as she hung up the phone, dropped it on the floor and began to sob into her hands. There was someone on the line , she’d said, and though Kara had no doubt Claire had imagined it, it still broke her heart to see her sister this way.

She’s broken , she thought. And I don’t know how to fix her .

Maybe Finch does , another part of her suggested, but she quickly overruled it. Finch was handling his grief the way he had handled every other trial in his life, the way he had handled her —with anger. Whatever he did, short of therapy, would solve nothing. All she could do now was protect her sister from his obsession.

“Maybe I’ll make us something,” she said, to get away from the same incessant badgering of her thoughts that had denied her a good night’s sleep. “Maybe a ham and cheese omelet? Some onions, peppers…”

“I’m not hungry,” Claire said.

Since she’d joined her, Claire had yet to make eye contact. She was so fixated on that damn cell phone, Kara had to resist the urge to snatch it away from her.

“Somebody answered,” her sister said now, surprising her, as if they’d both been tuned in to the same mental frequency.

“What?”

“Somebody answered when I called Daniel’s phone.”

Kara exhaled slowly. “I know you think—”

Claire continued as if she hadn’t heard. “Somebody answered. Whoever it was didn’t say anything. They just listened.”

The strength of the sincerity in her voice, coupled with the eerie look of intense concentration sent a shiver through Kara. “Honey…”

“I wonder if it was enough.”

“Enough? For what?”

And now Claire did look up. Her eyes were free of tears, of sleep, and startlingly clear. “Enough to trace the signal,” she said.

She didn’t expect Kara to believe her, and didn’t care. She loved her sister, but her presence here, now, while Claire was lost in her thoughts, meant that she was good only as a sounding board for her own. And it had worked. She knew from the movies that signals could be traced when someone made a call from a cell phone, but not if the phone being answered was traceable. But she was determined to find out. There was little sense in sharing this idea with Kara; she had done so only to hear it spoken aloud, and it still sounded reasonable. The killers had Daniel’s phone. Tonight they had answered it. If she could get that information to someone who would believe her, someone who could use that information, then it might make all the difference.

She looked at her sister.

“I don’t…” Kara said, looking helpless, frustrated.

“I’ve changed my mind. Let’s make the omelet,” Claire said, to deny Kara another chance to make her doubt herself. Relief washed over her sister’s face and she reached over and squeezed Claire’s hand. Claire forced a smile to placate her further, but behind her eyes she was remembering what Ted Craddick had said earlier. Has Danny’s brother been to see you? He’s calling on all the parents, and he mentioned wanting to see you too.

She studied the name displayed in black against the cell phone’s glowing green LCD background:

Red was still alive, and wailing like a child with a cut knee, though of course his injuries were a lot worse than that. He was on his back on the floor, rolling over and back. Louise stood by the couch, a trembling hand to her mouth, alternating horrified glances from the writhing form of Red to Pete, who watched her, eyes wide, his whole body shaking violently.

Get it together , she told herself, but for most of her life, that secret, inner voice had tried to guide her and she had seldom heeded its advice. Don’t go with Wayne, it had said , or believe for one second what he’s promisin’ you. You’re smarter than that. Don’t leave the boy. Don’t leave Jack, the only man who didn’t hit you and never would for one who probably will . Again and again, she had refused to listen to reason, opting instead for spontaneity and gut instinct to lead her to greener pastures and ultimately, the fulfillment of ambitions she’d harbored since childhood. And not a single one of those gambles had paid off. Now, she intended to pay attention, and to do what good sense was telling her.

“Pete,” she said. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

He simply stared dumbly at her.

Quickly, she stepped around the fallen man. The end of the shard jutted from his ruined eye, his hands weaving around it as if desperate to pull it out but afraid what might happen if he did. Occasionally the heel of one palm would bump the shard and he would convulse and cry out. His right cheek was drenched in blood.