Stephen Irwin - The Dead Path

Nicholas imagined little Nelson a thousand kilometers away, face slick with sweat and turning fitfully as he dreamed of Christ-knew-what. Nothing pleasant, he was sure of that.

“She’s halved us in one easy move, Suze. If you think she’s afraid, you’re an idiot. She’s just playing.” He slid the open phone book toward her.

Suzette stared at it a moment, then picked up her phone.

N icholas shut the cab door. His sister wound down the window. “Show me,” she said.

He unzipped the front of his hoodie, revealing the burnished brown of wood beads. Suzette nodded approvingly. She looked into his eyes.

“I don’t know, Nicky.”

He drove his hands into his pockets. “I’ll keep you posted.”

“Okay.”

She spoke to the driver and the cab pulled away into the bright street and soon became a winking spot of yellow too bright to watch.

K atharine nodded while Suzette rushed around the house collecting her suitcase, her makeup bag, her toiletries bag, her spare shoes. Outside, the cab horn tooted again. Katharine had swallowed not a word of the tripe Suzette had dished up about her and Nicholas having had a few too many Jagermeisters last night and forgetting to tell Katharine she was crashing there at the flat.

I may be getting long in the tooth, she thought, but I can still tell the difference between hangover and panic. The way Suzette was rushing around like a dervish, the only drug in her veins was adrenaline. All that rang true was that Nelson had come down with something.

“Okay. That’s everything,” said Suzette, pulling her hair back behind her ear.

“Great,” said Katharine. It was ridiculous. Nicholas was like his father-strange and handsome and flighty-but Suzette was supposed to be like her. Grounded. Sensible. She was tempted to march to the porch, throw the cabbie twenty bucks and dismiss him, sit her daughter down, and demand an explanation.

The cab horn beeped again, longer and more insistent. Suzette wheeled her suitcase out of the room and kissed Katharine on the cheek.

“Gotta go.”

Katharine nodded.

It seemed to take just a moment, and then an engine rumbled, an arm waved, and the house was quiet again.

Katharine went to the kitchen and filled the kettle.

She sat, determined not to think as she waited for the water to boil.

L aine taped the last box shut. That was it, then: all of Gavin’s belongings put away; some for charity, some for the dump, some to be saved for a happier “one day” that Laine felt, right now, was as distant as the stars.

She and Gavin had moved into the house fourteen months ago to look after his mother. Mrs. Boye’s husband, Gavin’s father, had passed on two years earlier, and the widow’s decline had accelerated in those twenty-four months. Three personal caregivers had quit, finding her manner too abrasive even for their seasoned experience.

Twelve months ago, the arrow on Laine’s marriage fire-danger sign had pointed to “moderate.” Over the subsequent six months it had escalated to “high.” She and Gavin had been trying for a child for more than a year and had finally started IVF treatment. The hormone injections gave her an immovable headache that soured every heartbeat. Waking up sick, commuting to her grinding job at a graphics company that seemed to tender only for redesigns of cereal boxes and fridge calendars, then returning home to Mrs. Boye’s increasingly nonsensical and voluble rants made it hard to unearth even minuscule moments of pleasure.

Gavin got a promotion: sales executive, Asia Pacific. He wasn’t the brightest man, but he was good-looking and seemed to get along well with everyone. He had a natural charm. He’d certainly charmed her. But he had also put her through the humiliation of two affairs. Both times Laine had caught him out, and both times he had collapsed at her feet in a ball of remorseful tears promising never, ever to be so stupid again, but then he landed another overseas job that would deliver him into temptation for weeks on end. The needle moved to “extreme.”

Then, the unforeseeable. A month ago, Gavin had given his employer four weeks’ notice. “I’ll get a job around here,” he’d told her. “Something low-stress, part-time, maybe. We’re not paying rent, and Dad’s left us plenty. You should quit too.” A year earlier, this news would have filled her with delicious, full-fat, chocolate-coated joy. But now, after a grueling routine of shitty work, shitty-weird home life in a house where the shadow of a dead boy walked more solidly than the grown-ups, shitty headaches, shitty worry about a husband who couldn’t keep his dick out of other women, the golden offer just weirded Laine out. She didn’t trust it.

But Gavin seemed to mean it. He began eating properly-health food and raw vegetables. It should have been good. It would have been good. Had he not started talking in his sleep.

In the middle of the night, when the huge house ticked uneasily, Gavin’s whispering would wake her. She had to lean close to hear his words. “ Bird. Tris. Back. Dead. ” By the watery light coming through the window, she could see he was deep asleep as he spoke, yet his expression was adulating, hungry. “ Bird. Please. Bird. Dead. ” The words kept her awake long after he’d rolled over, snoring. Two people muttering to themselves in the house made her feel guiltily glad she hadn’t gotten pregnant; she didn’t want a child infected with this family’s madness. She stopped taking the fertility drugs, but didn’t tell Gavin.

Then, just a few days ago, Gavin had risen early. Laine had been so exhausted, having finally fallen asleep at four, that she hadn’t stirred. Mrs. Boye had slept uncharacteristically late too. They’d both been roused at seven by police knocking to bring “some very bad news.”

And now? The will was in probate, but Mr. Boye’s inheritance was hers. She would find a caregiver for Mrs. Boye and get the hell out of this quietly haunted house. Two nights ago she had been in the shower making plans for just that when Nicholas Close had visited.

Close was pale and odd-looking. Not unhandsome, but held together inside by wires stretched too tight. Laine had heard that his wife had died and that he’d been with Tristram when he was taken way back when. Close had said he wanted to talk about Gavin, and she’d had to clamp her mouth shut. She had wanted to yell: Tell me about the bird! What does it mean? What bird? But that would have signed her application into Bedlam, so she sent him on his way.

Now it was done. The last box was packed. She could go and put all this behind her.

Except she wanted to know.

Gavin’s brother had been murdered. His killer had suicided. A boy had gone missing a week or so ago. His killer had suicided. Gavin had suicided. What linked all this death? Nicholas Close.

She was leaving this awful city. Who cared if he thought her mad? She would go to see him.

A cross and down the road, the Myrtle Street shops were quiet. A car parked. A man entered the convenience store and emerged shortly after with two stuffed bags of groceries. The light in the computer repair shop went out. Two minutes later, a lanky man stepped out and locked the front door. He leaned and sidestepped to peer into Plow amp; Vine Health Foods, gave a short wave, then strode around to the side street where his Nissan was parked. He drove away.

Nicholas checked his watch. It was 5:34.

The lights inside the health food store went out.

He took a small step back, lowering himself a little behind the tangled shrubs.

A moment later, the door of Plow amp; Vine Health Foods opened and a tall, slender young woman stepped out. Rowena. She reached into her handbag for keys, dropped them, knelt to pick them up, and locked the door. Nicholas watched her test that the door was secure, then she checked her watch and hurried out from under the awning of the shops, away from his hiding spot. He watched her draw her long, knitted coat about herself as she strode away. He waited until she was far enough away that he would be just a shadowed stranger in the distance before stepping out from behind the lasiandra to follow.