Matt Hults - Husk

All she could do now was thrash about, clenching the muscles of her abdomen, trying again and again to lurch the hand up. She jerked from side to side, kicking and flailing, and—

“Mallory,” her dad cried. “Wake up!”

She jerked awake, still trying to lash out, stopped only by her dad restraining her arms.

“Mallory!”

Now the room came into focus. She saw her dad at the bedside, BJ huddling behind him, looking scared.

She stopped thrashing, relaxed. Lingering fear kept her heart pumping at a runner’s pace, but she managed to calm her breathing and sit up. Her dad released her and she wiped sweat-soaked bangs off her forehead.

“Are you okay?”

Too embarrassed to say anything, she merely nodded. But with the nod came a sob, and with the sob came tears.

Crying, she clutched her dad in a hug. He held her tight, stroking her hair like when she was young. He told her she was safe and that he loved her and that it was only a dream.

“Everything’s okay,” he said after she’d gained control again. “You’re safe.”

She wiped her cheeks dry. “I know. I’m fine now.”

“You sure?”

She nodded.

“Want to talk about it?”

“No way.”

He smiled, and she smiled back, even if it was forced.

“All right, then.” He ushered BJ out of the room and turned off the light. “Goodnight, Mallory. I love you.”

“Love you, too.”

After they’d gone and she found herself alone in the darkness, Mallory scrunched down in her bed and pulled the covers up to her chin, just like BJ.

Harry finally had an excuse to visit the Andersons.

Earlier in the week, when he’d spoken to Jerry during his walk, the man had shocked him with the news that he and Margaret planned on attending church the coming Sunday.

“Maybe we could all go together?” Jerry had asked, looking sheepish and prepared for ridicule. True, Harry’s jaw almost dislocated from the surprise, but the man had obviously come to him looking for support, and it warmed his heart to hear the Andersons had actually developed an interest in God.

But neither of them had showed.

Harry meant to ask them about it yesterday, but then he’d noticed Father Kern’s car in their driveway and guessed the Andersons had called him for whatever spiritual advice they’d been looking for. The priest stayed for a long time, too, well into the evening, and Harry eventually decided to let the matter rest for the night.

Now he noticed Kern’s car had returned, parked in the exact same place, almost as if he’d never left.

He ascended the front steps and rapped on the door. Like a shot out of some old detective movie, the unlatched door clicked open on the first knock and drifted inward to reveal a scene of devastation: the staircase railing lay in ruin, its banisters reduced to firewood kindling.

Harry stood silent, his gaze taking in the damage.

“Jerry?” he called. “Margaret? Is anyone here?”

The air inside the house attacked his lungs the second he spoke, tainted by a smell that dredged up memories of Saigon hospitals ripened by the heat. He took a tentative step inside, his gaze fixed on a number of rust-colored smears leading toward the back of the house. His breath caught at the sight, and though his better judgment told him he should run back to his house and call the police, he needed to know what happened to his friends.

“Jerry,” he called louder. “Father Kern? Anyone?”

He ventured farther inside, following the reddish-brown trail toward the back of the house. It led out the rear door, across the patio, past the barbeque pit. From his place at the doorframe, he focused his gaze on where the marks terminated in the garden.

His mouth dropped open at the sight.

And for the first time in over fifty years, he screamed.

Detective Melissa Humble found the small town of Loretto on the other side of Highway 55, going south on County Road 19, less than three miles from the Pattersons’ house. The neighborhood she’d been called to, a wealthy subdivision comprised of only a couple dozen homes, waited minutes to the east.

Harold Fish greeted her in the driveway of Jerry Anderson’s house. Even before getting out of the car, she recognized the look of absolute shock on his face, an all-too-familiar expression universal to the friends and family of murder victims.

She got out of the car and introduced herself. The man’s blanched face matched the ashen color of his powder-white hair, and his words trembled when he told her about the horrifying discovery he’d made in his neighbor’s backyard. For a second, Melissa thought he might even pass out.

“Y-you’ll have to forgive me, Detective,” he stammered. “I’ve seen bodies messed up pretty bad before, both what the Viet Cong did to our guys and what we did to them, but that thing in the backyard…”

“It’s quite all right, Mr. Fish,” she assured him. “Take your time.”

He explained how he stumbled upon the local priest in his neighbor’s backyard, and despite being prepared for it, Melissa stopped short when she saw the man’s body for herself. She lingered in the doorway like a swimmer catching her breath before taking a dive. The priest had been stripped naked and sliced open, propped up like a scarecrow with his decapitated head inserted within a gaping abdominal wound. The brutality of the crime seemed to match the violence of the Patterson killings, but she didn’t notice any obvious calling cards.

The wind gusted and a cloud blocked the sun, darkening the lawn where Melissa stood.

In the shadow, fluttered by the breeze, the flimsy green arms of the corn stalks in the garden appeared to be reaching for her.

Mallory followed her dad out to the Ford, navigating the front walkway on autopilot. Across the street numerous police cars lined the curb in front of the Andersons’ house. Barrier tape surrounded the front steps and entryway now, and a tall man with a camera circled the one vehicle in the driveway, endlessly snapping pictures.

She’d arranged to meet with Becky at the Mall of America by one—she was already late—but part of her wanted to hang around home and find out what was going on. She thought about the shape she’d seen watching her from the Andersons’ window on Saturday, and the creepy tale her brother delivered moments before almost drowning in the pool.

She glanced over at BJ while her dad buckled him into his booster-seat. He sat slack-faced, still acting distant, not himself. This morning she’d overheard him mention something new about the pool incident, something about clothing in the water, but she couldn’t remember seeing any.

She settled into the front passenger seat and once again turned her attention toward the house across the street when they pulled out of the driveway.

“What do you think happened over there?” she asked.

“I don’t know,” her father replied.

“Voodooman,” BJ said.

Mallory could tell her dad didn’t approve of the boy’s remark, but he didn’t comment on it.

“Let’s go,” he said. “Next stop, The Mall.”

Melissa strolled through Mr. Anderson’s den, a cozy room on the first floor styled with Scandinavian décor: unvarnished pine woodwork, exposed beam ceiling, forest green carpeting, stone fireplace in the corner. She’d learned from Mr. Fish that Jerry Anderson held the title of Judge within the Minnesota judicial system, although he’d been retired from the bench for several years now. From what she understood, he had no connection to Kane whatsoever.

She looked up and found Rictor standing in the doorway.