Christopher Ransom - The Birthing House

But Nadia was still shaking her head. 'No. There was a woman.'

Conrad stared at her, telling himself that there must be another explanation, even though he knew it was a lie.

'I'm sorry. Get back in bed. I need to check your bandages.'

'You don't believe me?'

'It doesn't matter--'

'Then what the fuck is that?' Her arm shot out, pointing.

'What? I don't--'

He walked to the doorway.

It was lying on the floor, center to the doorframe as if it had been delivered. Of course he recognized it; it had come from his kitchen. He picked up the knife. It was the long serrated one, the thin blade that came to an almost needle-like point made for cutting fish. Tied to the handle was a thin yellow ribbon laced through a scrap of yellow paper.

On the yellow paper, in a fine and femininely looped script, four words in black ink . . .

other mother must go

31

'It's your wife,' Nadia said. 'She came home. I need to leave.'

He was still holding the knife, reading the four words over and over. Jo's handwriting? He didn't think so, but it still made him feel sick just holding it. He set the knife on the dresser, wishing for it to disappear. Nadia had gotten to her feet and was bent over in pain. He knew that if she had the strength she would have bolted.

'Don't do that.' He rushed to her side and tried to maneuver her back into bed. 'Not in the middle of the night. Let's think about this.'

'I need to go home.' But she sat down, winced, and leaned back into the bank of pillows he was arranging for her.

'It's not Jo,' he said. 'Why would Jo do this?'

'What do you mean, why? Because she's trying to send us a message? Because she's crazy? How should I know, she's your wife!'

'No, no. Jo is not the kind of woman to play tricks. I'm not saying she doesn't have a temper. And, yes, if she saw us here, if she came home and found us . . . convalescing together, she would be upset. She would be very fucking upset.'

'Oh my God. Are you trying to make me lose my shit? This is so wrong. Please take me home.'

'I'm just saying, Jo wouldn't be creeping around at night, watching us. She would be screaming her head off. And the dogs. No way would she be able to get within half a block of the house without the dogs going wild. They haven't seen her in a month. No. Uh-uh. It's not Jo. This is something else.'

Nadia gathered herself up, trying to maintain. 'When was the last time you talked to her?'

'Just yester--' It seemed like yesterday, but the last time they had actually spoken was at least three . . . no, at least four or five days ago, before the incident with the dogs and the mirrors.

'Jesus,' he said, rubbing his eyes. 'I can't believe this.'

'What?'

'I don't remember the last time I talked to my wife.'

'So, there you go. Michigan is like twelve hours by car and an hour by plane. She could have come home, maybe seen something strange and decided to wait and see. She could be watching us right now, Conrad!'

'Don't panic,' he said. 'You're going to hurt yourself.'

'Don't tell me what to do,' she said, hiccupping.

'Nadia, it's not Jo. Where would she be staying? The Dairyland Motel up the street? This isn't some murder mystery with stakeouts and the jealous wife. That's crazy.'

'Are you sure? Because it sort of feels like it.'

'I know her. Trust me.'

'Maybe you're not telling me everything.'

'Nadia, for all I know you put the knife there.'

'What? Why would I do that? How would I even---'

'You were talking in your sleep. Completely out of it.' He dared not tell her about the 'conversation' he had with Alma. For one, he was trying not to believe it had actually happened. For another, telling Nadia she had been invaded by a spirit that wanted her to 'give a life to have a life' would only confirm her worst nightmares and send her jumping out the window.

'So, what are you saying? You think I'm a total psycho now?'

'No. Just . . . maybe we don't know everything we're doing here.'

'How do I know you weren't the one who brought the knife back? And how would I know where you keep your knives, anyway?

Conrad frowned, not at all appreciating having the tables turned. 'You think I'm part of this? I'm trying to help you, not scare you away.' He grabbed the knife off the dresser. 'For all we know, Laski's wife's gone off the deep end and come back to scare both of us. Now, she was fucking nuts.'

'Mrs Laski is not a tall woman with black hair. Your wife is.'

He had no response for that. He headed for the door.

'Where are you going?'

'To search the house.'

'No way. You cannot leave me here.'

'Nadia, I specifically remember locking the doors, twice. If someone broke in, I'll know.'

'What if she didn't break in?' she said.

'What do you mean?'

'Just what I said. What if it's . . . her?'

He knew, but he didn't want the girl to believe it, too. 'I didn't see anyone in the library.'

She watched him. 'You're lying. You've seen her, too.'

'If it was her, then you don't have to worry.'

'Why not?'

'I have to say it now? Okay, because she's a ghost.'

'A ghost,' Nadia said.

'Sure, why not? And who cares, because what can a ghost do?'

'I don't know,' Nadia said. 'This one seems to have written a note and dropped a knife on the floor.'

She said this almost flippantly, but the notion rocked him. Alma had taken control of Nadia long enough to speak in her tongue. Could she have come back and sent the girl to fetch the knife? To write a note? Warning herself - Nadia, the other mother - to go away?

If they stayed another night, would Alma command Nadia to take her own life? Or his?

He rubbed his eyes, hard. 'I have to check the house.'

'You better come back soon.'

'I will. I promise, no one's going to hurt you.'

He moved around the stairs, through the library. 'Alice, Luther,' he called. 'Come on, doggies.'

The sound of their nails clicking on the wooden floor echoed softly up the butler stairs. He paused in the back hall, listening. Somewhere a door creaked. He thought that must have been Nadia, deciding she would be safer with the bedroom door closed.

All three doors were locked.

The dogs were on the couch. Alice raised her head when he entered the room, giving him that Are you going to feed me now? look. Luther yawned and stretched his back, producing a disturbingly human-sounding fart. If they were still in the living room, what was with the clicking? Had they walked into the kitchen, then gone back to the couch?

He left the dogs and set the knife down on the kitchen table, glancing at the note one last time. He went to the fridge and poured a tall glass of iced tea, letting it drip down the hollow of his throat while he stood over the sink.

The knife was just about the worst kind of unsettling. He did not believe Jo had gone that far off the rails. But another part of him, the part that had read enough detective novels to question motive, wondered if it wasn't possible. The enraged wife thing was an obvious angle. The problem was, it didn't feel like Jo.

What if it was you?

What if you've lost your mind for this girl and the stress and killing that kid and all the loneliness has finally driven you to the point where you know not what you do in your sleep? How about that, 'Rad?

This possibility bit into him like a viper, poisoning all confidence that he was doing the right thing by trying to manage the situation alone.

What have I done? What am I about to do?

No, you wouldn't be standing here thinking about it if you were that far gone.

But you do need help. Quit fucking around and call someone.

He needed to talk to Jo. He picked up the phone and tried to develop an explanation, a cover story to hide the panic.