Visions of her flashed before my eyes, accompanied by images of Toni, and eventually, Bernard. We were all tied together now—forever—and I could no longer separate the three, could no longer think of one without also thinking of the others. When I’d been inside Claudia, her past—and those who had been there before me—didn’t matter. It wasn’t until I thought of Bernard having been there too that for one brief but brutal moment I’d been sickened, and from that point forward I knew that even if Toni and I ended up back together, I’d never be able to look at her again without also experiencing these spectral memories.
“So she’s gone now, huh?”
I saw her in a blink, the towel pressed against her chest, her face washed in candlelight. You’re running into the dark and I’m running away from it.
“Yeah,” I said. “She’s gone. She wanted to go someplace else and start over. She believed she could, anyway.”
“Must be nice.”
“Starting over?”
“Yeah.”
I nodded. “Guess it all depends on how you do it.”
“Think we’ll ever get the chance?”
“Think we’ll take it even if we do?”
“Probably not.” He laughed lightly, ironically. “This fucking town’s all we know, all we’ve ever known and probably all we ever will know.”
“Kind of sad,” I mumbled.
“It’s not so bad. This is our home. Where the hell else are we supposed to go?”
The road had grown a bit more uneven and rugged. The Cherokee jostled us about and Rick slowed his speed. The beginnings of forest awaited us in the distance. “Pull over,” I said. “We’ll walk in from here.”
We locked up the Jeep and stood near the edge of the woods. Just over the treetops, the highest points of the Buchanan building were visible in the distance, an unnatural glitch in the otherwise pristine skyline. The sun, all but swallowed by the horizon, continued to sink, a final hurrah of red glowing radiance filtering through the trees as it gradually slipped from sight. We watched the sky without speaking. Before we reached the end of the forest and crossed onto the Buchanan Mill parking lot, it would be completely dark.
Rick clutched his scuba knife in one hand, a large flashlight in the other. He held them both up, as if to remind me that he had them. In a sleeveless, skintight black shirt, black jeans and black hiking boots, hair slicked back and skin tan and muscular, he looked like some special ops commando on a night raid. But the usual expressions that colored his face, those of confidence bordering on arrogance, enthusiasm and an ease with himself and his surroundings, the premeditated satisfaction he had always drawn from being in control and self-assured, had gone missing. The last thing I needed at this point was a paper tiger.
“You all right?” I asked.
“I’m good.” He slid the scabbard into his belt. “Let’s just get this done, OK?”
I turned my head toward the distant sea. We weren’t quite close enough to hear it yet, but I could smell it. I could feel it.
I could also feel faded vestiges of Bernard here. He had driven these roads, walked these woods, breathed this air and watched night close in over the tops of these trees the same as us. Had he done things here, right here? Had his victims looked at this same sky, all the while wondering if it might be the last thing they’d ever see? Did they know, as they stood on this very ground we now walked on, that death was inescapable? Did they cry here? Fight and plead for their lives?
Did they bleed here?
We trudged into the forest, moving toward glimpses of the distant mill through the trees. Rick took the lead with long, powerful strides, forcing me to hurry to keep up with him. The cool air the storm had brought with it the night before was already gone, replaced again with stifling humidity, but within moments we encountered a welcome and steady breeze bounding in off the ocean.
Unexpectedly, Rick came to an abrupt halt and looked around. “Why’d we have to come through here?” he asked quietly.
And then I knew he felt it too. Bernard had used this stretch of forest, I was certain of it. He had brought them here first. It made perfect sense. His earliest prey had been victimized in the woods, and for some reason it had a connection to the hideous acts he committed. This particular stretch was the perfect area for his demented games. Isolated but accessible, there was nowhere to go, nowhere to run other than to the rocky coast and ocean beyond, or the old mill. And once there, he would have even more privacy. No one could hear them. No one could help them. Cries and shrieks of terror and agony would go unanswered, echoing through the bowels of a forgotten and decaying relic.
“He brought them here, Rick.”
He nodded but said nothing. The ghosts were back, and they spoke to me instead.
Bernard held her tight, one hand on the small of her back, the other cradling her neck. Her hair, wet and matted, streaked and stuck together in clumps from rain and dirt and sweat lay pasted against her cheek. He drew a deep breath, inhaled her scent, detecting earth—soil—mixed with perspiration and some uniquely feminine smells. He tightened his grip, held her closer still and leaned back his head. His eyes struggled to focus through the darkness and rain falling through the treetops overhead, tickling his face and reminding him just how alive he was. His lips parted, allowed the drops to trickle into his mouth. As it accumulated and sloshed free, running over his chin, across his throat and over his neck like the blood of Earth it was, he looked into what was left of her eyes. “Can you see God?” he whispered, so only she might hear.
Her clothes, strewn across nearby branches, billowed in the wind. He kissed her forehead and squeezed her tight. Her bones, so close to the skin, brought him back. And then it was just the two of them—for now—there in the forest, Earth and sky, night and day, good and evil, blood and dirt, all exploding into one.
As he released her frail form, she slumped over into a bed of wet leaves, arms flopping out, legs bent and pinned beneath her. He rose slowly to his feet, his legs shaking and unsteady, chest frantically rising and falling as cold rain gushed from a night sky. He staggered to a nearby tree, found the knife he had plunged into it earlier, and yanked it free. Turning in a slow pirouette, he threw back his head, arms outstretched to worship the rain. His dance led him back to her, and he dropped to his knees, draping himself across her upper body, his cheek against hers, one hand clutching the knife and the other gently stroking her throat. Cracked and battered lips moved as the woman’s chest heaved. He pressed his ear to her mouth. “Kill me,” she whispered.
He touched her face tenderly; stunned she still had the strength to speak. “What do you see?” he asked, gazing into her mangled eyes. “Tell me what you see.”
The wind answered, as did the rain, but she could not.
“Tell me,” he insisted. “I need… I need to know for sure.”
Thunder rumbled in the distance, breaking his concentration. He stood up, slipped the knife between his teeth and grabbed her by the feet. Trudging through the leaves and mud, he dragged her to the designated tree, found the rope and used the dangling end to bind her legs at the ankle. With three strong pulls of the rope she was raised upward, her limp nude body swaying, arms and hair hanging, reaching for the ground.