CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

 

 

The secret to Esmeralda Fitzgerald's afternoon tea cookies was a crumbled stick of genuine cinnamon.

Her mother had taught her the cookie recipe. A sacred rite passed down from her mother before her, and her mother before that. Special afternoon tea cookies would remain a ritual for another hundred generations of Fitzgeralds.

All the weeks she'd been in hospital, choking down vegetables so overcooked they'd started to go grey and sipping endless boxes of watered-down juice, she'd been thinking of those special afternoon tea cookies. The way they snapped in the hand. That fresh aroma, so unlike the sterile, antiseptic tang of St Jeremiah's.

Sometimes, the hunger had grown so bad she'd screamed.

But now, after so long, she was home. Home, and with guests. So what better time was there to break out the family recipe?

Esmeralda kept the cinnamon in an airtight tin in the cupboard over the sink, and even though her back ached in strange ways when she got up on her kitchen stool to fetch that tin down, it was worth it for the dry sensation of the bark crunching in her palms. The smell left on her skin would linger until the evening, and just holding her hands up to her face and breathing deep would be enough to send her back in time twenty years to her own mother's kitchen.

There were always shows on TV about time travel. Twilight Zone, Outer Limits. If only those eggheads knew that all you needed was a family recipe and a quiet kitchen to make it so.

Mumbling from the living room, where Esmeralda's guests waited. The Garter boys from next door, sweet kids, truly, and the woman she'd met that night in the parking lot. Esmeralda couldn't recall the woman's name, but what did that matter? A friend was a friend was a friend.

Esmeralda laid out the dough, slid the tray into the oven and squatted down to watch the cookies rise. "You'll just die when you taste these," she called over her shoulder. "My niece visits every summer just for my baking. I'd give you the recipe, but I'm saving it to pass on as inheritance."

No reply. Maybe the Garter boys hadn't heard the joke. Or maybe it just wasn't very funny. That thought made Esmeralda's shoulder blades itch. Jokes had never been her thing, and every time she told one the air in the room seemed to grow heavy. Her father had once bought her a book of one-thousand-and-one jokes and she'd done her best to learn them all, but she was still missing something essential in the delivery. Esmeralda and jokes didn't mix. Esmeralda and baking, on the other hand...

The cookies were rising faster than normal. Gosh, almost like they were trying to escape the tray. Good. Her guests were hungry. Enough time to tidy the kitchen, she thought, and went to put away the rolling pin, the mixing bowl, her wooden-handled knife...

Her hand hesitated over the knife. The blade made her nervous, although she couldn't recall why. When she closed her eyes...

A light so close to her face it burned the tip of her nose. Scalpels descending. The papery crinkle of skin peeling back.

But that was only a bad dream.

The sweet smell of smoke. She'd gone wandering, and that was no good, not if the cookies burned. Murmurs from the living room - her guests were getting impatient and she still couldn't recall the woman's name. All she remembered was yelling. Maybe they'd bumped fenders in a car park? No, that wasn't it. Esmeralda hadn't driven in weeks.

She jerked the cookies out of the oven, heedless of the hot tray. No pain in her hands as she tilted the tray back and forth: the cookies were stuck fast, and when she tried to dig them free with a spatula, the whole pan slipped from her fingers and clattered on the floor.

She couldn't hold anything these days, and it wasn't like arthritis ran in her family. Just a strange case of the Monday clumsys.

Instead, she tried prying the cookies free with the blade of her palm. The hot pan burned a mottled impression into her skin, but the pain didn't seem so important, not nearly as important as making sure her guests were well fed.

The smell, though. The smell was what got to her. That sickly aroma of burning skin.

There was a moment when she stared at her hands - seared raw from the heat - and was certain they were not her own. That they were a dead woman's hands, black and gnarled by pain. Her mother's hands.

Then she blinked, and the moment passed.

"Clumsy," she grunted. "Too clumsy." She popped the cookies free from the pan as best she could. The radio in the living room was playing one of her favourite tunes, although she couldn't remember turning it on. Had her guest flipped the switch? That irritated her, for some reason. Guests shouldn't be playing with other people's things, not without asking first.

Still, she couldn't help singing along. It was Dream a Little Dream, the same song she been listening to that night on the mountain. That night when...

All she knew was that it'd been important. Painful. A night she'd learned something vital about herself.

A night of purpose.

All dim now, and half forgotten. She sang dream a little dream, dream a little dream under her breath as she arranged the cookies on a clean plate. People always joked that Esmeralda Fitzgerald was only a few letters away from Ella Fitzgerald, and that she should've gotten a voice to match the name, but even after vocal lessons she couldn't sing her way out of a paper bag.

She glanced out the window over the kitchen sink and noticed the sky already darkening around the edges. How had time passed so quickly? Surely it didn't take that long to bake cookies? Then back down to the plate clutched in her hands, hands she was once again convinced were not her own.

For the space of a heartbeat, the cookies pulsed and twisted, glutinous and slick and thudding ever so faintly with the rhythm of tiny life.

One blink, and the rhythm stopped.

She staggered a little as she walked the tray of cookies into the living room - old knees, old ankles, everything getting squeaky in her advanced years - and forced a smile as she set the plate on the coffee table. "I know you're been waiting, so don't hold back! Everyone who tries these asks for my secret recipe."

Her guests said nothing. They sat in a row on the couch opposite the kitchen: the two boys first, knees drawn to chests, hugging themselves like they were warding off cold. Beside them, the stranger she'd met in the parking lot the night before last. She sat oddly, like she'd hurt her leg, and her clothes were stained a dusky red.

Esmeralda didn't like to think about blood. Didn't like to think about the boys holding themselves tight, either. Something was wrong and it dragged at her like a splinter, the urge to claw and scratch and pry until the truth slid free...

Then Esmeralda blinked, and her attention

simply

slid

away.

"I couldn't possibly have the first cookie." Esmeralda pushed the plate towards her guests, porcelain squeaking on the tabletop. "They're best fresh from the oven. Don't make me beg, now."

Still, her guests didn't move.

The kettle was wailing in the kitchen, a high-pitched scream that echoed through the halls of Esmeralda's home. She didn't remember putting the kettle on the stove. Kettle? No, that was the strange woman she'd brought home. Her mouth was open wide and she was trying to speak, but nothing was coming out except a howl of anguish.

This struck Esmeralda as rude. She didn't know why. It was a regular Monday. She had guests. Feeding her guests cookies was what a good host did.

If only she could remember why the three were in her house. Why she'd invited the boys inside. What the woman's name was.

Why, when she blinked, she saw her cookies still squirming on the platter.

The two boys were edging towards the end of the couch, like they were trying to make an early exit. "You're the first children to ever refuse the secret Fitzgerald recipe," Esmeralda told them, trying to keep the irritation out of her voice. This wasn't how it was supposed to go. Things had been simple these last few days. Her leisurely hike through the woods had been exactly what she needed to unwind after a long stay in hospital, and after that she'd made so many friends. Everyone was so excited to meet her. No one ever said no to her gifts.

Now, all she wanted was for her gosh-dang guests to eat one gosh-dang cookie.

"Eat," she said, and the boys edged further toward the end of the sofa. "Eat!"

That was when one of the boys made a sobbing noise in the back of his throat and broke for the door. His brother, left on the sofa, screamed, reaching out with one dirty hand.

Esmeralda didn't stop to think about why the boy's hand was smeared with dirt up to the wrist. Didn't think about why his brother was bolting. All she could think about was the offense of it, the insult to her, the cookies, her family recipe, her mother and her mother's mother and nobody insulted her like that, nobody, and before she could reconsider she was sprinting after the boy, tripping, scuttling, mouth open in a roar of fury and then her hands were on the back of his neck, her teeth were sinking into the boy's skull and her mouth was full of heat, hot blood, blood in her throat, blood on her teeth, on her fingers, sticky, hot, hot, hot-

She left the boy where he lay. Wiped her mouth on the back of her hand and dragged her way into the living room. The second boy hadn't moved, frozen with his hands clenched in his lap. The stranger she'd met in the parking lot was weeping, and now Esmeralda realised that the woman's leg was a mass of torn flesh. Her hand, too. One finger severed an inch above the knuckle.

All such small, silly details. So easy to blink and let them all

slide

away.

"Eat," she whispered. "I made these for you. Why won't you eat?"

The boy was shaking with hiccupy sobs. He smelled of pee. But he was in her house and he needed to eat, and as the rage swelled Esmeralda found herself shoving the plate across the table, cookies bouncing free, rolling away. "I made these for you! Why won't you eat?" She snatched a double handful of cookies before climbing over the table. "It's my special recipe! Why won't you eat?"

Dimly, in the back of her mind, was a pleading voice. An old Esmeralda Fitzgerald whispering, no, no! This isn't right! Let them go! For God's sake, let them go!

The anger drowned out the doubts. The strange woman hadn't moved, so she grabbed her by the hair, dragged her forward. "See? She likes them!" Esmeralda dug her fingers into the strange woman's mouth, forced her jaw open, fingertips scraping against chipped teeth. Screams echoed off the walls but they were muted, easy to ignore.

Are you insane? Stop!

"Eat it!" She slammed one of her cookies into the woman's mouth. A sob, a sputter, and crumbs sprayed across the sofa. Esmeralda had cookies to spare. She crammed two between the stranger's cheeks and clamped her jaw closed.

The boy, frozen on the end of the sofa, sobbed. His cheeks were tracked with tears and his hands trembled by his sides, beating against the cushions.

Esmeralda didn't stop to wonder why her guest wasn't fighting her off. Couldn't fight her off. Didn't look at how the crumbs wiggled across the carpet. How the cookies she'd left on the plate squirmed, swelling with rapid heartbeats. How soft they were.

"Eat it!"

How her own hands were withered with rot.

How the memories of scalpels flashed and hissed behind her eyes.

"Eat!"

How her own voice was nothing but an animal snarl.

How her belly swelled almost down to her knees.

How the skin there pricked outward, pressed by tiny claws, always moving, questing, hungry for the light.

It was so simple to take those problems, close her eyes and let them

all

slide

away.

 

Fitch's hand on his arm was the only thing keeping Goodwell upright as they staggered back toward the stolen car. Goodwell's toes kept catching on pebbles, but Fitch didn't rush him. They shuffled together past the clapboard barn, the bodies lying twisted and black in the path, hands over their faces, knees curled to their chests.

He wondered if they'd still been mindless at the end, or if they'd been children again.

"Detective."

When he died - because it would come, he knew that much, in Rustwood it always came too early - would he still be the old queen's toy? Or would he be Goodwell? "They're not getting back up, are they?"

"No sir. It's... the boys said something about the old queen."

A cold hand closed around his heart. "Didn't hear much. Too busy trying not to die."

"Well, I was listening. I heard it. They said the old queen was in you. What'd they mean, buddy?"

He ducked his head. Buddy? "If they said it, I didn't hear it."

Fitch spat into the weeds at the side of the path. "I don't know what game you're playing, Detective."

"I don't play games. I aim straight."

"Wish I could believe that." But this town..." A long sigh. "Whaddaya think's gonna be left, when all this is done? When we've killed the two queens?"

It was blasphemy to even say it, but Goodwell had to reply. He searched for words that wouldn't arouse his boss's anger. "Hard to even imagine."

"I can imagine. I see fear everywhere and I think about how people will be when they aren't scared. When was the last time you heard someone laugh, Detective? Not a sad laugh. I laugh, sure. But I'm not happy. Nobody is."

They finally reached the car. It seemed a year ago they'd stepped out onto the muddy field, thinking it'd all be so simple. A Molotov down a well, bam, done. A neat exorcism.

"You're the big-picture sort of guy," Goodwell said, as he climbed inside. "Me, I keep my eyes down. Find one clue, connect it to the next, form a chain. Don't think big. When you try to hold it all at once, the important pieces slip through your hands."

"This is more than a philosophy lecture, Detective. This is life or death."

"Not arguing with you there. But I'm trying to keep us alive by moving one step at a time, all the way to the end. You want a glorious new day for Rustwood? You take it slow or you'll trip over your own feet and end up in a ditch."

The car took three tries to start, and as they headed off from the farm it sputtered, choking on what sounded like water in the engine. Still, it worked. That was more than could be said for Goodwell's twisted fingers.

He touched his forehead. Still bloody. All of him was battered.

But the old queen would always have more tasks waiting. No rest for a good little servant. Sometimes he wondered if she understood how much pain he was in, how the sleepless nights left him thin, how he woke to a cascade of aches in his joints and soul.

He wondered if she even knew he was human.

The car skidded around the bend at the top of Potter's Hill. Goodwell's head bumped against the window and a bolt of pain shot through his skull. He grimaced, looking sideways at the vagrant, trying to make out any hint of suspicion in his expression. Had it only been a coincidence? No, Fitch was smart. One of the smartest men Goodwell knew.

Fight knowledge with knowledge, Goodwell thought. But how much did he have on Fitch? He didn't even know the man's name.

Might as well start there. "What sort of a name is Fitch, anyway?"

"Fitch is all I got."

"You don't have a name? Or you just don't want to say?"

Fitch shook his head. "Maybe there was something else there, once. I chased it a while. Didn't stick. I figured I had more important things to do, anyhow. What's a name compared to a town?"

"When this is done, people will remember you."

"How? Everything I do turns back by the next day. Places I've burned down, the things I've killed..." He grimaced as the pickup bounced off potholes. "Only one that stuck was saving Mrs Archer."

"That's your legacy? Being the sidekick?"

Fitch snorted. "That's what's up your ass, is it? A legacy? Gotta leave something behind, huh?"

"Everyone wants to be remembered-"

"Not like you, Detective. You want to be a hero. Statues and plaques and all that bullshit. I just want a quiet place. Stop the beast roarin' in my head all the time. That'd be best for everyone."

Goodwell looked Fitch up and down. Such a strange little man, hunched and twitching away from every imagined noise. He'd killed monsters that'd leave most people gibbering and insane, faced down the worst the pretender could throw at him, and he still couldn't stand tall.

All this time, Goodwell had thought Fitch was still afraid. Maybe that wasn't it at all. It wasn't that he couldn't stand tall, but that he chose not to. And it wasn't because he didn't want to be targeted, like lieutenants peeling the bars from their collars as soon as they landed in Danang. It was because he thought there were better men to lead.

No. A better woman.

And yet, the old queen wanted Fitch gone. She thought he was a threat, and what the queen wanted, the queen got. It'd happen by Goodwell's hand or another, but in time, it would happen.

But at that moment, with the vagrant almost collapsing from exhaustion beside him, Goodwell didn't want him dead. He wanted him safe. Bundled up somewhere warm where he didn't have to be so afraid, so twitchy all the time. If such a place existed...

Maybe, he thought, Fitch could be saved. If he could just turn the old queen around, convince her Fitch wasn't a threat. But for that, Fitch would have to lay down his arms.

And, without warning, he knew what Fitch needed. "You know the service road that goes to the convent? I've got something to show you down there."

Fitch's eyes narrowed. "Don't like the sound of this, Detective."

"Trust me."

Fitch only grunted, but he took the turn. Goodwell leaned his head against the cool window-glass and his thoughts swam back to the dead boy's words. Their accusations.

The old queen's in you, and you're still Jonathon Goodwell.

The old queen's in you.

Which meant one of two things.

Either the boys had still been children inside their own minds, the day Goodwell killed them - guided by the new queen but still conscious, begging, crying as he pressed the barrel of his pistol against their foreheads - or they hadn't. The new queen had been so deep in them, so all-consuming, that there wasn't anything left of the three boys but skin and screams.

So what did that say about him?

Goodwell rubbed his mouth and spat.

He couldn't clear the taste of rainwater from his tongue.