Scott Nicholson Library Vol 3 Read online

  She lowered her gun, and lowered her head, and in that moment, I heard a curious sound from behind me. It was the baby, laughing for joy. I turned sharply and Tabby looked up.

  Gerda had risen on one knee, and she was holding little Petey in front of her.

  “You wanted me to say something to you,” said Gerda. “Well, how about this: put your gun down, bitch.”

  Now that was the Gerda I knew.

  Chapter Thirty-eight

  Petey clung to Gerda’s hair, his tiny fists bunched with the stuff. Gerda’s chest and clothing, and especially her two fresh wounds, were covered in loose dirt. She held Petey before her, and then turned, her filthy hands around his throat.

  “Toss aside your gun, or I claw his throat out. You have three seconds.”

  Tabby ran forward, her arms taut before her, gun up. She was looking for a good shot at Gerda’s head. But Gerda had Petey by the throat and used him as a shield. Petey was crying now, kicking and flailing. He looked like he was doing a Russian folk dance. I could see the child’s soft flesh squishing through Gerda’s fingers like bread dough.

  It was the first time I’d seen my son in the flesh, and now his flesh was bruised. I fought off the urge to grab Tabby’s gun and finish the job myself.

  “For the love of God, Tabby, put the gun down! She’s killing him!”

  She stopped, looking thoroughly panicked and mystified. Meanwhile, Gerda was still counting.

  “Two....”

  I didn’t know if she was counting down or up, but either way she was going to tear the kid’s larynx out with the passing of the next number. Tabitha saw the inevitability of it as well. She needed a kill shot, and Gerda’s head and heart were protected by the baby.

  “Okay, you win.” Tabby in that instant did something utterly amazing. In one swift movement, she replaced my cell phone with her pistol, apparently cramming the gun in her waistband.

  She threw my cell phone into the nearby brush, where it landed with a rustle and clatter. Gerda wasn’t really looking, too busy hiding behind the baby to see what really happened, and dusk was setting in. It worked. Gerda released her grip on the child. Now that Petey could gather a full breath, he let loose with some howls of unhappiness. Tears poured from his gorgeous, round eyes, the poor guy.

  Tabby held her arms out to either side. “The gun is gone.”

  Gerda looked suspicious, and glanced to where the cell phone had disappeared into the brush. I think she realized that she could have been duped, but there was nothing she could do about it now. All she had was a baby, and maybe the shovel if she could reach it.

  “Step back,” she hissed.

  We stepped back.

  “Further.”

  We stepped further.

  “What are you going to do, Gerda?” I asked. “It’s over. We know you killed Amanda and that man there.” I wanted to say the police were on the way, but Tabby had just blown that lie out of the water.

  “I’m going to leave with my boy, and I’m going to start over,” said Gerda. Her voice sounded perfectly reasonable, as if what she had just said wasn’t the world’s craziest statement.

  “He’s not your boy,” I said.

  “His mother is dead. I am his new mother.” Gerda’s voice was tight and filled with pain. She pulled herself up to her feet, still holding the baby, favoring her right leg.

  “You killed his mother,” said Tabitha. “You killed my sister.”

  “Yes, I did. She was in the way of my baby. You see, she had the baby I was always supposed to have, by the man I was supposed to have it with, at the time I most wanted one. It works out perfectly.”

  Gerda grabbed something near the mound of dirt. It was a cutting knife. A big cutting knife with a huge triangular head. The knife was dried with blood. It had been used to chop up the victim, perhaps even the same blade that killed Amanda.

  “You Meads think you know magic,” Gerda said. “All that silly talk of curses and spells. But you make your own magic in this world. Daddy knew all about that, and I learned from the best.”

  She held the knife loosely in one hand and eased her grip on the child’s throat, holding him aloft under the armpits now.

  “I see that you found another whore, Al. I also see that you are keeping it all in the family. Unfortunately, she is not the pretty one, but I guess she will have to do, right?”

  She limped forward. Bloody mud was clumping to her left shoe.

  “What are you doing, Gerda? Why are you doing this?”

  “Like father, like daughter, right? I was destined to be a killer. It’s in my blood. It’s how I was raised. Hell, I traveled around with the world’s greatest fucking killer. He killed dozens. I watched him. In fact, I’m certain I even helped him.”

  “You were a kid, you didn’t know any better. He was hurting you, too. You repressed these memories because it was the only way you could survive.”

  “I did. But now the fucking memories have all coming flooding back. How do you get rid of memories? You can’t. I tried, but it didn’t work. So why bother?”

  “You didn’t have to kill.”

  “Yes, I did. I didn’t have to kill randomly, but I did have to kill that whoring bitch.”

  “Amanda didn’t know I was married. I was the guilty one.”

  “Which is why you were going to be next. But you needed to suffer a little first.”

  “That silly voodoo doll?”

  “Yes, Al. Really silly. But it got you here. So it worked. Welcome to your greatest fear.”

  Gerda smiled and raised the knife to Petey’s throat. Petey’s wails had subsided to a long heartless moan, but he seemed most interested in the flashing knife at the moment, for his round eyes widened to almost comical proportions.

  Gerda kept the knife away from his grabbing hands. “Stay where you are, and don’t either of you run. One step in any direction and I kill this boy.”

  “You kill him and you lose your only bargaining chip,” said Tabby.

  Gerda’s smile emanated anything but warmth. “Then none of us have anything. And, besides, I have an extra little trick up my sleeve: the more I kill, the stronger I get.”

  “You’re playing with something out of your league,” Tabby said. “Nana had a century of practice and she still couldn’t master it. Witchcraft is more than just making blood sacrifices and spouting some spells you learned in a book.”

  “I’ve had a little practice myself,” Gerda said. “I was closer to Nana than you thought. She said you and Amanda didn’t want to carry on the family’s work, and she was grateful to have a willing pupil.”

  “You’re better than this, Gerda,” I said, wondering about the extent of her powers. “You’re not a cold-hearted killer. You’re not like your father. You’re nothing like him. I have seen you cry, and I have heard your story. He hurt you badly, and you have hurt some people badly, too, but this cycle must stop now. You can stop this. We can get you help.”

  She twisted, almost losing her grasp on Petey. “Get me help? But Albert, your actions started all of this. Remember, you cheated on me while we were in holy matrimony. You cheated on me when I needed you the most.”

  “I know. But I was not the right man for you, Gerda. You needed someone much stronger than me. I could not deal with your problems. They were too much.”

  “So you dealt with my problems by turning into a drunk and screwing someone else?”

  “You were no longer the person I married when the memories came back. I didn’t know who you were. I couldn’t understand what you were dealing with.”

  “So you ran.”

  “Yes.”

  “Into the arms of another woman.”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re pathetic, Al. I needed you and you ran, and now look what you have created. Who knew I would be so good at killing? Wouldn’t be so bad if there wasn’t so much blood involved. But that was what Daddy taught me, and what Nana taught me. To make a good omelet, you have to crack a few egg
s.”

  “We can get you help, Gerda,” I said, trying to sound earnest and pulling out the classic Shipway charm. “Listen to you. You’re talking about magic as if it’s real.”

  “Help? I’m too powerful. They will never trust me again.”

  Tabby spoke up. “No. They will find you criminally insane. Especially with your background and history. The justice system doesn’t have room for supernatural powers. Do you know how many people locked away in psych wards are actually witches?”

  Gerda laughed. “That’s coming from a witch who just took two pot shots at me.”

  I tried again. “You’re not a cold-hearted killer, Gerda. You are not like your father.”

  “No, I’m not. He was one of a kind, but you can only delay your destiny for so long. I am now a killer. And I like it. But despite this brat’s constant bawling, I still want to be his mother. So unless you want to see his cute little head cleaved from his shoulders, I suggest the two of you head back toward the shed there.”

  Tabby and I glanced at each other, hesitating. Without us, Petey would be at the mercy of a vindictive woman who was getting crazier by the minute.

  “Go on,” said Gerda, shaking the blade. “Get going. I have to bandage my leg, thanks to Miss Bitch, and then get moving. I have a flight to catch.”

  “Okay, we’ll go,” said Tabby. “Just please don’t hurt, Petey.”

  She pressed the blade against Petey’s neck and I could see his tender skin indented. “That depends on whether or not you get into the shed within the next five seconds.”

  Tabby whispered out of the corner of her mouth. “Cover me, Al. Get behind me.”

  She turned and headed toward the shed. I slipped in behind her and blocked Gerda’s view of the pistol handle sticking out of her jeans waistband. Together we walked around the pit, neither of us looking at the body in it, and entered the shed.

  Chapter Thirty-nine

  “Now shut the door,” Gerda instructed.

  I reached out and pulled the double doors shut.

  Grunting, I heard her shuffle over. Petey was mumbling something incoherent, the crying subsided. Although clearly upset and subject to much hostility of late, the kid seemed remarkably cool under pressure. Must have gotten that from Amanda.

  At the door to the shed, Gerda paused. She fumbled with something outside the door, which banged repeatedly against the metal. Finally there came a resounding click, followed by a sigh of satisfaction from Gerda.

  “There now,” she said. “Oh, and Tabitha...his name’s not ‘Petey’ any more. It’s ‘Charlie.’ He’s my little Charlie.”

  “You’re sick.”

  “I think so,” she said through the door, laughing.

  The shed was dark, the only light coming from a hint of crack along the double doors. There were no windows or even vents. Thank God we were in spring, and night was coming. The shed, for now, was cool.

  “I was going to bury my sacrifice as a courtesy, but now I think I must get myself cleaned up and get running along,” Gerda said.

  In the darkness, I could just make out Tabby pointing her gun at the door, guessing at the direction of Gerda’s voice. But I knew she wouldn’t shoot without knowing whether Petey was out of the line of fire.

  Kah-dooon.

  From inside the house came a crashing sound, as if someone had upended a table. Then came a thundering rumble of wood, growing louder as the noise descended.

  “Who’s there?” Gerda called, a little nervous.

  “Did you call back-up after all?” I asked Tabby.

  “No, that’s something else.”

  The footsteps

  “Who’s in there, Al?” Gerda’s slightly muffled voice was filled with a hint of panic.

  “I don’t know. But open the door and we can help you.”

  “Bullshit,” she hissed.

  Something heavy nudged against me and I grabbed it. Cold steel. A crowbar. I wedged it in the crack of the door, near the hasp and the lock.

  From somewhere came the trudging of boots on the patio. Whoever was coming was making no attempt to conceal the fact.

  “Who—?” Gerda’s raised voice was cut off. Something close to a hysterical cry seemed to bubble slowly through her, rising up through her torso and chest, until finally she managed a strangled scream.

  “No! No-o-o! It can’t be.”

  Inside the shed, Tabby turned to me. “Daddy’s home.”

  Chapter Forty

  More stomping of booted feet—or, in this case, booted clay feet—as the golem continued unerringly toward its target: Gerda. I wondered if it even knew that it was dressed up to look like her father.

  With clay for brains, probably not.

  The next thing we heard was a small thump, followed immediately by a huge wail from little Petey.

  “She dropped him,” said Tabitha.

  “Do you blame her?” I asked. “Her fucking dead father is standing out there in front of her. Even if she’s been dabbling in magic, that’s got to be an eye-opener. Ah, shit, she’s going to need three lifetimes of therapy.”

  “Use the bar,” Tabby said.

  I tested the angle and then threw all my strength into a wrenching yank. Screws popped loose but the hasp still held. I was afraid the noise and the panic would cause Gerda to go wild with the cutter.

  I repositioned the crowbar, found purchase, and tugged, throwing my shoulder into the door this time. Bone clacked against wood and the metal vibration jarred me all the way to my molars, but the door flew open and I nearly landed on my face.

  Petey wailed bloody murder. Gerda was babbling through heavy sobs. “Sorry, Daddy, I been a bad girlie. Sorry, Daddy, I been a bad girlie.”

  As I picked myself up, Tabby hustled around me. Gerda was on her knees, hands raised and palms out as if warding off a coming punishment. “Don’t hurt me no more, Daddy.”

  Her plaintive, childish pleas tugged at my guts. For all her conniving, murdering ways, she had once been as innocent as any of us.

  And hulking over her was the stuff of nightmares. He was still wearing shades, perhaps to disguise the fact that he had no eyes. In the encroaching darkness, his face was nearly obscured by the hat, and the collar of his coat was turned up. He was just the way he’d been the night before in the rest home for retired witches. But what else could you expect from a creature conjured from beyond? It wasn’t like he’d pop into Michel’s House of Style for a makeover.

  Tabby ran beside Gerda and scooped up Petey, who was slapping his hands together as if he wanted to make mud pies out of the stranger.

  The golem bent over Gerda, who was now bawling hysterically and shuddering violently, acting a little like Petey had during his fearful tantrums.

  “Please, Daddy,” she whimpered. “Me sorry.”

  I did something that surprised even me. I scrambled away from the shed and shoved my way between Gerda and the abomination that was in the image of her father. Her father was a big man, if the likeness was true, and Nana seemed like the type who dotted her i’s and crossed her t’s when it came to building nightmares. He bore down on me steadily, his thin lips unmoving, his brownish skin gleaming wetly, yet managing to look powdery all the same. He stomped and the ground shook beneath me. Good Christ, he was a big man.

  “Leave Gerda alone,” I said, not recognizing my own voice.

  “Get away, Al,” Tabby yelled. “I’ve got Petey.”

  “I can’t leave Gerda like this,” I shouted. “I’m the reason he’s back.”

  That grin was horrible. Was that how Gerda remembered her father? With that sick sort of half grin on his thin lips? The smirk of the sociopath, the gleeful expression of hell on earth.

  Tabby’s gun fired and something went splat in the golem’s neck, spitting bits of moist soil onto my face. But as quickly as it appeared, the hole closed with a wet slorp. The grin, which had vanished upon impact, now returned.

  “Okay,” I said. “Bullets are out.”

  In
one swift movement, his left arm swept in a mighty arc that sent me flying through the air. The force of the blow was inhuman and drove the wind from my lungs. Nothing could resist that. I tumbled over Gerda and into the pit, almost sure my arm was broken from the impact.

  I landed on Poochy’s corpse and scrambled to claw my way out of the hole, which was slick with blood. With me out of the way, and Tabby backing slowly up against the house with a still-crying Petey in her arms, the golem focused on Gerda. Its massive, gleaming hands, forged flesh made of river clay, reached out and circled around her neck.

  She cried out and tried to slink backwards. Her last “sorry” was cut off in mid-utterance as her vocal cords and neck were slowly being crushed by the mighty hands. Gerda spasmed and I got a desperate foothold and propelled myself to the lawn. My hand thunked on something metallic.

  The shovel.

  The golem was still standing over a very limp Gerda. Grinning wickedly, its head tilted down, as if he was going to open up his maw of mud and suck her down inside him.

  Yelling a tortured “Banzai!” like I’d heard in Bruce Lee karate movies, I ran forward and slung the edge of the shovel into the creature’s shoulder. The coat split open and the dirty meat parted.

  It figured. If you wanted to move clay, you needed a shovel.

  A little encouraged, I tugged the blade free and delivered another blow, this time to the back of the head. The dirty mouth opened as if to scream, but no sound came out. When I pulled the blade out this time, a decent scoop of the bastard’s head came with it. I could only hope it was brains.

  The sky was darker now, so I couldn’t see where Tabby was, but the next shot came from the patio. The bullet zilched into the golem’s back, and this time he reached up a club-fingered hand to wipe at the entry wound. Gerda gasped and struggled but was still gripped in one crude hand.

  “It’s getting weaker!” I shouted, more for my sake than Tabby’s. I chopped again, this time imagining the goddamned serial killer as a mortal, torturing poor women for the vanity of his sorry soul, seeking to divine a magical power that should never have been his.