Dark Duets Part 57

He took a deep breath. It hurt; fish hooks and barbed wire. "Thomas wasn't out playing with his friends. I told the police he was, but he wasn't. He was in the house all morning. Part of the time he was watching me-helping me, as he called it. Then he got bored and went downstairs to watch TV. I was struggling with the valve, the radiator was leaking, and my temper was fraying at the edges. I heard a crash from downstairs, and Thomas let out a squeal. I was furious and worried at the same time. I yelled his name but didn't get a reply, so I packed a few towels around the leak and rushed onto the landing."

Allan's throat crackled. He gasped and took a quick shot of morphine. The pain, this time, was harder to displace. It lodged somewhere in his heart. A cold and jagged thing.

"Thomas came up the stairs. He was crying . . . holding something in his hand. He held it out, and I saw that it was my grandfather's watch."

Allan stopped again. He screwed the cap on the flask as the boy bloomed in his mind. Beautiful Thomas, wearing his striped T-s.h.i.+rt and blue shorts. He had tears in his eyes . . . a dimple set deep in his chin.

I broke it, Daddy.

"The strap was broken. That was all. He'd been playing a game-James Bond, or something-and had fallen off a chair. It was the original strap, and very delicate. It didn't take much to break it."

I'm sorry. . .

"I could have had it repaired, but at that moment, with my patience so thin, that didn't seem to matter."

Allan paused again. It was the longest speech he'd made in some time and he felt exhausted, breathless. He wasn't cold now. His insides, all the way from his gullet to his belly, were hot, pulsing, inflamed. With shaking hands he unscrewed the flask's cap and took yet another hit of morphine. Holly sat perfectly still, staring at him.

"Then what happened?" she rasped.

He swallowed, winced. "I saw red. I lashed out. It was supposed to be a clip around the ear, like my dad used to give me, but I was just so angry . . ." He wheezed for air. A tear rolled down his withered cheek. "I caught the side of his face-harder than I expected. He fell. Thomas fell. He went backward down the stairs. He hit his head and I heard his neck crack. He was like a broken doll, tumbling over and over . . ."

His voice faded. He sat, huddled and shrunken.

Holly said nothing for a long time. Her eyes were small green stones set in her marble face. Her thin chest barely moved. This silence was nothing that Allan had expected, and he sat through it with pain all around. He recalled stepping off the train earlier that day, and that brief moment of nothingness. He longed for it again-to be trapped in a world where everything had stopped.

Holly opened her mouth, then closed it again. She looked at him. Her eyes flooded with venom. She looked away.

"You killed him," she said at last, her voice cold and yet filled with a kind of wonder. "You killed our son."

It was Allan's turn to open his mouth . . . close it again.

Holly stood up, wobbled a little-had to clutch the back of the armchair to keep from losing her balance. She teetered unsurely to the window, then back again, as if she didn't really know what she was doing.

"I've had to live with this for twenty-six years," Allan continued. "It's done nothing but grow inside me. A shadow. A darkness. But you, Holly . . . your shadow can be lifted. You don't have to think about Grayson anymore. You no longer have to torture yourself with thoughts of Thomas alone and terrified. Because he never met Grayson. He was never locked in the trunk of Grayson's car, never exposed to his evil. It's a shock, yes, but please try to see the positive in this."

Holly's mouth dropped open. She gaped at him. "The positive? How can there possibly be a positive?"

"Thomas didn't suffer," Allan replied. "He wasn't . . . corrupted in the way you thought he was."

Her eyes flickered wildly; she looked as though she was having difficulty a.s.similating his words. When she spoke, her voice was distant, detached.

"But you allowed me to think he was. I've been in h.e.l.l for the last quarter of a century, Allan. No mother should endure what I've had to. And you left me there. You went away and . . . left me there."

"I had no choice. You see that, don't you? If I'd told the police the truth, I would have been sent to prison for killing my own son. And Thomas would still be dead. It wouldn't have made any difference-"

"It would have made ALL the difference!" Suddenly she was screeching, spitting at him. Her body was rigid, her hands curled into claws. Allan thought she was going to fly at him, tear at him. Then she froze.

"The wounds. On Thomas's body. The knife wounds."

"I had no choice, Holly."

"You did that?"

"I had to make the police believe he was another of Grayson's victims." Allan wiped his face with a trembling hand, his voice wheedling, begging her to understand. "No words can explain what I was going through. I just told myself that he was already dead . . . that he couldn't feel anything."

"And you dumped his body?" she asked. "In the barn?"

"Yes."

"That horrid place?"

"Yes."

She turned away from him and wobbled again, then lowered her face into her hands. Her narrow back trembled, shoulders like ridges of ice.

"This isn't happening," she hissed, trying to readjust to these new revelations, to get the facts straight in her head. "It can't be real."

"I'm so sorry."

"But he confessed." She looked at him again, but Allan doubted she really saw anything but the fog of her own anguish. "Grayson confessed to Thomas's murder-to all the murders."

"That was . . ." He had been about to say "a stroke of luck," but stopped himself at the last moment, wondering whether it might sound more callous than he'd intended. He stammered again, his mind struggling for the right words-if such words even existed.

She stepped closer. Her eyes were still wild, her body taut with painful emotion.

"I was surprised," he said finally, "when Grayson confessed. I figured it was some sick sense of pride-that he was only too happy to claim as many victims as possible. Or maybe he had simply lost count. Maybe the children he killed meant nothing to him. Who knows what goes through a killer's mind?"

"You do."

"No . . . I'm not the same as Grayson." He considered his sins, and how they had haunted him over the years. They had metastasized inside him, spreading from his heart and soul, into his mind, into his body. Maybe they had caused the cancer, a seed of darkness and loathing, allowed to grow. He then considered Grayson, who had brutalized-terrorized-all those children. He had an ocean of blood on his hands, a mountain of darkness in his soul. Yet his eyes were always so impa.s.sive . . . unaffected.

"We're nothing alike," Allan gasped. "I'm a man who made a terrible mistake. He's just an evil b.a.s.t.a.r.d."

Holly raised a hand as if to slap him, but instead she pointed a trembling finger at his face. Allan flinched. The pain was unreal.

"Don't you dare sit there and pa.s.s judgment on others." She spoke through gritted teeth. Her haggard skin blazed. "You killed our son. You violated his body. You put me through years of h.e.l.l. And then you come back here and expect me to . . . to be grateful to you for finally telling the truth."

"I expect no such thing." Allan licked his papery lips. "You deserve to know what happened. That's why I'm here . . . to remove your shadow, and to partly remove mine."

"Clearing your conscience before you die?" She leaned closer. Her eyes were in flames. "It doesn't work like that. You're going straight to h.e.l.l."

"I'm already there." He coughed and sprayed blood against the back of one hand.

"You're the most cowardly man I've ever met." Her voice bubbled with rage. "At least Grayson confessed to his crimes. You're the real monster."

"Don't say that."

"You sicken me."

He wiped the back of his hand on the towel, leaving a bright red smear.

"What I said before, about you deserving it . . ." She looked at him avidly, hatefully. "I've never meant anything more in my life."

"Your anger is equaled only by my guilt." Allan looked past Holly, toward the corner, where the photographs of their son adorned the sideboard. "I see Thomas everywhere I go. Just standing there. Staring at me. A constant reminder of what I did."

"And that?" She pointed at the morphine. "That makes it all so much easier, I a.s.sume."

"It's all I have," Allan said. "It's the only thing that eases the pain and makes Thomas go away."

"I hate you."

"I know."

Suddenly she darted forward, s.n.a.t.c.hed the flask from his hands. He tried to react, to stop her, but his limbs were so unresponsive he might as well have tried to s.n.a.t.c.h a fly from midair.

"No, Holly," he pleaded. "I need it."

"I needed my son," she said. "I needed my life. But you took them from me."

Her rage erupted, as he knew it would. She screamed-a long and terrible sound, which seemed to pour not only from her mouth, but from her eyes, her flared nostrils, her fingertips. She lunged at Allan, lifting the flask above her head and bringing it down with savage force. He saw only a flash of silver before the base slammed against his forehead. His frail skin split and blood spattered the towel. She hit him again, cracking his cheekbone. He half lifted one arm, but it was no defense at all. A third blow broke his nose. He felt it pop. His head flopped to one side. She struck him again, and a crimson world opened below him. He started to fall, but not before the flask came down yet again, splitting his upper lip and knocking out two of his teeth. He spat one of them out. Swallowed the other. His eyes flicked to the back of the room. Thomas was there, watching without expression.

HE OPENED HIS eyes.

You're going straight to h.e.l.l, Holly had said, and he'd replied that he was already there. But he was wrong. So wrong. He'd been nowhere near h.e.l.l at that point.

Now, however . . .

The rope binding him to the radiator was too thick to break, and the knot too tight for his weak fingers to loosen. It was tied around his ankle. The coa.r.s.e fibers chafed his skin. He looked around the room for something that might help, but there was no help here.

Thomas's bedroom was-as he had expected-exactly the same. The curtains. The bedding. The posters tacked to the walls. Allan saw his son everywhere. Five years old, curled up on the bed. Six years old, racing his Matchbox cars across the carpet. Three years old, proudly dressing himself in the morning, his shoes the wrong way around. The memories were as unbreakable as the rope that bound him. Allan tried to scream but managed only a feeble hiss. He clawed at his eyes with blunt, trembling fingers. The shadow inside him roared.

Holly stood in the doorway. Her eyes were green ice, filled with hate. The ribbon in her hair was mottled with his blood.

"Does it hurt?" she asked.

He nodded and wept. "Terribly."

"You'll be wanting this, then?" She held out the hip flask. More dents in it now, and smeared with his blood.

He made a low, longing sound in his throat and started to crawl toward her. Such slow and painful progress, with every wasted muscle screaming, every brittle bone like straw. His ragged mouth hung open, dripping red.

"Almost there," she said.

The rope around his ankle pulled taut. He could crawl no farther. He whimpered, then reached out, hand trembling. Holly held the flask only inches away. He stretched his fingers.

"Please, Holly . . . please."

She swirled the contents. He heard the glorious morphine lapping against the inside of the flask.

"Not much left," she said.

"I'll take what there is." The rope-stretched so tight-cut into his ankle. His fingertips grazed the flask's worn surface. "I need it."

"So do I," Holly said. She smiled wickedly, unscrewed the cap, and emptied the flask's contents onto the floor. Allan collapsed and made pathetic lunging motions with his upper body. The morphine seeped into the carpet.

Gone.

"It's my pain relief now," Holly said. Still smiling, she stepped out of the room and closed the door behind her.

Allan retreated to the wall, crawling through the memories. He tried again to loosen the rope around his ankle. His fingertips bled with the effort.

Thomas watched him from the corner. He appeared more solid than before. More permanent. Allan turned away from him, to where three-year-old Thomas tied his laces. Away again, and five-year-old Thomas murmured in his sleep, gathered the sheets a little closer.

Allan sobbed. He wiped the blood from his face and looked at the window. The rain had stopped. The clouds had cleared. A rich sunset bled into nothingness.

Wonderful, endless nothingness.

Like scarlet, Allan thought.

About the Authors.

Kevin J. Anderson has written more than 120 novels, more than 50 of which were national or international bestsellers. He is the author of the Dan Shamble, Zombie PI humorous horror series; fantasy epic Terra Incognita; and SF epic Saga of Seven Suns; as well as h.e.l.lhole and the new Dune novels with Brian Herbert. He edited the Blood Lite anthology series and is the publisher of WordFire Press. He is also known for his work in the universes of Star Wars, X-Files, Batman, Superman, StarCraft, and other popular franchises.

Robert Jackson Bennett's 2010 debut, Mr. s.h.i.+vers, won the s.h.i.+rley Jackson Award as well as the Sydney J. Bounds Newcomer Award. His second novel, The Company Man, won a Special Citation of Excellence from the Philip K. d.i.c.k Award, as well as an Edgar Award for Best Paperback Original. His third novel, The Troupe, has topped many "Best of 2012" lists, including that of Publishers Weekly. His fourth novel, American Elsewhere, was published in 2013 to wide acclaim.

Amber Benson is a writer, director, and actor. She currently writes the Calliope Reaper-Jones series for Ace/Roc, and her middle-grade book, Among the Ghosts, came out in paperback in 2011 from Simon and Schuster. She codirected the Slamdance feature Drones and cocreated (and directed) the BBC animated series Ghosts of Albion with Christopher Golden. She spent three years as Tara Maclay on the television series Buffy the Vampire Slayer.

Holly Black is the author of bestselling contemporary fantasy books for kids and teens. Some of her t.i.tles include the Spiderwick Chronicles (with Tony DiTerlizzi), the Modern Faerie Tale series, the Good Neighbors graphic novel trilogy (with Ted Naifeh), the Curse Workers series, Doll Bones, and her dark fantasy novel, The Coldest Girl in Coldtown. She has been a finalist for the Mythopoeic Award, a finalist for an Eisner Award, and the recipient of the Andre Norton Award. She currently lives in New England with her husband, Theo, in a house with a secret door.

Sarah Rees Brennan is the author of the Demon's Lexicon trilogy, the first book of which was an ALA Top Ten Best Book of 2009, and the coauthor of Team Human with Justine Larbalestier. Her newest book is Unspoken, a romantic gothic mystery about a girl who discovers her imaginary friend is a real boy. Unspoken is an ALA Best Book 2013 and on the Tayshas list. Sarah writes from her homeland of Ireland but likes to travel the world collecting inspiration.

Chelsea Cain is the author of the New York Times bestselling Archie Sheridan thriller series, including Heartsick, Sweetheart, Evil at Heart, The Night Season, Kill You Twice, and Let Me Go (August 2013). The series has been published in over thirty languages and recommended on The Today Show, and appeared in episodes of HBO's True Blood and ABC's Castle. Stephen King included two of her books in his top ten favorite books of the year, and NPR named Heartsick one of the best 100 thrillers ever written.

Rachel Caine is the New York Times and USA Today bestselling author of more than forty books, including the Morganville Vampires series. She lives in Fort Worth, Texas, with her husband, fantasy artist R. Cat Conrad. You can visit her website at www.rachelcaine.com.

Ca.s.sandra Clare was born to American parents in Teheran, Iran, and spent much of her childhood traveling the world with her family, including one trek through the Himalayas as a toddler where she spent a month living in her father's backpack. She lived in France, England, and Switzerland before she was ten years old. Since her family moved around so much she found familiarity in books and went everywhere with a book. She started working on her YA novel, City of Bones, the first book of the Mortal Instruments series, in 2004, inspired by the urban landscape of Manhattan, her favorite city. The Mortal Instruments books went on to be New York Times, Wall Street Journal, and USA Today bestsellers, as did the companion series, the Infernal Devices. Ca.s.sandra lives in western Ma.s.sachusetts with her husband and three cats.

Gregory Frost is a writer of dark fantasy, SF, young adult, and historical thriller fiction. He has been a finalist for every major fantasy genre award. His latest novel-length work is the YA-crossover Shadowbridge duology, voted in 2008 "one of the four best fantasy novels of the year" by the ALA. His historical thriller, Fitcher's Brides, was a Best Novel finalist for both World Fantasy and International Horror Guild Awards. Other Frost short stories appear in Ellen Datlow's Supernatural Noir anthology, and in V-Wars, edited by Jonathan Maberry. He directs the fiction writing program at Swarthmore College.

Jeffrey David Greene writes his fiction at a small desk covered in action figures. Sometimes he discusses his story ideas with a chorus of noisy and opinionated Chihuahuas. He lives in Smyrna, Georgia, with his wife and teaches at Southern Polytechnic State University. Currently, he is at work on a YA urban fantasy novel.

Allan Guthrie is an award-winning Scottish crime writer. His latest novella, Bye Bye Baby, was a Top Ten Kindle Bestseller. He's also cofounder of digital publis.h.i.+ng company Blasted Heath and a literary agent with Jenny Brown a.s.sociates.

Charlaine Harris, a native of the Mississippi Delta, has lived her whole life in various Southern states. Her first book, a mystery, was published in 1981. After that promising debut, her career meandered along until the success of the Sookie Stackhouse novels. Now all her books are in print, and she is a very happy camper. She is married and has three children.