Insurgency. Part 15

And Little Red Cap thought, "As long as I live, I will never leave the path and run off into the woods by myself."

Little Red Cap, The Brothers Grimm .

PART I.

Fall .

Prologue.

"...and they lived happily ever after." The man closed the book and waited.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, darling," he said, smiling to himself. He was never lucky enough to get away with reading just one story.

"I'm not sleepy."

"You haven't tried. Close your eyes," he recited. This was their nightly ritual.

"It won't help." The little girl frowned, sat up in bed, and crossed her arms.

"Would you like some water?"

"No."

"Another blanket?"

"Daddy..." the little girl whined.

"Another story?" the man asked, sighing.

The little girl nodded happily.

"Okay, okay." The man flipped the big book in his lap open to another page. He had already bookmarked which story he was going to read. "Sleeping Beauty?"

"I don't want a story from that that book." book."

"Oh?" the man asked, surprised. This book was her favorite, and he couldn't remember the last time she had asked him to read anything else. "Okay," he said, unsure, and reached towards her small book shelf.

"Uh-uh."

"Uh-uh, what?"

"I want the story you know by heart."

The man leaned forward and smoothed back the girl's hair. "The one I used to tell your brother when he was little?"

"Yes, that one."

"I don't know ... it's been a long time since I've told that one. I may not remember it."

"You remember."

She was right, of course. How could he forget? Things were much better then. "It might be a little scary for you," he said, trying one last time to distract her.

"Please, Daddy!"

The man watched her lips turn down at the corners, and he knew he had already lost. He just couldn't stand to see her cry. He kissed the girl on the forehead and took her hand. "You know he's going to be fine, right? Your brother's pretty tough."

"I know."

The man studied the little girl. Even in the dark, her face looked serene, untroubled.

"Okay," he said. "Move over. Let me sit next to you."

"How come?" she asked, scooting over quickly.

"So I I don't get scared." He crammed as much of himself as he could onto her small bed. "Let's see..." he said to himself. don't get scared." He crammed as much of himself as he could onto her small bed. "Let's see..." he said to himself.

"Daddy?"

"Yes, dear."

"Is there a princess?"

"Yes, but she doesn't know she's a princess."

"Just like Cinderella?"

"A lot like Cinderella, yes."

The man waited. His daughter's questions always came in twos.

After a short pause, she added, "And, Daddy?"

"Yes, sweetie?" He folded his hands in his lap.

"Are there monsters?" She pulled the covers up past her mouth.

"Yes." He tugged the blanket away from her face. "All fairytales have monsters. But these are a little different. These monsters look just like you and me."

"Then how do you know they're monsters?"

"You don't. Not always," the man said sadly.

The little girl chewed at the inside of her lip, mulling this over.

He looked at his daughter. She had the same worried expression her mother had. It made the man smile at the memory. "Are you sure you want to hear this?"

The little girl nodded up at her father.

"Okay, I think I remember it now. This story begins like any other fairytale. Do you want to start it for me?"

The little girl closed her eyes and snuggled next to her dad. "Once upon a time..."

Chapter 1.

Ellicott City is a former mill town cut into the rocky Maryland hillside. The Patapsco River runs alongside the train tracks at the bottom of Main Street, part of the old B&O railroad connection. Every spring, the river banks flood and pour over the cobbled streets. And every fall, part of the shopping district, once home to migrant rail workers, catches fire and destroys another small piece of the town's history. The steeples from a dozen Victorian churches rise above the trees, their bells the only note heard clearly above the Sunday morning tourist exodus. There is much history here, but for the most part the dead are silent, despite the many signs advertising ghost walks and haunted tour groups.

In June, when the rains finally relent, the air is sticky and thick and gets into everyone's eyes and hair. The stores close early but remain lit, warding off the night like garlic. An old wooden train bridge marks one end of Main Street; a rickety, soot-covered mess that sprawls across the road like a gateway into something terrible. It signals a stopping point for tourists.

Just on the other side of that bridge sits the Old Monk, a brick and mortar restaurant thrown together somewhat haphazardly off the main road.

It was only 8:00 pm. The last of the locals finished their meals as Melanie listened to the soft clinking of gla.s.ses and plates, and the dull thrum of conversation drifting from an open window. An empty coffee cup sat untouched on her table. It had been at least an hour since a waiter had bothered to check on her, and that was part of the appeal of this place.

She sat in the courtyard in the back of the restaurant, or rather, what pa.s.sed for a courtyard discarded patio furniture and an umbrella or two that had no doubt been washed to the back of the building by the nearby Patapsco River in the latest storm. She sat in the dark, watching the even darker water crest and bubble, half expecting a body to be suddenly cast from its murky depths. She was in that kind of mood. Expecting the worst, and confident that she wouldn't be disappointed.

Soon they would arrive, in long dark coats and velvety sashes, reeking of Marlboros and skunky beer and opium incense, and maybe that would lighten her thoughts, or at least take her mind off the anniversary of yet another missed year of college, yet another year stuck in this town.

She returned her attention to the black cat that sat cleaning itself on the flat-topped roof. She didn't mind sketching the little fur-b.a.l.l.s, but if it got within kicking distance, she couldn't be held responsible for her actions. It wasn't just that she was allergic; there was something in her that seemed to bring out the worst in cats. Like she was wearing mouse-scented perfume.

Melanie tucked a newly dark strand of hair behind heavily pierced ears. She had a heart-shaped face and large, bright eyes that made her seem keenly aware and always interested. Melanie was thin and almost always wore black clothes, which gave her a hungry, desperate look that men seemed to love. She felt old, jaded, and over the hill she was twenty-three.

Tonight she wore cut-off jeans and a sheer tank top; a hold-over from the sweltering afternoon. Though the night had cooled considerably, her body still felt warm, and she figured she'd most likely be drunk or high soon enough that the evening cold wouldn't matter anyway.

She thumbed through her sketchpad, looking for a clean page. She'd need another one soon. With stark and sharp charcoal lines, she began to sketch the cat, who preened and purred at the attention. Just before she could add the eyes, always her biggest challenge, the world went completely dark.

Two clammy hands held fast over her eyes.

"Guess who?" a voice said. It was high and shaky. The hairs on the back of Melanie's neck stood up. "You smell nice," the speaker said, lingering at her throat and nibbling playfully at her ear.

"Hi Bryan."

"Lucian," he corrected. "I told you to call me Lucian." He slumped in the chair next to Melanie.

Bryan was tall and skinny and seemed skinnier still in his long black overcoat at least two sizes too large. He wore a crumpled black top hat that covered stringy black hair dried out from too many dye jobs. He was pale and powdered his skin wherever his Mediterranean coloring threatened to poke through.

"What happened to your teeth?" Melanie asked, hurriedly tucking away her sketchbook in her worn backpack serving as both a purse and art portfolio. She didn't mind sharing her photographs, but her drawings felt more personal. They weren't simply something she saw, but something she felt, and she fully believed in keeping those types of things hidden.