She was remembering things. She was bringing it all back. The park in the middle of town was just the way she remembered it. The wading pool was empty and dry, waiting for warmer weather, but kids were playing on the swings and monkey bars, and Sally considered how the playground was the same but the kids were different; it wouldn’t be too long before the children who were there ten years ago would be sending their children down to the same park to play on the same swings.
It’s really not a bad town. I can’t blame it for the feelings it evokes in me, the strange conflicts I feel. In this one place are hidden my happiest and my most bitter memories, side by side. Both have been buried so long, obliterated by drugs, by delusion, by altered states of consciousness, that I’ve forced myself to remain here to revive them. I must remember.
She was being followed by friends. From atop the First National Bank building across the street, Tal, Nathan, and Armoth kept watch as she sat on a bench in the park, writing another letter.
“She hasn’t found it yet,” said Nathan. “I don’t think she wants to. She’s been down every street but the right one.”
“She wants to find it, but at the same time she doesn’t, and I don’t blame her,” said Tal. “But we’ll have to help her. With our present tactics, we can only hold that motel room open for today.”
“She’s moving again,” said Armoth.
Sally was putting her notebook back in her duffel bag and preparing to move on.
Nathan surveyed the skies over the town. “Destroyer’s scouts are still around. They must know we’re here.”
Tal agreed. “They simply aren’t afraid of us. But I consider that an advantage. I would prefer them to be very confident.” Then he saw Sally turning to the right on Schrader Avenue. “Oops! No, Sally, not that way.”
They unfurled their wings and leaped from the building, floating down over the tops of passing cars, banking silently around the corner, and settling to the sidewalk on either side of this singular, weary traveler. She seemed a little perplexed, not knowing which way to go.
Nathan spoke to her, No, Sally, you’ve already been this way. Turn around.
She stopped. Oh, brother, I’ve already been down this street, and it was a bore.
She turned around and followed Schrader the other way, crossing several streets, passing other pedestrians, always looking over her shoulder.
The three warriors walked with her, staying close.
Sally looked around as she walked. No, she hadn’t been this way yet. Some of the storefronts looked kind of familiar. Oh! That flower shop! I remember that!
Then, finally her eyes caught a sight she hadn’t seen—or wanted to see—in ten years. Up ahead, on her side of the street, was a large, rectangular sign, SCHRADER MOTOR INN, and below that a smaller sign, KITCHENS, DAILY, WEEKLY, MONTHLY RATES. She stopped dead in her tracks and gazed at that sign, spellbound.
It hadn’t changed. That motel was still there!
Tal came up close behind her. Steady, Sally. Don’t run.
She wanted to run, but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to face this memory, but still she knew she had to.
If you want to know the truth, said Tal, you must face it even if it’s painful. You’ve run long enough.
She stood still in the middle of the sidewalk as if her shoes were glued to the pavement. She began to remember more and more of this place. She’d walked down this sidewalk before, many, many times. She’d visited that flower shop. There was a True Value Hardware on the corner, but now she remembered it used to be a variety store.
She started walking again, slowly, drinking in every sight. These planters were new; it used to be just a bare curb here. That parking lot across the street had undergone a change in management, but it was still a parking lot.
The Schrader Motor Inn was the same, a large, sixty-unit motel of three stories, L-shaped, with parking in front and around the back. It wasn’t a high-priced place, nothing fancy, no swimming pool. The motel may have been painted; she wasn’t sure about that. The entrance to the office looked the same as she remembered, and still had the large breezeway jutting out across the entrance.
She looked up at the third story, and scanned all the blue doors facing the iron-railed balcony. Yes. She could see Room 302 down near the end.
It had been her home for almost ten months. Such a short period of time, and so long ago!
Even as she passed under that breezeway and stepped up to the office door, she felt she was being a bit irrational. What purpose could such an action serve? Why dig up the past? None of this was necessary.
She was going through with it. She had to see it all again; she hadn’t paid attention the first time.
She pulled the door open.
It was meant to be, came a memory from somewhere in her mind. It was her own voice. Now she remembered saying it. My higher self ordained it.
“Hello,” said the nice lady behind the counter. “Can I help you?”
Sally could still hear her own voice echoing from the past: After all, there is no death; there is only change.
She knew she’d been asked a question. “Uh . . . yes. I was wondering if you had a kitchen unit available.”
The lady checked her register. “Hm. You’re in luck. Yes, that fellow moved out just this weekend. It’s on the third floor . . . Is that all right?”
“It’s fine. Uh . . . would it happen to be 302?”
The lady’s eyebrows went up. “Why, yes, as a matter of fact. Have you stayed there before?”
Sally was looking this lady over carefully. No, they’d never met, she was sure. She must be a new owner, or employee, or something. “On occasion.”
The lady slid the application across the counter to her, and Sally filled it out. She gave her name as “Maria Bissell,” put down a totally fictional address in Hawthorne, California, then claimed to be driving a ’79 Ford Mustang with a California license plate, and she made up the license plate number as well. All she could hope was that this lady would appreciate the color of her money and not question her credentials.
The lady did appreciate the color of Sally’s money, receiving a week’s rent and damage deposit in cash. She handed Sally the key.
The stairway had new green carpet now. Sally could remember the worn, brown carpet it used to have.
She reached the third floor and walked along the balcony overlooking the parking lot and beyond that, the Nelson Printing and Bookbinding Shop, still there, the offset presses still rumbling inside.
She placed her hand on the railing and noticed her wrist was unhampered. The last time she ever saw this railing, she was handcuffed, and she was not free.
Out of her buried memory came the image of squad cars parked in the lot below, their lights flashing. Then she recalled the other tenants watching through their windows, peeking around the drapes, curious and anonymous. She could feel the pain of big hands holding her arms, pushing her along this balcony.
There was an aid car down there too, and some medical personnel running around. She could just barely remember them.
She came to the door. With held breath and a turn of the key, she opened it. The chain-lock was repaired now, and apparently the doorjamb had been replaced.
Some things were different. The couch was new, but still sat in the same place. The picture on the wall just above it used to be a sailboat, and now it was a surrealistic vase of flowers. She liked the sailboat better.
The kitchen looked the same, and the cabinets hadn’t changed a bit. The sink still had that brown crack. The pots and pans were in the same cupboard just to the left of the sink.
Through an archway at the back of the room was the bedroom. She knew where the bed would be, and she knew the room had a large closet. She didn’t bother going in to look.
Next to the bedroom was the bathroom. She didn’t want to go in there at all.
BEN WAS ALMOST beside himself when Marshall came pulling into the driveway. He ran out to the car to meet him.
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“Man, where have you been?”
Marshall was feeling pretty good himself. “Got some license numbers from the cars belonging to our local LifeCirclers. That’ll give your friend in Westhaven some more to do, running some Motor Vehicle Reports.”
“Chuck’s already done a lot,” Ben exclaimed, fidgeting on the sidewalk. “Come on in!”
Marshall hurried inside and followed Ben into the dining room. Bev was there, her eyes gawking, studying some documents spread out on the table.
“Oh, Lord . . .” she said.
Ben wasted no time, but pointed to a grainy, black-and-white, front- and left-profile mug shot. “That’s the lady. That’s Sally Roe!”
Marshall picked up the photo and studied it carefully. “Man, she’s wasted!”
Indeed she was. The tired, gaunt, and dazed woman in the photographs looked every bit the part of a half-drunk or half-drugged tramp. Mug shots never were very complimentary, but even so . . .
Ben grabbed Marshall’s shoulder in his excitement and started jabbing his finger at the photographs. “Marshall, that is not the dead woman we found at the Potter farm! But it’s Sally Roe, all right! I’ve already been by the Potters’ and the Bergen factory to talk to Abby Grayson. Both of them confirm that this is Roe.”
“They must not have been too happy . . .”
“They were shocked. Yes, very shocked.” Ben went on to explain. “Chuck requested a Records Check from the National Crime Information Center and the State Information Section. Sally Roe was only arrested once, ten years ago. He got the rap sheet on that, then followed that up with the local police in the town where the arrest occurred.”
“Fairwood, Massachusetts . . .”
“Right. They supplied the photographs.”
Marshall hesitated. He was bothered about something. “Fairwood, Massachusetts . . . Fairwood . . . I’d better check with Kate about that.” He took another look at the photographs. “And we’d better get some copies of these pictures.”
Bev piped up, “I’m gonna do that right now; I’m goin’ down to use the church’s copier.”
“Great. Kate’s going to need one, I know.” He looked over the other documents. “Okay, now what did she do?”
Ben pointed out the crime record. Marshall stopped short. He turned the paper toward him, so he could read it better.
“Isn’t that a kicker?” said Ben.
“This thing is getting juicier all the time! Any details?”
Ben pointed out a short police bulletin. “It’s bizarre; nothing like I expected.”
Marshall read the bulletin as his face filled with horror and disbelief. All he could say was, “Why? This is crazy.”
“We’ve got to find out more, Marshall.”
Marshall stared at the photograph again. “I’ve got a friend in New York, name’s Al Lemley. That guy’s a real friend, and he can produce. Maybe he can get us something more on this.”
Ben had a thought. “You might want to stop in at Judy’s Secretarial Service. It’s in that little storefront at the four-way stop. She has a fax machine, and you could get the stuff right away.”
“Yeah. For sure.” Marshall looked at the crime record again and shook his head. “First-degree murder!”
“YOU’RE NOTHING BUT bloodthirsty killers, as far as I’m concerned,” said Mr. Santinelli, warming himself in front of the fire in Mr. Steele’s private lodge. He’d put his full and hectic schedule on hold and caught an afternoon flight from Chicago to get here. Now he was tired and cranky, and not at all happy with some of the company he was keeping.
His statement was addressed to the dark and mysterious Mr. Khull, who sat comfortably on the couch, swirling a gin and tonic about in a glass, making the ice cubes tinkle. Mr. Khull was not in the least ruffled by Santinelli’s blunt statement.
“We are all that way, Mr. Santinelli—if not in deed, at least in heart. You did, after all, hire me.”
Mr. Goring, relaxing in an overstuffed chair before the fire, quipped, “A decision we have all regretted, Mr. Khull.”
Santinelli took an indignant puff from his cigar. He didn’t like the tone of Goring’s comment. “I should like to remind you, as I’m sure Mr. Khull will be happy to boast, that he already had a controlling interest in our organization, thanks to the romantic adventures of the man he eventually eliminated, our boyish upstart, Mr. James Bardine.”
“James Bardine . . .” Mr. Khull seemed to have a lapse of memory. Then it came to him. “Oh yes! He died in that tragic automobile accident! I believe he fell asleep at the wheel . . .”
“Everyone believes that,” said Santinelli. “My compliments.”
“Thank you. We try to be thorough.”
Santinelli sat down in a chair opposite Khull, making no effort to hide his disdain. “All you Satanists are thorough, I’m sure. You worship on the run, don’t you, always looking over your shoulder?”
Khull leaned forward, his drink in his hands, his head drooped between his shoulders, his eyes piercing. “No. Actually, we have yet to be chased.”
Mr. Steele, listening to it all from his own chair directly facing the fire, intervened. “Gentlemen—and Mr. Khull—we know how we feel about each other, so that matter is settled. We don’t trust each other, and that’s the way we want it.”
Santinelli added, “What is also settled is that a liability has been removed—namedly, Alicia Von Bauer and James Bardine and their little love nest. Such relationships can be an extreme embarrassment, and from this point forward I hope we’ve made a clear enough example to our subordinates that any more relationships with these Broken Birch people will not be tolerated.”
Khull took a sip from his drink and leaned back into the soft couch. “Especially by those who know as much as Mr. Bardine did.”
Santinelli fumed, “As much, I’m sure, as you do now, thanks to the lecherous Ms. Von Bauer!”
Khull laughed. “Such are the politics of power.”
Goring responded, “And the reason you are even allowed in our company!”
Mr. Steele was eager to finish their unsavory business. “All right, whether we like it or not, Broken Birch is now part of the Plan. Let’s get the ledger balanced, so Mr. Khull can go away satisfied and be about his business.”
Santinelli produced a check and handed it to Khull. “There. While in our employ, and admittedly due to our negligence, Ms. Von Bauer was killed. We gave you freedom to kill our own Mr. Bardine, and here are your damages as you have required.”
Khull examined the amount on the check and nodded his approval. He folded it and slipped it into his pocket. “That’s settled.”
“Good,” said Mr. Steele. “Now get that ring back.”
Mr. Khull sipped from his drink again. “Your credit is good with us, of course, but . . .”
This time Mr. Goring produced a check. “As we discussed, here is your first half to commence the job. The second half is payable upon recovery of the ring and the elimination of Sally Roe.”
Khull took that check and pocketed it. “As you know, this Roe has been very elusive.”
“And we are paying you to make her vanish altogether.”
Khull swirled his ice cubes. “And, naturally, her blood would be on our hands. How convenient for you.”
Mr. Steele objected, “Your hands are already bloody.”
“And yours aren’t?” Khull laughed at them. “Ah, don’t worry. I understand. We kill regularly, as a form of worship; it’s a sacrament to us. If you kill . . . well, it’s only through hirelings like us. It keeps your hands clean. You don’t plunge the knife, so you don’t feel the pang of conscience.” He laughed again. “Maybe you are still too Christian!”
Mr. Santinelli hated this man’s taunts. “If I may remind you, Mr. Khull, you are serving your own interests in this as well, perhaps more so than we. If Sally Roe should ever be found alive, if she should ever tell her story, you and your followers could easily be implicated with murder. And unlike human
sacrifices that vanish without a trace, this victim is alive, walking, and talking. At least our suicide cover story has bought us all some time. I would say you owe us something for that.”
Khull was only mildly impressed. “Yes, we both have something to lose if she remains alive. But how much we have to lose depends on how much we’ve invested, doesn’t it? What is Broken Birch, compared to you and your Plan?”
“Not much,” said Mr. Steele, supposedly admitting something, but actually using it as a taunt.
Khull ventured a sneer. “You’re no better. Someday you’ll realize that. What we are now, you are rapidly becoming. If you hate us so much, perhaps it’s because you see yourselves in us!”
Santinelli barked, “I will see you to the door!”
ALICE BUCKMEIER WAS a marvelous hostess, of course, and loved to have company. So what Kate had planned as a short interview turned out to be a delightful visit over tea and pastries in the widow’s dining room, surrounded by knick-knacks, doilies, crystal, and pictures of sons, daughters, and grandchildren.
“You must be everybody’s grandma,” Kate said.
Alice laughed. “A title I wear proudly. I don’t just have my own grandchildren, you know, but I’m Grandma Alice to all the kids at church, too!”
“That’s wonderful.”
“I love children, I really do. Sometimes it’s hard to understand how people treat their children. I know it breaks the Lord’s heart.” She warmed up Kate’s cup of tea and continued, “I’ve wondered about that little Amber ever since I saw what I saw at the Post Office. What must she be going through at home?”
Kate got her notebook ready. “Bev Cole says you have quite a story.”
“Oh, yes. It was very disturbing. I was mailing a package off to my son—well, actually, to my grandson, Jeff. I knitted a sweater for him, and I was trying to get it there in time for his birthday. Well, I was just standing there at the counter, and that other young lady, Debbie, was weighing my package and stamping it and all that . . .”