The Face of Death

  “What’s the matter, Mommy?”

  Linda jerked at the sound of her daughter’s voice and began to turn around in slow motion. Taffy-time. When her face became visible, Sarah jerked back in horror.

  Her mother was screaming a soundless scream, eyes wide, mouth open, teeth apart.

  “M-m-mommy…?”

  Linda’s hands flew up to the sides of her head. The paintbrush flew, speckling Sarah with blood as it spun through the air.

  Sarah could see the painting behind her mother. The leaves on the trees were burning.

  The scream stopped being silent, a terrible sound, like someone had torn the roof off hell. It played in stereo, full of echoes and reverb and rage.

  “What did you do! What did you do! What did you—”

  Sarah woke up.

  “What did you do!”

  The scream was real. It was here, now, in this house.

  The Stranger?

  The door to the bedroom was open.

  “Dennis! Oh God! What did you do, Theresa?”

  Sarah realized that Rebecca was the one screaming.

  Get out of bed, fraidy-cat. Theresa might need your help!

  Sarah whimpered in terror, frustration, anger.

  I don’t want to have to be brave anymore.

  Silence.

  Too bad, fraidy-cat. That’s the way it is now.

  Sarah was weeping and shaking in fear, but she made herself get out of bed. Her legs belonged to someone else, they wobbled and shook.

  She moved toward the door, but when she got to it, she froze.

  What if there are more

  (nothings)

  Out there?

  What if Theresa’s become a

  (nothing)

  (puppyshead)

  ?

  Move it, fraidy-cat. You’re six. Stop acting like a baby.

  Sarah made herself move forward, out of the room, into the hall. Her fear was so strong now that she began to sob.

  “What did you do?” Rebecca continued to shriek.

  Sarah’s sobbing grew stronger as she forced herself to keep walking toward the sound of Rebecca’s screams. Her nose began to run and the world blurred.

  Don’t want to go look! Don’t want to!

  The other voice was gentler now.

  I know you’re afraid. But you have to. For Theresa. She’s your sister.

  Sarah bawled, but nodded her head in response, and forced her feet to keep moving.

  A moment later and she was in the doorway of Dennis and Rebecca’s room. Theresa was there, sitting on the floor, her head down. She had a knife in her lap. It was coated with blood. Rebecca was naked on the bed, hysterical, her hands moving over Dennis in frantic motions. She was covered in blood too.

  Dennis was still. His eyes were open.

  Sarah realized in a flash that Dennis was

  (nothing)

  A

  (puppyshead) now.

  “What did you do?”

  Sarah gasped.

  Oh no. Theresa did this.

  She ran over to the older girl, crouched down on her knees, and shook her.

  “Theresa! What happened?”

  The older girl’s face was slack and pale, her eyes listless.

  “Hey, little girl,” she whispered. “Like I told you. He’ll never bother you at night. Ever.”

  Sarah recoiled in horror.

  “Go call the police, Sarah.”

  Theresa bowed her head and began rocking back and forth.

  Sarah watched her, confused and frantic.

  What do I do?

  The card. From the lady-policeman.

  “What did you d-d-dooooooooooo?”

  Call her, now.

  As she ran from the room, she realized at some level that the eggshells and the danger were gone from this house. She wondered how this could be.

  Many years later, she understood how that could be. By then, she had stopped believing in God.

  29

  CATHY JONES SAT WITH SARAH. THEY WERE IN CATHY’S PERSONAL car—Cathy wasn’t on duty, but the girl had called her, so she’d come after calling it in to the station.

  This is just fucking horrible, she thought to herself.

  She looked at Sarah. The girl’s cheeks and eyes were red from crying.

  Who can blame her? She checks in to a new home, and the foster-father gets murdered by one of the other kids the first night. Jesus.

  “Sarah? What happened?”

  The six-year-old sighed. It was a heavy sigh, filled with a worldly weight that dismayed the young policewoman.

  “Dennis came to visit Theresa in her bed. He did bad things. He said he’d come see me in my bed in a few years too.” Sarah’s face crumpled. “Theresa said that she’d never let him do that. That’s why she killed Dennis. Because of me!”

  Sarah threw herself into Cathy’s arms and began to sob.

  Cathy froze. She was unmarried, she had no kids, she’d been an only child with an undemonstrative father. She gave herself an F in intimacy.

  Hug her, dummy.

  She wrapped her arms around the six-year-old. Sarah started crying harder.

  Now say something to her.

  “Shh. It’s okay, Sarah. It’ll be okay.”

  It occurred to her that maybe Dad had had it right, being sparse with words of praise and comfort. Because she didn’t think what she was saying was true, not at all, no, sir. She didn’t think it was going to be okay. Not ever.

  “The girl said that?”

  Sarah’s crying had died down to sniffles, and Cathy had left her alone while she went over to talk to the detective on the scene, Nick Rollins.

  “Yes, sir. She said that this guy Dennis—the foster-father who got killed—came to visit the other girl in bed.”

  “Fuck me,” Rollins said, shaking his head. “Well, if it bears out, that might change the outcome for the doer. If he was raping her, and threatening to do the same to your girl…” He shrugged, sad. “It’ll keep her from going down for murder.”

  They both looked up as female officers led Theresa from the house in handcuffs. The girl kept her eyes on the ground and shuffled like a chained ghost.

  “What do you want me to do?” she asked Rollins.

  “Sit tight with the girl. Someone from Social Services is on the way over.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Cathy watched as Theresa was helped into the backseat of a police car. The policewoman glanced over at her own vehicle. Sarah was staring through the windshield, watching the darkness, seeing nothing.

  Cathy was back with Sarah, sitting in her car while they waited for the woman from Social Services. Rollins had gotten a statement from Sarah. He’d been very good with the little girl; Cathy was grateful.

  “Cathy?” Sarah asked, breaking the silence.

  “Yeah?”

  “You didn’t believe me when I told you about the man at my house, did you?”

  Cathy shifted in her seat, uncomfortable.

  How do I deal with this one?

  “I wasn’t sure if I should believe you or not, Sarah. You were…pretty upset.”

  Sarah scrutinized Cathy. “Did you tell the other policepeople, though? What I said?”

  “Yes. Of course.”

  “They didn’t believe me, did they?”

  Cathy shifted again, sighed. “No, Sarah. They didn’t.”

  “Why not? Do they think I was lying?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s…there’s nothing that shows anyone else was there. And sometimes, when bad things happen, people…get confused. Not just kids. Grown-ups too. That’s what they think. Not that you’re lying. That you were confused.”

  Sarah turned back to the windshield.

  “I wasn’t. Confused. It doesn’t matter. The mean lady is here.”

  Cathy saw a worn-looking middle-ager moving toward them.

  “Mean, huh?”

  Sarah nodded. “Theresa said she was pure evil.”

>   Cathy stared at the little girl. She might have dismissed a statement like this yesterday. But now? The girl who’d killed a child molester to save Sarah had said the woman was “pure evil.”

  “Sarah. Look at me.”

  The little girl turned to the policewoman.

  “You hold on to my card. And you call me if you need me.” She indicated Karen Watson with a nod. “Understand?”

  “Okay.”

  That’s it, huh? That’s all you’re going to do for her?

  The inevitable reply came, the one that Cathy pulled out in any situation that demanded more intimacy than she was willing to give:

  It’s all I’ve got right now.

  She was an old hand at ignoring the feeling of shame. She wasn’t in quite enough denial to blame it all on dear old Dad, though.

  Karen had helped Sarah pack her clothes and shoes. She had been acting really nice again. Sarah had understood: There were other people watching. Once they were alone, she’d known that Karen would turn mean again.

  They were driving now, and sure enough, Karen was giving her angry looks. Sarah didn’t care. She was too tired.

  “Messed up a good thing,” Karen muttered. “Not like you have many options. Well, now you’ll see what happens when you can’t get along.”

  Sarah had no idea what Karen was talking about. Something bad. She was too sad to be afraid.

  Theresa, Theresa, why why why? You should have talked with me. We were sisters. Now I’m all alone again.

  They had pulled up to a large one-story building, made of gray concrete and surrounded by fences.

  “Here we go, princess,” Karen said. “This is a group home—you’ll be staying here until I feel like giving you another chance with a foster home.”

  They got out of the car. Sarah followed Karen to and through the front door of the home. They walked down a hall until they got to a reception desk. A tired-looking woman in her forties stood up. She had brown hair and was the skinniest person Sarah had ever seen. Karen handed a form to the woman.

  “Sarah Langstrom.”

  The woman read over the form, glanced at Sarah. She nodded at Karen.

  “Okay.”

  “See you later, princess,” Karen said. She turned around and walked away.

  “Hi, Sarah,” the woman said. “My name is Janet. I’m going to get you settled into bed for now, and then I’ll show you around in the morning, okay?”

  Sarah nodded.

  Don’t care, she thought. Don’t care about anything. Just want to go sleep.

  “This way,” Janet said.

  Sarah followed Janet down the hallway, through one set of locked doors, then another. The walls were painted institution green. The floors were worn linoleum. The home looked like every other heavily used but grossly underfunded government building in the country.

  The hallway they were in now was lined with doors. Janet stopped in front of one and opened it, taking pains to be quiet.

  “Shhh,” she said, putting a finger to her lips. “Everyone’s asleep.”

  Janet kept the door open a crack so they could use the light from the hallway. Sarah saw that she was in a large room, fairly clean, filled with six sets of two-tier metal bunk beds. Girls of various ages were sleeping in each.

  “Over here,” Janet whispered, indicating one of the sets of beds. “The bottom bunk will be yours. The restroom is down the hall. Do you need to go?”

  Sarah shook her head. “No, thank you. I’m tired.”

  “Go to sleep, then. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  She waited until Sarah had crawled under the covers before leaving. The door clicked shut and now it was dark. Sarah wasn’t afraid of this dark, because she was in that place again, where she wanted to

  (Be nothing)

  She didn’t want to think about Theresa or Dennis or blood or strangers or being alone. She just wanted to close her eyes and see the color black everywhere.

  She had started to fall into an exhausted sleep when she was woken up by a hand at her throat. It was choking her. Her eyes flew open.

  “Quiet,” a voice whispered.

  The voice belonged to a girl—a strong girl. The hand around Sarah’s neck was viselike.

  “My name is Kirsten,” the voice said. “I run this room. What I say goes, period. You got it?”

  She loosened her grip on Sarah’s neck. Sarah coughed.

  “Why?” she asked once she’d caught her breath.

  “Why what?”

  “Why do I have to do what you say?”

  A hand came out of the dark. The slap rocked Sarah’s head, and the pain was shocking.

  “Because I’m the strongest. I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The shadow was gone. Sarah’s cheek ached. She felt more alone than ever.

  Yeah, but you know what?

  What?

  At least you’re not being a crybaby.

  She realized that this was true. What she was feeling wasn’t grief.

  It was anger.

  As she began to fall asleep again, the words Kirsten had said came back to her.

  I’m the strongest.

  A final flare of anger.

  Not forever.

  She fell into the blessed black.

  Hey, there. Me again, back in the here and now.

  Looking back at it, Kirsten wasn’t completely wrong, you know. That’s the truth of the group home: The strongest ones rule over the weaker ones. She taught me that, although I wasn’t thankful then. Hell, I was only six. Now I’m older, and I know the truth.

  Someone had to do it.

  I learned that lesson good.

  I put the diary down again as the rising sun greets me through the windows. There’s no way I can finish this before I have to go in to work, but at least I have my answer: No one believed her because he covered his tracks when he killed the Langstroms. No one was after Sarah, they’d probably thought, she was just having a run of really bad luck. This was borne out by the events that followed with her first foster-family.

  That being the case, a new question arises: Why had The Stranger decided to come out into the open now?

  I ignore all of the other questions, the ones about Sarah and the landscape of her soul; those edges are far too sharp for such a beautiful sunrise.

  BOOK TWO

  Men Who Eat Children

  30

  I CURSE THE RAIN AND READY MYSELF FOR THE RUN TO THE front steps of the Los Angeles FBI building.

  Southern California had very little rain and a whole lot of sun for nearly a decade. Mother Nature is making up for lost time with a heavy rainstorm every three days or so. It started in February and it’s been going on for two months now. It’s wearing thin.

  Nobody carries an umbrella in Los Angeles, even if they should. I’m no exception. I stuff the copy of Sarah’s diary into my jacket to protect it, grab my purse, and poise my thumb so I can hit the lock button of my key fob on the run.

  I open the door and sprint, cursing, cursing, cursing. I’m drenched by the time I arrive.

  “Rain got you good, Smoky,” Mitch remarks as I pass through security.

  No response beyond a smile or a grimace is expected. Mitch is the head of security for the building, a grizzled ex–military man; fifty-five or so, fit, with hawk eyes and a certain coldness to him.

  I drip-dry on the elevator as I head up to the floor my office is on. Other agents ride up with me, looking just as bedraggled. Everyone got drenched; each region has its own piece of stubbornness. This is ours.

  The current incarnation of my position is known as NCAVC Coordinator. NCAVC stands for “National Center for the Analysis of Violent Crime” and it is headquartered in DC. Every bureau office has someone in charge of being the local “rep” for the NCAVC, a kind of Amway network of death. In sleepier, slower places, one agent covers multiple areas of responsibility, NCAVC Coord being just one of many hungry mouths he or she has to feed.

  We’re special here
. We get some of the best psychos around, in a volume that justifies a full-time Coordinator In-Charge (me) and a multi-agent team. I have been in charge of my team for almost a decade. I hand-selected everyone; they are the absolute best around, in my not-so-humble opinion.

  The FBI is a bureaucracy, so there are always rumbles and rumors about changing the name or the composition of my squad. For now, we are here, and we are generally more than busy.

  I head down the hallways, turning right and then left as I continue to drip on the thin, tight-woven gray carpet until I get to the NCAVC Coord offices, known within the building as “Death Central.” I enter and my nose twitches at the smell of coffee.

  “Good grief, you’re drenched.”

  I give Callie a baleful look. She, of course, is dry and perfect and beautiful. Well, not perfect, maybe. Her eyes are tired. A mix of pain and painkillers? Or just a lack of sleep?

  “Coffee ready?” I mumble.

  The need for caffeine is great.

  “Of course,” Callie says, pretending to be offended. “You’re not dealing with an amateur here.” She indicates the pot. “Freshly brewed. Hand-ground this morning by yours truly.”

  I go over and pour myself a cup. I take a sip and shiver in mock-delight.

  “You’re my favorite person ever, Callie.”

  “Of course I am.”

  Alan comes ambling in from the back part of the offices, cup in hand.

  “Thought I was your favorite person,” he rumbles.

  “You are.”

  “You can’t have more than one favorite person,” Callie complains.

  I toast her with my cup and smile. “I’m the boss. I can have as many favorite people as I want. I can even have rotating favorite people. Alan on Monday, you on Tuesday, James…okay, James is a stretch. But you get the idea.”

  “True enough,” Alan says, toasting me back and returning the smile.

  We all share a comfortable silence and sip Callie’s divine coffee. Letting the morning creep through us at a decent pace. It’s not always like this—in fact, it’s rarely so. Many, many mornings the coffee comes in Styrofoam, is far from divine, and is drunk on the run.