But no one hears. They sing for half an hour. They sing while I drag my nails along the walls and rake the contents of the shelves to the floor, while I claw my face and pull my hair and scream, while I fling my body against the door in a frenzy of desperation because I have togo, I have to run, I can’t be in here, let me out,let me out!
They sing louder while she stumbles shakily from her room and ricochets down the stairs. I shriek at that final crack of her spine, and I crumble, bowed over on the floor, tears glazing my cheeks. Her life’s scenes flutter through my mind—school, services, a wedding, lost babies, tarnished dreams—he cheated but she stayed, thought it was her duty and besides she had nothing else, no skills or training, and she stayed, shefuckingstayed while he did it again and again. He’s gone now, and her children and grandchildren are her pride when she can remember their names, but they’re upstairs screaming in a religious fervor under the prophetic guidance of one Edgar Linton while she dies alone.
I curl up in the fetal position, hoarse screams tearing from my throat, interspersed with dry, gagging sobs. It’s over, and they won’t grieve her terribly. She had become a burden, a chore. The grandchildren will miss her because they don’t understand how her lingering existence weighed on their parents. The parents will claim to miss her, and sometimes they will, when something reminds them of her—they’ll grow misty-eyed and nod and speak a memory of her, but they’ll be glad not to have that extra burden.
I can’t go where I’m supposed to be. I can’t wander through the woods and perform the slow, methodical mourning for this woman. What would usually take hours is condensed into a violent, unbearable cataclysm in my head, a shrieking, howling tempest, a building pressure so intense that I’m convinced I’m going to die. The strain is too great—I’m going to have an aneurysm—something willbreakinside me, liquefy my brain, leave me oozing and mindless on the floor.
The grief cleaves deeper into the red flesh of my heart, blood oozing around the blade. The old woman is me, and I am her—a burden, a concern, a thing of dread to everyone in my life. Even if Heathcliff and I were together, I would eventually becomethatto him—a heavy weight for him to carry.
Maybe it’s better if I never see him again.
I can feel something happening in my head, the grief burning through my brain cells like acid. I’m losing pieces that used to be me, and I can only hope they will heal when this is over. Even if I survive, I don’t think I’ll be myself for a long time.
The urge to escape vaults up my throat like searing bile, and I drag myself up again, a puppet hauled by the strings of a lethal compulsion. I throw myself at the door, shoulders and skull smashing against the unyielding wood over and over. I can’t stop it. My voice isgone, but I keep screaming, a wretched rasp from my tortured throat, until my body collapses, battered and quaking.
Never in my life have I needed a savior so badly. And yet he does not come.
17
Heathcliff
I haven’t heard from Cathy in days. I texted her twice, and I even tried calling. I don’t usually call people. But she didn’t answer the phone or reply to my texts.
Maybe she’s rethinking this connection between us. Maybe she’s scared because she confided in me but I wouldn’t tell her what kind of supernatural I am.
Or maybe that fool Edgar got to her and convinced her that I’m bad news. Which I am. I just thought Cathy might see past that or not mind it.
Maybe she didn’t like the fact that I don’t own the truck I was driving that day. I guess living with my brother and not having my own transportation are red flags for a woman, especially one like Cathy, who’s desperate to escape Wicklow.
Maybe her father is keeping her from contacting me. In that case, I’d best let him have some time to calm down before I go over there. Me showing up might make him act out worse toward her.
Whatever’s going on, I can’t keep texting and calling like a lovesick idiot. I gotta stay focused on the plan and hope she’ll get back to me eventually.
I’ve got three new tattoos, and a couple of them are terminal clients. One of them’s bound to die any day now, which means a payout for me. One step closer to freedom.
My asking price for resurrection isn’t as high as Hindley’s. He’s got contacts who can vouch for him, but since I’m working alone, going after folks with no connection to the supernatural world, my services are untested. No good reviews yet, you might say—although Alan Wolcott was beyond thrilled with his resurrection. In fact, he was so thrilled I had to get out of there quick, before he tried to make me get matching tattoos with his whole family. They weren’t around at the time; the agent persuaded them to leave the house for a while, saying he’d oversee the morgue coming to collect the body. I can only imagine how the family reacted, coming home to find Wolcott aliveandhealed.
I never told Wolcott or the agent my real name. Never gave them my address. They could ask around near Moretti’s, I guess, throw cash at people in my area and maybe find me. But the folks in the area ain’t talkative to out-of-town, big-money types. Pretty much the only places I go are the brewery, the Grange, a gas station, maybe a couple bars. I’m not really a regular anywhere, at least not enough to be recognized. Moretti’s isn’t a place I usually frequent, what with being in the Wicklow town limits and all.
After I recovered from that resurrection, I took down the account I’d used to contact Wolcott and I started new ones. I figure I’ll do the scorched-earth thing after every successful resurrection, so they can’t find me again. I’m working out the kinks, finding that sweet spot, where the price is high enough to give my offer some weight but low enough so people aren’t too scared to shell out the 30 percent deposit up front.
I’ve got my own truck now, an old used Ford I bought withcash off a guy who let me keep the plates and didn’t ask questions. I didn’t ask him where he got it either. I keep it hidden at the back of the Lockwood property, behind an old shed draped in kudzu vines. Hindley never goes back there since there’s poison ivy all through that part of the woods. He’s probably forgotten that there’s also an overgrown dirt track cutting through a tree belt to Gumtree Road.
I don’t mind risking poison ivy if it means having my own wheels. I don’t dare use the truck often, though. Someone might tell Hindley they saw me in it, and he’d go find it and shoot it full of holes out of spite. Then there would be questions to answer, like where I got the money for it.
My life has always been shit, but it was mostly a relaxed kind of shit. Now it’s fucking stressful, with all these secrets and underground deals and the fact thatCathy hasn’t texted me back.
I want to go over to Aunt Nellie’s and see her. But she has ghosted me on purpose, and she’s got her reasons. I ain’t going over there to beg, no way. I’m waiting until I’ve got enough money to really offer her something solid, something real. Genuine freedom, not just my broke ass and callused heart.
I gotta wait until I can give her everything.
***
I’m fucking exhausted.
Since I’ve been doing my own resurrections, I’ve had to spend more time recovering. It’s been tough to keep up with work at the brewery and avoid raising Hindley’s suspicions while getting the rest I need. I tried energy drinks for a while, but they messed me up bad. At one point I lied to Hindley and told him I had the flu so I could go to bed and recover.
In between work, resurrections, and recovery, I stopped byCathy’s house and Aunt Nellie’s store a couple times, just to see if she was there. I was determined not to, but hell…a man’s got his limits. The first time—the Tuesday after I resurrected Alan Wolcott—I saw Cathy inside, restocking shelves. She looked fine—cheerful, even. No bruises, no signs of distress. From what I could see, there was no fallout from that night on the beach, no reason why she couldn’t call me. She even glanced my way, and I’m pretty sure she saw me through the window. But she turned back around without a second look.
