All Hallows by W. Sheridan Bradford

Author:W. Sheridan Bradford [Bradford, W. Sheridan]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: DoubleMule Publishing
Published: 2019-04-09T16:00:00+00:00

13

Her knees clicked as she walked, but Maren maintained a steady pace along the narrow, unlit lane.

In many neighborhoods, the gloom would inspire rational concern—of young men clustering on corners, of drivers rolling through stop signs, of concealed crimes.

Not here.

Here, darkness met with the security of affluence. A dry moat encircled the golf course community; the sides were prohibitively steep, and a bridge on the east was the single common entrance or exit to the exclusive property.

Maren had scouted the location weeks ago. Seventy-six homes dotted the artificial island in three rings, the innermost of which surrounded a tiny park that was, of course, public only to those who could reach it.

A police cruiser sat in a recess where the narrow bridge began, its engine quiet, its headlights off, the parking lights predatory.

The cruiser looked too much like a troll for Maren, and, given the proximity of the bridge, she felt justified in thinking so. Her stomach churned at the thought of a troll. While no advocate for genocide, Maren couldn’t say she missed the decline in that population.

She waved at the cruiser, an elderly woman on a walk. Maren wondered if she knew the detective who might be watching. She couldn’t see the plates, but it was the right type of vehicle: a Charger in two-tone metallic livery.

She paused when there was no response, reaching for a spoon. There was no warmth between her breasts—nothing to suggest she was observed. Perhaps the officer was asleep at the wheel, or busy studying a screen of incidents and reports.

The headlights of the vehicle came to life, blinding her, and Maren stepped back and away on instinct. The red and blues did not switch on, the siren was silent—and the passenger door was ajar.

“Maren? Is that you?”

“It is.”

“This is serendipitous. Join me.”

The familiar voice came from behind the car; Maren detected the faintest of echoes. She quickly brought a small, colorful rectangle of glossy paper from her bowling purse without looking.

“Easy, Maren—it’s me. You’re just in time to help me drag this woman away.”

“Did you kill a cop? Who is me?”

“Uriah Lee Brio. Your friend. Your lover.”

Maren’s tongue stuck in her mouth. Uriah or otherwise, her spoons should have reacted—that they had not was a most ominous omen.

“What a pleasant encounter,” she managed. “I meant to stay in contact, but you know how it is for us gypsies. I’ll give you my calling card to—ah, but I forget myself. We agreed you’d prove your identity.”

“Prove it?”

“Surely you remember; speak the phrase.”

“Oh, yes, let’s see. It’s been so long. Uh… elastic meadows in endless sorrow, clad with night soil…”

Maren breathed through her nose carefully, but the air was still. Whatever was claiming to be Uriah Lee was large, though it was hunched in deep shadow.

“How say you, Uriah? My ears are old. Repeat that, if you would?”

“Of course. I, uh… we are nobody now; we… something, something… red pens drawing aimlessly.”

“Much can be said of Uriah, but she never—never—loses her sense of rhythm. I have seen her body rubbed with grave-suet and atropine, and still she retained impeccable meter.

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