Blood Memories - By Barb Hendee Page 0,4

I now occupied was hidden behind an invisible door in the west wall. At least they hadn’t found me.

Listening for a full minute, I heard nothing. I pushed on the sliding panel once to release it.

Empty room.

Odd smell, sweet and musty.

Was it floating down from the mess in his kitchen? God, what had the cops thought of that? Slipping Edward’s address book inside my jacket, I stepped out to find the stench growing stronger, and to see a pile of torn-up floorboards. They’d torn the floor up? Why? Rotting shards of wood and fresh, uneven piles of dirt lay all around me.

Then I noticed a small, gray-white spot in the dirt and leaned down to look closer. It was a bone, part of an index finger.

“No.”

My mind couldn’t accept the implication. We disposed of bodies, dumped off or disguised, as far from ourselves as possible—meaningless dried husks no longer connected to us. Had he been carrying corpses home or luring live victims into his house and draining them here? A madman. Two facts shone brightly through this haze. First, he’d been sliding in and out of reality long before last night, and second . . . this situation was far from over.

How many bodies had they found? The authorities would probably consider Edward a psycho killer who’d finally lost it and committed suicide.

Maybe they were right.

It was all a matter of perspective. But right now, the whole sordid story was being aired on the evening news.

I had to get out of the house.

Apparently, the police had removed the bodies. In fact, they’d gutted the entire basement. I kicked up cold, loose dirt running for the stairs. The upper floor was a shambles, but nothing seemed to have been removed yet. However, I didn’t stop for inventory and moved straight for the front door.

And there, parked right in front of the house, in all its bright red glory, was my main concern. Since I’d been trapped inside all day, my little Mazda had been just sitting there for the police to go over with a fine-tooth comb.

I looked up and down the street. Well . . . other cars were parked nearby, so perhaps they’d run a check on all of them.

In any event, it was likely the authorities had done a search on my license plate by now and located my name and address. Bastards.

Managing to keep the needle under sixty all the way home was difficult, but getting pulled over could have been a tragedy.

William had been home alone all this time. Fear and anger surfaced slowly through my numb layers of skin. The house we lived in was perfect: back in the trees, high fence, deep basement, few neighbors—and private ones at that. Now we were going to have to move. Where? There wouldn’t be time to find us someplace secure or permanent. Whatever I came up with would have to be fast and temporary.

Not bothering to put my car in the garage, I ran up the outdoor steps and through our back door.

“William?”

The interior wasn’t exactly gothic. Our kitchen was actually quite cheery in spite of the fact that we didn’t use it for much, decorated in soft yellow tones. I’d bought the house new back in 1912, but it had undergone several major renovations since then. Keeping up normal appearances was an art that Edward had drilled into my head nearly a hundred and seventy years ago.

A tall, wrinkled old man shuffled in, wearing brown trousers and a faded burgundy smoking jacket. Silver hair hung past his shoulders with tiny dry wisps floating now and then across his narrow face. Veins in his hands, once blue, lay flat and purple beneath flesh so dry it crackled at contact with anything else. Milky white eyes gazed out at me in hurt confusion.

“You weren’t here for dinner last night. Left me hungry,” he said.

“I’m sorry, William. We have to move again. Edward Claymore killed himself this morning, and the police found bodies in his cellar. They’ll be looking for people to question.”

“Have you called Julian?”

Sometimes William surprised me with a flash of memory or clarity of thought.

“No,” I answered. “We have enough money to relocate. I’ll call him once we’re settled.” Explaining all this to Julian was going to be a nightmare. I’d put it off as long as possible.

William’s momentary comprehension faded. His eyebrows knitted slightly. “What about dinner?”

“Of course.” I pulled a kitchen chair out for him. “Just sit down, and we’ll fix you up.”

Rows of