Pretty Little Dead Girls (5 page)

Even now the monster’s breath fogged her window. Even now it watched.

Eddie’s hand hovered half an inch away.

Bryony’s face was streaked with tears. “Why do they all have to die? Why can’t I just die, instead of seeing it miss me and take them over and over and over and over?” She looked at the dead father and sobbed, buried her face in her hands again. “I wish it was over, I wish that I was dead. But I want to live, I want to live!”

Our good and brave Eddie.

He knew the consequences he faced. He was intimately familiar with the awfulness of murder and the way it destroys everything from the inside out. There is the murder itself, a gruesome thing, and then there is the parasite it leaves behind, worming and gnawing its way through everybody near enough to touch. The paranoia of the landlord, the suspicion of the neighbors, the heartbreak of the church congregation and the guilt of the loved ones.

Oh, the guilt of the loved ones.

If I was better or stronger or smarter, Bryony,
he thought,
I would be of more use to you.
He looked at the girl, who seemed smaller somehow, a crying doll. Tiny gems of window glass clung inside the curve at the top of her ear, and somehow that made his decision for him. It was such a vulnerable area, how could the glass even dare to fall there? He was incensed. He was outraged.

It needs be said that Eddie Warshouski didn’t make the decision lightly, but when he did, he knew that he would never unmake it.

He grabbed Bryony, pulling her face into his jacket, whispering calming things in her ear, as they knelt together in a sea of sirens and blood and broken glass and scattered yellow jonquils.

CHAPTER TWELVE

A Splendid Way to Go

“Daddy? Are you there?”

“My sweet girl! How is everything going?”

“Daddy, I met him. I met him, and his name is Eddie.”

“Congratulations! And he’s strong enough to handle you?”

“I think he is, although he doesn’t know it yet. He’ll learn, though.”

“Are you going to bring him by sometime?”

“I will, Daddy. I want you to meet him.”

“The desert has been howling for you at night, my dear. It’s pacing back and forth in front of the house, leaving footprints in the sand. You need to be very careful.”

“I will. And Daddy? He’s going to love me. He’s going to love me until both of our hearts burst from it all. Wouldn’t that be wonderful? Wouldn’t that be an absolutely splendid way to go?”

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

A Dangerous Path

Now you might think that Bryony lives alone because there was never mention of a roommate. It would be a wise thing, true. If those close to her tend to end up as casualties of the cosmos, it would stand to reason that she would choose not to inflict her delightful presence upon anybody else. However, this is Seattle, and as we all know, space is a precious commodity in any big city. Prices are high, and Bryony works arranging flowers at the market, not as the CEO of some prestigious and eyebrow raising company. Not that this is a path that she couldn’t take, because she certainly could if she had the time and the inclination for it, but quite simply, the desire isn’t there. She is happy to be a flower girl and spend her days watching cheerful people (and a few irritated ones) prancing through the market. She likes listening to Eddie as he plays his clever songs, and even sings once in a while. Above all, Bryony likes to be free. She always needs the choice of running to be available to her, as it has proved itself to be indispensablein the past. So a CEO she is not.

But a roommate!

Ah, yes, she has one, a pretty dark-haired girl with black eyes that dissect you into your molecular state as soon as she sees you. Her name is Syrina, and she is a theater student at the university, and also very poor, which is the topic of many a comfortable conversation in the evenings. Syrina cut Bryony’s hair into something more adult, Bryony showed Syrina how to balance a checkbook, and they both spent many a night painting the inside of their closets bright, sunshiny colors together. Bryony feared greatly for her new friend’s safety at first, but when Syrina’s boyfriend Rikki-Tikki started spending more time at the apartment than out of it, Bryony felt much better. He was a large man with a Don’t-Murder-My-Girlfriend type of nature, and this was comforting. Naturally his Xbox controllers ended up in strange places like in the refrigerator and in Bryony’s closet, but if a small inconvenience now and then meant one less murder in the apartment, it was most certainly worth it.

“Syrina,” Bryony said this particular evening, “I think that there is something missing in my life.”

“What’s that?” asked her roommate, making something exotic and delicious for dinner, as she was wont known to do.

“I’m not exactly sure. Perhaps there is something that I want to do, only I’m not, and I don’t know what it is.”

Syrina sat down and slid a plate of mysterious deliciousness over to Bryony. “I know what you should be doing, Star Girl. You need to run.”

“You want me to leave?” Bryony asked, and her face fell. She was dearly enjoying this town, and these people, and this apartment, and her roommate, and this food. It was spicy and made her nose run slightly. It also made her eyes tear, or maybe that was simply the sting of Syrina’s suggestion.

“No, you silly girl,” Syrina said, and swatted at her roommate playfully. “When I said ‘run,’ I meant ‘run.’ Like I do. To keep in shape, so I can fit in my costumes. To quiet my mind. And you, my friend, really need to quiet your mind.”

Bryony was intrigued. All her life she had been running, but now she could physically? Honestly? Truly? Run away?

“What do I need to get started?” she asked.

Syrina spoke through a mouthful of food, which was improper, of course, but certainly excusable because she was home and with a close friend, and was famished.

“You’ll need some shoes. That’s pretty much it. Find a fabulous place to run. In fact, I suggest that you go to the Burke-Gilman Trail.”

“Ooh, that sounds lovely! I’ll start tomorrow, then! The Burke-Gilman. Thank you, Syrina. You really are such a good friend to me.”

She was, too. A loud girl, a sometimes impolite girl, but a kind girl all the same. She truly thought she was doing Bryony a favor. Running, if one takes to it, is a wonderful thing, a time to calm your emotions and work your mind and your body. She was certain that Bryony would, indeed, take to it, since she was adept at running. She had, as she had immediately seized upon, been running her entire life. Only now . . . perhaps she’d be getting some real use out of it.

What Syrina didn’t factor in was what she tried to ignore. She tried harder than anybody else ever had, and at times was fairly successful. Her theater training helped her do this, she liked to think, and hoped it proved how fine an actress she was. She attempted to turn a blind eye to Bryony and the death that awaited her. She defied it, really, and that is why she suggested jogging on the Burke-Gilman; to flaunt Bryony’s life and vitality out in the open where it could not be missed. She hoped staring fate right in the eyes would somehow make it shrink away and throw its hands in the air, saying, “All right, all right, you can have the girl. I don’t need her, truly.”

So run the Burke-Gilman trail, Bryony. Run fast and run well, and see if fate can catch you.

Because lately, you see, more and more girls have gone missing there. But surely that won’t happen to her, of course not. After all, she has lived this long, hasn’t she?

She has. Which means her time is coming closer and closer and closer. Fate can’t be thwarted forever. But Syrina, who certainly means well, wasn’t thinking of it this way.

Which was a rather large mistake indeed.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Her Fragile Hand

Eddie woke up one morning and realized that he had fallen for Star Girl. He knew that it would come to pass, and although grudgingly displeased with it at first, he soon came to accept the idea. He watched her as she laughed with her friends at the market. He watched as she talked wildly with her hands, explaining something to Chad the Fish Guy. He fantasized about beating up Chad the Fish Guy, out in the parking lot, preferably. When the sun was down and the cops were all looking the other way. What he would really like to do would be to tie him up and throw him off the pier and into the sea, but Eddie realized that was going a little far. A man could dream, however.

Speaking of dreams: A man walked by, eating a fresh miniature doughnut from the vender, and stopped abruptly when he heard Eddie play.

“I like that song, boy. Did you write it?”

“Yes, sir,” Eddie said politely. He could be extremely polite if he wanted to, and something about this man’s tailored slacks and friendly face told him that he wanted to.

The man dug into his wallet for a five dollar bill and tossed it in Eddie’s guitar case. He also tossed in a business card.

“Give that number a call,” he said. “I’d be interested in having you play down at the station.”

The station in question was a local radio station that had an eclectic play list, and apparently Eddie and Jasmine were off-kilter enough to fit right in. He could hardly wait to tell Bryony, although he was trying to keep it cool. Cool. He was going to keep it so extremely cool that—

“Hey, Bryony, guess what? I’ve been invited to play at the station, wow, just out of the blue and this could be my big break so what do you think of that?” he said in one breath. He was fairly glowing, a nuclear bomb of joy.

“Why, Eddie, that’s wonderful!” she exclaimed, and threw herself in his arms, a flurry of hair and ribbons and fuzzy teddy bear excitement. Eddie glanced over to see if Chad the Fish Guy was watching, and he was, wringing a nice bit of salmon too tightly in his hands. Eddie allowed himself to smile.

Bryony pulled back. “So when are you going to go down?”

Eddie shrugged, and Jasmine the guitar, slung over his shoulder, shrugged, as well. “I’m not certain, yet. I need to call them and set something up.”

Bryony smiled. “Well, I for one am exceptionally proud of you. You write the most beautiful music, Eddie.” He blushed and she pressed forward. “You
do
. It’s exquisite and intricate and fairly drips with burden. You write the most joyful songs of heart wrenching loss that I have ever heard. I love to listen to you in the background while I work.”

“You think all of my songs are about loss?”

“Oh, aren’t they? I can’t hear the words over the crowd, just the melody. Am I wrong?”

No, she wasn’t wrong. He just had never thought about it. He wrote songs about life, and if life includes loss, well then. Nobody ever mentioned it to him before. But then again, most people didn’t mention much to Eddie Warshouski. Ever. His cutting glances and unpleasant scowls served to keep himself well isolated from mainstream society. Or even the outer fringes of society. From everybody, really, and that was just how he liked it, usually. Or at least, that was how it had been, before Bryony and her cursed glittering eyes.

Eddie’s life
was
a life of loss. Almost everything that he loved had been taken from him at one time or another. He almost felt as though
he
were the one that fate toyed with, as if it was
his
fault Bryony suffered. If he was created only to have things taken, then wouldn’t it make perfect sense that the young lady who would make him the happiest would be destined to fall in the most grisly manner imaginable? He felt he should apologize. He felt he should turn tail and run.

“Eddie,” she said, and slipped her fragile hand into his. She had never done this before, and Eddie was instantly nervous. Would he hold it the right way? Did she want her thumb crossed over his, or his crossed over hers? Would he start to sweat, would it be unnatural, would the touch of his thick fingers send her into a tailspin of revulsion? What if they weren’t shaped right, or he wasn’t who she really wanted? Perhaps some other man with absolutely perfect hands was wandering the city, and she would try on hand after hand like Cinderella’s slipper until she found the one who fit, and—

“Eddie, I like you very much, and I’m sorry for that.”

Eddie, who was near to hyperventilating, looked at her sharply. “You what? And you’re, huh?”

Bryony met his eyes briefly, and all of the ghosts and the demons, the horrors and the tremendous weight of her constant waiting rose up in a wave behind her, pressing down on him with so much force he felt he was sinking to the floor. It was too much, too much.

Bryony looked away, and Eddie’s heart shivered again, one weak, shuddering spasm, and then it cheerfully fell back into its regular reggae rhythm.

“I know about Rita, and I am sorry,” Bryony said. “I know how hard it is to be around me sometimes, for everybody, and I know it must be especially difficult for you. But I like you, you see, and I just want to be by you. I want to press my cheek against your jacket and see what your hair feels like. I love to listen to you play, and I pretend sometimes you wrote a song just for me. And all of this, it isn’t fair to you, and for that I feel regret.”

Regret. What an unusual choice of words. It isn’t wise to regret, not really, and it usually doesn’t do any good either. You regret things that happened and which you no longer have control over. You don’t regret the present, and you don’t regret the future. Bryony tended not to regret at all, it was just in her nature to accept all and carry on. But Eddie? She regrets being a bother to him? This made Eddie delightfully happy.

“Bryony, there’s something that I have been wanting to give you—”

Ah, but fate intervenes as it always does, and suddenly Bryony’s little flower station was overwhelmed with customers.

She was forced to return to work before Eddie had a chance to give her the shining gift that he had carried around in his pocket for the last three days. Even more importantly, she did not get the opportunity to tell him that she had begun running the trail, which she found difficult yet delightful, and a new running hunger had been born inside of her. If Eddie had known this, he would have immediately been concerned for her safety and demanded to run alongside her.