The Beautiful and the Damned (8 page)

Even though her next shift at the diner wasn’t until tomorrow night, Cyn knew she
couldn’t wait that long. She needed a first-aid kit and some bandages. Remembering
that she’d left her coat at work too—another reason to go there—Cyn slowly eased her
way over to her suitcase to grab a sweater and headed out.

~  ~  ~

Cyn walked to the diner, battling her thoughts every step of the way.

You deserved this, you know. Something inside you is trying to see that you are punished.
Which is only fair. You killed your boyfriend in his sleep.

She put both hands over her ears as if to block out her thoughts, but it didn’t work.
They just kept coming.

His poor family. They’ll never know what happened. How could you just leave him there
like that? And you claim you
loved
him?

Maybe it was time to run again. With the cop here now, and the blackouts starting
again. Maybe it was time to just get out. A couple more days of working at the diner,
and then she would take her money and leave this town behind.

God, I hope I can last that long.

The kitchen was empty as Cyn snuck in the back door, and she pocketed a pack of Lenny’s
cigarettes left out on the prep table. “Sorry, big guy,” she said to the empty room.
“But I need these more than you do right now. I’ll get you another pack. I swear.”

The first-aid kit was in the employee bathroom, and she made sure to lock the door
behind her before carefully rolling up her sleeves. She didn’t see the tube of ointment
that was supposed to prevent scar tissue until she’d already bandaged half a
dozen of the cuts.
That’s okay. Maybe I deserve a couple of scars.

Cyn washed her hands and looked into the mirror. An uneasiness still hung about her.
She could see it in the haunted look in her eyes. “I’m not going to let you win, you
bastard,” she whispered to her reflection. “You hear me? Whoever you are in there,
I’m not going to let you win.”

She didn’t realize then that it was already too late.

C
yn reached for a paper towel to dry off her hands and saw her fingers were covered
in mud. Headlights from an empty car sitting nearby provided illumination, revealing
that she wasn’t in the employee bathroom at the diner anymore, she was in the woods.

Her jeans were slimy and wet, and she was sitting next to a half-dug muddy hole. An
empty bottle of Jack was at her feet.

Surprisingly, Cyn took everything in with a sense of extreme calm. She must have had
another blackout. Since no one else was in the car, she’d obviously stolen it. Then
she . . .
what?
Had some sort of accident?

Getting to her feet, she took a quick walk around the car.
There was a small dent in the bumper.
Okay. Accident it was.
But if it was just an accident, what did she hit? And why was she so dirty?

Then she saw something submerged in the muddy hole. It looked like some sort of stick.

With a sick twisting in her gut, Cyn knew then that she’d hit someone. She’d blacked
out again, stolen a car, and hit someone. Then she’d tried to cover it up by digging
a hole and burying him.

Dropping to the ground, Cyn crawled on her hands and knees. Paying no attention to
the mud that splashed her face, all she could think about was saving him. Saving this
man that she’d hit who must have a wife and a family and a pet golden retriever who
was patiently waiting by the front door for his master to come home.

“Please be okay. I’ll do anything. Just please . . . be okay.”

The stick was positioned at an odd angle, and as she reached for it some part of her
registered that it wasn’t a stick at all. It was covered in fur and had a hoof attached
to it. She had to stand in order to gain some leverage to hoist it out of the hole.

The mud made a sucking sound when she pulled, and Cyn grunted, feeling her balance
start to shift as the mud gave way and whatever it was in that hole slowly started
to move toward
her. She pulled as hard as she could and almost lost her grip before falling to her
knees.

The mud held on for a second longer, then finally relented, and a dead baby deer slid
out of the hole.

It’s not a person! I didn’t hit anyone!

But her joy was short lived. The little deer was so tiny. The poor thing’s leg hung
crookedly, obviously this was how she’d dented the bumper. There didn’t seem to be
any damage to the rest of its body, though, and a broken leg certainly shouldn’t have
been enough to kill it.
Punctured lung, maybe? Broken neck?

Then she saw the battered head.

Oh, God. She’d killed it. She was a monster.

Cyn began trembling violently, then leaned over and vomited what small amount of liquid
was left in her stomach. She heaved again and again, desperately trying to purge itself.
The strength in her arms finally gave out, and she collapsed into the hole.

Covered in wet, slimy mud, Cyn willed herself to give up. To go ahead and die right
there. Hopefully she’d freeze to death before she starved, but either way, it was
no worse than what she deserved. She’d gone from killing Hunter to killing innocent
animals.

But as hard as she tried, she couldn’t envision any bright
light to walk into. Or a pit of fire and brimstone, for that matter. Life was refusing
to let go, and the only thing she could think of was that she had to get to Father
Montgomery.

Maybe he would know what was happening to her.

Cyn rolled over and pulled herself out of the mud inch by painful inch. “I’m sorry,”
she whispered to the baby deer as she got to her feet. “I’m so, so sorry. Forgive
me.”

Her sense of direction was skewed, but she started walking anyway. Leaving the car
behind. She didn’t know who it belonged to, and she didn’t want to get caught up in
another mess. Eventually she recognized the road she was on and made her way to Father
Montgomery’s church.

She was filthy when she staggered up to the door of the rectory. Her fingernails ragged
and caked with mud. The single act of lifting a shaking hand to ring the bell took
all of her remaining strength, and she slid against the door frame, crumpling into
a ball.

When he opened the door and glanced down at her in concern, all Cyn could say was,
“I killed it. God help me, Father, I killed it. There’s something wrong with me. I
think I’m possessed.”

A
vian was on his way to Pete’s junkyard to see about replacing the muffler on his bike
when he noticed the car that had been following him the entire way suddenly turned
off. Glancing in his side mirror, he saw a young-looking guy get out and immediately
survey his surroundings. Shoulders straight, head held high, he had an air of authority
about him. And he was packing. Avian could see the bulge of a holster under his arm.

Law enforcement.

The cop went into a diner, but something didn’t feel right about him, so Avian parked
and went into the diner too. He watched as the cop sat near the back, which had a
full view of
the place, and flashed his badge to an overeager waitress who came to take his order.

“Hey, I was wondering if you could do me a favor?” the cop asked.

“Sure. Name it.” The waitress licked her lips and then blushed.

“I was in here a couple of nights ago, and there was another cute little waitress.
You two could have been sisters. Do you happen to know her name?”

The waitress frowned, not sure if he was as interested in her as she wanted him to
be. “You mean Cyn? She’s the only one that works the night shift. Except for Dougie
Ray on her nights off. But he’s not little, and he’s definitely not cute.”

“Cyn. That must be it. Cyn . . . ?”

“I don’t know what her last name is.” The waitress put one hand on her hip.

“She forgot her coat when she left, and I have it,” he explained. “I wanted to return
it to her.” He smiled at the waitress, and it worked like a charm.

“Well isn’t that just so sweet of you, officer.”

“Call me Declan.”

“Declan . . . I . . .” She fumbled with her notepad. “Cyn will be in tonight. She
works from ten to seven.”

“Great. I’ll stop back in then. Now, would you get me a piece of pumpkin pie? With
whipped cream, if you have any.”

“Absolutely.” She beamed at him again and then made her way over to Avian. When he
only ordered a cup of coffee, she left him with a considerably less than cheerful
attitude and returned seconds later with a steaming cup.

Avian sipped slowly, taking note of how many times the cop looked over at him. Three
total, in the fifteen minutes he was there. The cop paid a couple more compliments
to the waitress and then took the number she slipped him as he stood to leave. But
he barely glanced at it before stuffing it into his back pocket.

When the cop went to pay, Avian followed him again. He brushed by him, and Avian caught
one of the cop’s memories. It was a flash of the girl, Cyn—and the mental image was
tinged around the edges with red.

Interesting. . . . What’s your connection to an Echo?

The cop was still in the parking lot as Avian exited, and Avian didn’t miss the fact
that he was checking out his license plate. He started his bike up.

“Looks like a classic,” the cop said over the roar of the engine.

“It is.”

“Are you a collector?”

Avian thought about the thirty motorcycles in the garage of his Massachusetts house.
That probably qualified him as a collector. “You could say that.”

The cop smiled. But his eyes were hard. “My brother had a motorcycle too. Nothing
as nice as yours, just a ninety-nine Honda Valkyrie. But it was his pride and joy.”

Avian took note of the word “was.”

The cop turned and got into his car. A rental. “Ride safe.”

Avian gave the cop plenty of time to pull out, then tailed him for a while. He kept
close to the diner, driving around the block several times like he was looking for
something. Two girls came walking down the street, and the cop flashed his badge again,
asking if either one of them knew Cyn. Avian didn’t miss the flash of anger on his
face when the answer was no.

When the cop finally pulled away, he drove straight to a motel and went inside room
223.

The car’s a rental, and the hotel room means he isn’t local.
And Avian would bet every last motorcycle he owned that wherever the cop came from
was the same place Cyn came from too.

F
ather Montgomery didn’t ask any questions as he shepherded Cyn inside the rectory,
other than if she needed immediate medical attention. When she told him no, he handed
her a fluffy white towel, pointed her in the direction of the bathroom, and gave her
privacy while she cleaned up.

Cyn stared at the wall of water, watching dirt run down in tiny brown rivers and circle
round the drain as her fingers grew wrinkly in the shower.
What if he can’t help me?