Read Online The Face of Death by Cody McFadyen - Free Book Online Page B

contest with a mannequin that blinks.
    Her blue eyes are the most “alive” part of her, and even they seem glassy and unreal.
    I examine the blood on her as I wait.
    The spatter on the right side of her face looks like a collection of sideways teardrops. Elongated, as though each drop hit her skin with force and then was stretched by inertia.
    Flung there, maybe? By fingertips soaked in blood?
    Her nightgown is a mess. The front is soaked. I see spots at the knees.
    As if she knelt. Maybe she was trying to revive someone?
    My train of thought derails when she blinks, sighs, and then looks away.
    “Are you really Smoky Barrett?” she asks. It’s a tired voice, filled with defeat and doubt.
    Hearing her speak is both elating and surreal. Her voice is dusky and subdued, older than she is, a hint of the woman she’ll become.
    “Yep,” I reply. I point to my scars. “Can’t fake these.”
    She keeps the gun to her head, but as she looks at my scars, sorrow replaces some of the deadness in her face.
    “I’m sorry,” she says. “For what happened to you. I read about it. It made me cry.”
    “Thank you.”
    Wait for her. Don’t press.
    She looks down. Sighs. Looks back up at me.
    “I know what it’s like,” she says.
    “What, honey?” I ask in a soft voice. “You know what what’s like?”
    I watch the pain rise in her eyes, like two moons being filled up with blood.
    “I know what it’s like to lose everything you love,” she says, her voice cracking, then dropping to a whisper. “I’ve been losing things since I was six.”
    “Is that why you wanted to see me? To tell me about what happened then?”
    “When I was six,” she says, continuing as though I hadn’t said anything, “he started it all by murdering my mother and my father.”
    “Who is ‘he,’ Sarah?”
    She locks eyes with me, something in them flares up for a moment before dying back down.
    What was that? I wonder. Sorrow? Anger?
    It was something huge, that’s for sure. That was no minnow that had swum to the surface before diving back down into deeper waters, it was a soul-leviathan.
    “He,” she says, her voice flat. “The Stranger. The one who killed my parents. The one who kills anything I love. The…
artist
.” The way she says “artist,” she could be saying “child molester” or “shit on a hot sidewalk.” The revulsion is strong and pure and palpable.
    “Did The Stranger do this, Sarah? Was he here, in this house?”
    Her sorrow and fear are swept away by a look of cynicism that rocks me. It’s far, far too terrible and cunning for a sixteen-year-old girl. If that dusky voice belongs to a twenty-five-year-old woman, this look belongs to a world-worn hag.
    “Don’t
humor
me!” she cries, her voice high-pitched and derisive. “I know you’re only listening to me because of”—she wiggles the gun—“this. You don’t really believe me!”
    What just happened here?
    The quiet air between us starts to hum.
    You’re losing her, I realize. Fear thrills through me.
    Do something!
    I gaze into those rage-filled eyes. I remember what Alan said.
    Don’t lie, I think. Truth. Only truth. She’ll smell a lie from a thousand yards away right now and then it’s game over.
    My words come from somewhere effortless, almost extemporaneous. “I’ll tell you what I care about right now, Sarah,” I say, my voice strong. “I care about
you.
I know you didn’t do what happened here. I know that you’re very close to killing yourself. I know you asked for me, and that means that
maybe
I have something to give you, something to tell you, that will keep you from pulling that trigger.” I lean forward. “Honey, I don’t know enough about anything going on here to
humor
you, I promise. All I’m trying to do is understand. Help me understand. Please. You asked for me. Why? Why did you ask for me, Sarah?” I wish I could reach out and shake her. I plead instead. “Please tell me.”
    Don’t die, I think. Not here, not