Winter's Blood: A Psychological Thriller Page 2

  CHAPTER THREE

  Dakota watched Harvey wake from a fitful sleep. The fireworks exploded into the night. She closed the French doors.

  His eyes, crusted over with sleep, struggled to stay open. She sat on the edge of the bed and held his hand, wondering how many times she’d do this simple gesture for the most amazing man she’d ever known. She lifted a glass of water to his cracked lips.

  He sipped a dribble of the liquid and smiled. Intent on finishing his fable, he cleared his throat. “If you don’t believe me, Dakota, I have body parts hidden all over Avalon.”

  She shook her head. “Now, Grandpa, enough of this nonsense, you’re going too far this time.”

  He squeezed her hand until it ached. “I’m serious. You must know the truth. Let me think.” He looked at the ceiling. “I put a finger in the back of the Grandfather clock. Cleaned it up good, boiled the flesh off first, mind, I’m no ghoul.” He squinted his eyes closed, imagining the hideaways.

  She flicked the saline drip with her index finger.

  “The other one. Wait, I buried that, you’ll find that later. I stashed a thigh bone upstairs, taped it to the leg of my bed. All these years, and nobody knew.” He half chuckled, then coughed. His face dreamy with excitement, he said, “There’s a big piece of a woman’s skull in the pantry behind the old bread bin. Surprised nobody found it.”

  She sat back in the chair and snickered at the absurdity of his supposed confession. “I never was much of a housekeeper, Grandpa.”

  A laugh, much like the ones that used to rebound off Avalon’s walls, bubbled its way up his throat, and into the air but this time, sounded more like a dying rasp. “Nearly forgot, there’s a set of teeth in my bathroom cabinet.” Yawning, he drifted off to sleep again, but not before adding, “The hair, that’s in your grandmother’s old hat box.” Then snoring filled the room.

  She laid his hand on top of his chest and stayed silent. A sudden urge to check the hiding places consumed her thoughts. She couldn’t resist investigating his wild claims.

  She cocked her head to gaze at the Grandfather clock standing to attention in the hallway. Its grand face stared back as if daring her to peek inside. Dakota shifted it away from the wall, unhooked the hinge at the back, and peered inside. Unable to see anything, she flexed her fingers and dove into the black space. Her hand flitted around. It rested on an object wrapped in cloth. She unwrapped the burlap material to uncover a severed index finger bone, big enough to be a man’s.

  She slumped against the wall and smirked. Searching her memory for the remaining hiding places, she tilted her head.

  Dakota sprinted up the stairs, three at a time, to Harvey’s bedroom. Throwing open the door, she looked at the double bed, its mahogany legs sticking out from under the floral blanket. Her heart beat to the rhythm of her footsteps. Throwing the corner of the blanket onto the bed, she knelt down, and sure enough, a long bone had been fastened to one leg of the frame. Dakota sat on the floor, shaking her head. Bread bin. She raced to the kitchen, immersed in her macabre treasure hunt.

  Flinging open the pantry door, she scanned the shelf’s contents. Her eyes settled on a yellow bread bin with faded red pansies. She wiped away the dust, and opened the container. Empty except for the part of a human skull her grandfather had promised, she held it in one hand, her body shaking with laughter.

  Crazy old buzzard.

  Her life choices made complete sense now; the unending desire, aching to take a human life and destroy it in any way she chose from the cruel schoolboy up until the present day.

  She recalled her grandfather looking at her with a peculiar, unfathomable glint in his eye she could never comprehend. Now, she understood. They were kindred spirits, Harvey and Dakota, born of the Winters’ blood, a tangible surge of predation coursing through their veins. A feeling of acceptance and belonging she never dreamed possible flooded her soul.

  Dakota waited until Harvey woke, this time intent on drinking in every heinous crime he’d committed.

  “You looked, then?” His eyelids flickered.

  Her brow furrowed. “How did you know?”

  “Please, I can see it all over your face. Now you’re taking me seriously, at last. The final proof, if you need it, is buried in a grave marked ‘Trigger M’ under the biggest oak tree in the cemetery out back.” He wiped the sweat from his upper lip with his index finger.

  She leaned forward, the dinging monitor keeping time with her heart. “But I thought the Kingsbury Butcher was that doctor, Sweeney. Ness seemed convinced of his guilt.”

  “That mick wouldn’t have the stomach for it. It was me, all me.” He struggled to puff out his withered chest. “All that stuff’s in the past. What’s more important is now. I want you to have Avalon. Your sister never loved it the way you do. This old place breathes when you’re around. Promise me, you’ll live here forever.” He stroked her cheek, then grabbed her hand.

  She patted his forehead with a cold washcloth. “I’m not going anywhere, Grandpa, don’t worry.”

  “Listen to me, child, it’s important.” He inhaled, the wheezing accompanied his breath in tiny whistle-like sounds. “Dakota, you made the right decision giving him up. A tough choice, I know, but what chump said life was easy?”

  She smiled.

  “You may hate me for asking you this. Indulge a dying old man. You have to bring them both back here under one roof. That’s where the Winters belong—here, in Avalon.”

  Her shoulders slumped under the weight of his request. She sighed, and stared at him.

  “Don’t look at me like that, child, I’ve forgotten more things than you’ll ever know. Swallow your pride and do it, if not for me, for yourself, and them.” Trying to hike himself up on one elbow, he stared into her eyes. “You and me, kid, we’re kindred spirits. Trust me, I know what I’m talking about.”

  “I promise, I’ll return the Winters back to Avalon.” She mustered up a smile to conceal her real feelings of dread. She wanted the same more than anything, but it would take a herculean effort on her part to pull it off. Her heart sank.

  Satisfied with her answer, he drifted off to sleep and never woke up.

  Pulling the blanket over Harvey’s face, Dakota stood at the front window and peered at the cemetery. Avalon was built in 1890, eight years before the graveyard. The Winters had donated the land to the church, on one proviso: that Avalon remained where it stood. She gazed at the white headstones dotted across the landscape, rising up from the ground like ghostly faces in the night, several accompanied by pint-sized American flags plunged into the ground.

  She grasped the front door handle with its oval piece of frosted glass nestled in the middle. Armed with a shovel, Dakota marched to the grave marked ‘Trigger M.’ As he’d promised, she found a burlap sack swaddling a tin box containing two human skulls, a hunting knife, bone saw, gun, four razors and a circle of rope along with clippings of the Kingsbury Run Murders. The victims’ I.D., wallets, and purses were also stashed in the box. She yearned to know more about his victims. Any further secrets died with him.

  Harvey’s fedora hung on the mahogany coat rack in the hallway. Untouched since his illness, Dakota ran her fingers over it and picked it up.

  Untying her hair, it tumbled past her shoulders. Placing the hat on her head, she secured it and caught her reflection in the mirror. Before now, she’d only ever noticed her mother’s familiar features in herself, never Harvey’s.

  Opening the French doors, she faced Lake Erie. A wooden table and chairs, faded from the sun, sat on the grass. The last of the night’s fireworks burst in the sky.

  She looked back at the house and smiled. Born a contract killer, it surged through her veins, through her blood.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Two days later, at Harvey’s funeral, amid the sunbaked mourners, Dakota stood over her grandfather’s freshly dug grave. Her breath stalled. Pain jabbed at her heart. The sun heated her black clothes. In her peripheral vision, she spotted the figure of
a boy running away. The hairs pricked up on the back of her neck.

  Her hands trembled. Couldn’t be him. He doesn’t know who I am, who his great grandfather was. What’s he doing here? Did he find out? She entertained the idea that it could be her son, Henry.

  Her skeptical nature kicked in the second the thought crossed her mind. Impossible. Must be a kid belonging to another funeral. It’s a big graveyard, could be any number of services conducted at the same time. Just a dumb, nosey teenager with too much time on his hands. Her shoulders slumped.

  Despite a respectable gathering of friends and distant relatives, loneliness gripped her soul. A desperate thought crept into her mind. Her inner child wanted to leap into the grave with Harvey, be covered up with dirt, and left to die with her beloved grandfather.

  Malcolm slipped his arm around her waist and held her against him. Laying her head on his shoulder, she wept.

  “You’ll be fine, Dakota. I’m here for you.” His hot breath brushed her cheek.

  Too numb to feel the kindness of his words, she inhaled deep, slow breaths. A cold feeling gripped the inside of her stomach. Her sister, Sunday, lurked around an oak tree, her face half hidden from sight. Dakota watched as Sunday retreated.

  “Leave it for now. She’ll calm down. It’ll take time.” Malcolm held her hand in his and lifted her chin up to peer into her eyes. The sun bounced off his sparkling blonde hair, almost blinding her.

  “But it’s been seven years. Goddamn it, if only she knew the reason I wasn’t there, she’d let it lie.” Dakota pulled away and wiped away a tear of frustration.

  The look of compassion and pity in his eyes sickened her. Even his dimpled chin which routinely elicited Dakota’s jibes of “Hey, Spartacus,” couldn’t cheer her up today. She stared at the grave. Kneeling, she placed a single red rose on the dirt.

  “I’ll be in the house if you need me.” Malcolm disappeared into Avalon, chatting with mourners along the way, assuming his undertaker persona.

  Her knees aching, Dakota stood and gazed at the temporary wooden cross marking his final resting place. “Will she ever forgive me?”

  She glanced around the cemetery as if seeing it for the first time. Wherever she looked, weeds strangled broken, decaying headstones.

  Climbing the steps to Avalon, Dakota spotted her aunt, Virginia Winter, watering the plants beside the front door.

  “I can take care of that, Aunt Virginia.” She took her arm.

  Virginia hugged her niece, and stroked her cheek. “Remember the ficus I bought you two years ago?”

  “How could I forget?” Dakota recalled plucking the dead leaves off the plant.

  “Well, needless to say, it’s blooming in my house now.” Virginia laughed, and brushed the auburn locks from her face.

  “I have many things, but green fingers ain’t one of them.” Dakota opened the screen door.

  The air conditioning welcomed them into the hallway, a respite from the searing heat.

  Smoothing down her black dress, Virginia peeked into the library where Harvey’s makeshift bedroom grabbed center stage. The hospital bed stood stationed along the back wall of bookshelves.

  “I don’t have the heart to remove it.” Dakota followed her aunt’s gaze. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like to sit here for a while. I feel closer to him.”

  Virginia nodded. Dakota slid the library door closed behind them. The sound of people speaking in low, respectful tones blended together into a steady hum.

  Sitting on the bed, Virginia patted the sheets. “My father was the strongest man I knew. I never feared anything when he was in the world. Even at my age, I feel lost without him. Silly, isn’t it?” She swiped away a tear.

  Dakota shook her head, and sat in the chair. “There’s one question I’ve been meaning to ask you for years. Why are we named after states?” She tried to lighten the mood.

  Virginia smiled and smoothed down the black with a hint of red tweed skirt threatening to rise above her knees. “Winter family tradition, naming the eldest girl in the family after a state.”

  Dakota nodded and looked at her aunt, who for the first time since she’d known her, appeared fragile, like an orphan waiting for an adult to take her home.

  If she only knew the truth of the Winter family’s intergenerational penchant for murder. Virginia possessed a gentle soul. Dakota would never burden her with that information. Instead, it would be her secret to carry.

  “What will you do now, Dakota?” She sniffed into a hanky.

  “I’m staying here, in Avalon.” Dakota strained to see a group of people gathered at the water’s edge, staring at the lake.

  “I’m happy to hear that. Your grandfather would be delighted. You were his favorite grandchild. He tried not to let it show, but he loved you the most. You were like two peas in a pod, forever in tune with each other.” Virginia’s long red fingernails plunged into her handbag for a car key. “He asked me to give you this. That car was his pride and joy, said you coveted it like a kid in a candy store. He gave me a list of instructions to go with it.” Another dive into the bag brought out a crumpled piece of paper. “It’s a little history behind the car, and why he bought it. He said to make sure you read it.”

  * * *

  The heavy garage doors swung open, revealing the 1932 black Chevrolet Confederate BA four-door sedan sitting in the middle of the floor. Cobwebs covered the tools on the bench. A red bike hung on the wall. Dust settled on every inch of space except for the vehicle, kept gleaming by her grandfather’s regular valeting. Towards the end, he’d paid a professional.

  The smell of polish filled the air. Running her fingers along the car door, key in hand, Dakota unlocked the driver’s door and sat inside. Adjusting the rearview mirror, she peered at the back seat, imagining the corpses Harvey dispatched either sitting up, with hats obscuring their faces or lying down covered in blankets, depending on their decomposition.

  She studied her face in the rearview mirror. With her grandfather’s fedora on and piercing blue eyes, for a moment, she swore Harvey sat in the driver’s seat. She shook her head, placed her hands on the steering wheel and stared at the cemetery. A creaking noise in the back seat startled her. She whirled around to face the empty back seat.

  It’s your imagination, calm down. She smiled.

  Unfurling her grandfather’s note, the musky smell of his pipe wafted up from the paper. She forced down the lump in her throat:

  ‘Dearest Dakota, I’m sure you’ve wondered why I kept this old jalopy pristine all these years. Not for vanity’s sake, let me tell you. Now is the time for the truth. I want you to have this car to continue the Winter family business. By now, you’ll know what this means. And if you’re reading this, Virginia, don’t be nosey, woman. You must heed my words, Granddaughter: All Winters belong in this house. Bring your sister and my great-grandson back here where they belong, and no excuses, mind. Don’t disappoint me, Dakota. I’ll be watching. I’m off now to pay the piper. Your loving grandfather, Harvey Winter.’

  Her hands shook. A torrent of tears streamed down her face. “Crazy old buzzard,” she said, clutching the paper.

  As a child, when frightened or sad, she’d think about Harvey singing her mother’s namesake song, “Daisy Bell.” Dakota’s mother had loved her father-in-law; they’d sit on the porch steps together, him singing, her laughing. Dakota’s father, Everett, had shown his two daughters how to trim the rose bushes in the garden while deftly avoiding the thorns. Espousing a ninja’s dexterity, they found it all the more hilarious when he punctured his own skin.

  Endless summer days swimming with their father in the lake at the back of Avalon made her ache for a simpler, happier time with her family all together. Looking back, she’d had such a short time with her parents, but she treasured every single moment.

  CHAPTER FIVE

  Dakota pulled onto the gravel driveway of Gaines and Son Funeral Home on Chautauqua Boulevard less than a mile from Avalon. The Victorian house stood aloof
, waiting to devour the grief-stricken. A bronze plaque affixed to the wall beside the front door proclaimed its services ‘since 1888.’

  The air conditioning blasted her in the face as she entered the home. Maggie Parkes, the twenty-four-year-old receptionist, greeted her with a crooked smile and a black poppy seed stuck between her two front teeth. Malcolm walked in as Dakota reached up to her own teeth to inform her of the faux pas.

  “Dakota, come on out back.” He beamed.

  She smiled at Maggie, then followed her friend to the embalming room.

  The smell of antiseptic and formaldehyde filled the sterile space. Leaning against the tiled wall, she watched him bend over the body on the table. Snapping on translucent rubber gloves, Malcolm removed the draining tube and stuffed cotton wool into the wound. “Almost there.” He smoothed the corpse’s hair.

  “And you call me weird.” Dakota smirked.

  Blue eyes lifted to meet hers. “At least they’re dead when they meet me, unlike you.”

  Sucking in a mouthful of air, Dakota gasped and grabbed her chest. “Ouch, that hurts.”

  Malcolm closed the door, and leaned against the table. The scalpel still gripped in his hand; he folded his arms. The bloodstained apron crinkled with his movements.

  Dakota smiled.

  “When will you retire from that ghastly business of yours?” He fixed her with his stare.

  “Did anyone ever tell you you’re real sexy when you act tough? I’m getting the shivers.” Dakota wiggled her shoulders.

  Unmoved by her shot at distracting him, Malcolm sighed, the special heavy sigh he deployed when he wanted her to take him seriously.

  “Every time I come here, you say the same thing. I know you don’t want to accept it, but I’m doing what I love. I enjoy every single second. Frankly, I’m tired of having to explain myself to you over and over again.” She picked up a scalpel and ran her finger along the blade to the tip.