In the Season of Killing Bolts

Chapter 7

“What do you mean, gone?” The wipers went squirk, squirk, squirk. “She’s probably in the restroom, Hank.” I cradled the cellphone as I drove. “I mean, she is pregnant. Jesus. Give her a minute.”

“I’ve given her about 20 minutes—and I’m telling you, she’s not here. Now are you coming to check it out, or what?”

“Look, my phone’s been ringing since I left Mirabeau; okay? Just hold on. I’m turning onto Main now.”

I turned the corner even as a tangle of powerlines cascaded onto the street—spitting sparks, sniping like snakes. “And tell Clayton we’ve got lines down; front of the pharmacy—Oliver and Maine.” I maneuvered around the lines and accelerated. “Tell ‘em to hustle.”

And then I was pulling up to Carmichael’s and ratcheting the break; piling out of the cab even as Hank met me out front and I blew right past him—thankful the place had power, making a beeline for the restroom. Then I was rapping on its thin door even as Hank crowded me from behind and rain pounded the roof.

“Cecilia! Hey! You all right?” I rattled the door handle furiously—locked, of course. “Cecilia! Now, listen, you’re going to have to say something, darlin’, or we’re just going to have to kick this here door right in; ya understand?”

I leaned closer as something seemed to shift; to move—as clothing ruffled and rain trickled. “Cecilia?”

And then it came: Then she screamed, although it wasn’t so much a scream as a shriek, a wail—an extended howl the likes of which I’d never heard (and pray I never hear again). Then she was yowling like an animal even as I stepped back and kicked in the door; as I found her hunched over the toilet and starting to mumble–pitifully, incoherently. Defeatedly.

As I rushed in and knelt beside her, turned her to face me—not yet noticing the obvious; not yet noticing the mortal difference, the cruel jest that had been played on her. “Cecilia–what, what is it? What–”

But then I did notice it; noticed her flat stomach, her thin, gaunt face. Her haunted, terror-stricken eyes—and, also, the complete lack of blood anywhere.

“What happened here?”

“No-nothing—nothing happened. Don’t you see? He was just—he was just here, inside, kicking ... and then—then the kicking stopped.” She batted the tears from her eyes. “It just stopped; do you understand? It—”

She turned and retched into the bowl; forcibly, violently—just retched and retched, her entire body shaking.

I looked at Hank—who was already on the phone—then reached up, slowly, and flushed the toilet.

“Now, listen. There’s, ah, there’s people on the way here who are gonna help us with this—this thing, okay? So, until then, you just lean on the big white telephone here and try not to move—and I mean not a lick. All right? Ya hear?”

And then my phone rang, and, God help me, I had to take it. Then Donovan’s girlfriend was on the line demanding to know why I’d made him walk around the cemetery in the middle of a thunderstorm—and that I had better go look for him, and give him a ride, like, yesterday.

Because he hadn’t come home yet, she said, and he wasn’t answering his phone.

But that wasn’t really what alarmed me. No, what alarmed me was: I hadn’t made him cut around the cemetery. And then thunder struck somewhere close; krack-kakroom! And I got a move on.

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