Dead Harvest

30

"You sure you're ready to do this?"

Kate stood looking upward at the building across the street, her hands worrying at the hem of her shirt. "Yeah," she said, the faintest quaver casting doubt on her assertion. "Yeah, I'm sure."

I remember now, having peered into her eyes for any evidence of doubt, and finding none. Of course, now I know it wasn't her I should've worried about. Turns out, I'm the one who wasn't ready.

We stood hand in hand at the crosswalk, waiting for the signal to change, and when it did, we set out across Park Avenue. Kate's building was a stunning pre-war co-op, draped in an elegant limestone facade. Arched transoms framed windows near as tall as I was, and each floor was delineated by an elaborate garland-andwreath cornice. A limestone balustrade sat atop the building like a crown.

As we approached the massive Gothic arch that denoted the main entrance of the building, Kate stopped short, casting glances to either side.

"Something's not right here," she said.

That seemed, to me, an understatement — standing on this block, by this building, covered as I was in blood and filth, I felt like a kid out of class without a hall pass. But I'm guessing that wasn't the something she was talking about. "All right, I'll bite — what's wrong?"

"No Murray."

"No Murray?"

"Murray's our doorman."

"Your doorman," I echoed.

"Yes."

"And he's not here."

"Yes."

"If he were here, you think he'd be inclined to let us in?"

"Of course not. There's a service entrance around back, leads downstairs to the boiler room. It gets hot down there, so most days, the super leaves the door propped open. That's how I figured we'd get in."

"I'm still not seeing the problem here. The doorman pops out to grab a bite, and instead of slinking around in the hot basement, we get to walk in through the front door. Seems win-win to me."

"Sure, except Murray never leaves his post."

"Maybe somebody upstairs needed something? Some luggage carried or whatever?"

She shook her head. "They've all got staff for that."

"What about the bathroom?"

"The man's a freaking camel."

"So no Murray is bad."

"Yeah," Kate said, "no Murray is bad."

"Then we run," I said. "Find somewhere else to go to ground while we come up with a plan."

"I'm tired of running, Sam. Tired of hiding. Besides, what's the use? If they're waiting in there for us, they knew that we would come here before we did. If that's true, then where the hell are we gonna go?"

"So what, then — we just waltz in there and surrender?"

"No. We go in there and face them."

"Kate, that's suicide."

"Is it? Sam, I just saw you throw yourself at the mercy of a demon. A demon who could've killed us both, but instead decided to save us. As far as I'm concerned, that means all bets are off. I'm not asking you to die for me. I'm just asking you to have a little faith."

I stared her down. She didn't blink. Finally, I dropped my gaze and nodded.

"OK, then," I said, slipping a hand under my shirt and wrapping it tight around the gun grip. "Let's do this thing."

The elevator was quiet.

There was no attendant, no faint strains of insipid music, just the soft clatter of machinery high above, and the ragged sound of our breathing. The elevator car was paneled with mirrors, trimmed in mahogany and brass and polished to a perfect shine. As we rode upward, I blinked at the stranger that stood before me, watching as he blinked in kind. I wondered if the man whose body I'd borrowed was peering outward too. I wondered if he still recognized the man in the reflection.

The elevator slowed to a stop, a bell chiming to announce our arrival. It may as well have been a cannon report. I pressed myself against the mirrored wall — the gun in one hand, and Kate held fast to the wall beside me with the other. As the doors slid open, I held my breath. A bead of sweat traced its way along my spine.

Kate's apartment was the penthouse, a lush twostory affair with a view of the park. The elevator opened directly into the apartment's vast marble entryway, provided you knew the code. Kate, of course, did.

The entryway was dark, with only the faint illumination of the elevator light splashing across the marble tiles to guide our way. There was no police tape, no seal to break; evidently, the private elevator was deterrent enough. Of course, it also meant we didn't know if we were the first to enter or the fiftieth. I put the thought out of my mind and stepped out of the elevator.

The clack of my shoes against marble echoed through the entryway. I froze, straining to hear a response in the darkness, but there was none. I looked around. To my right was a massive staircase that curved upward to the second floor. A crystal chandelier dangled in the center of the room, its chain disappearing into the gloom above. Beneath the chandelier sat a round antique table. The vase that once rested atop it now lay shattered on the floor amidst a muddle of flowers, now withered and dead. A bloody handprint, matte brown against the high gloss of the tabletop, now sat where the vase had once stood. As I approached, I noticed the fingers of the hand were impossibly long, extending outward toward the elevator, as though whoever had made them had been clawing their way toward the exit, only to be dragged backward toward their horrible end. By the size of the print, I'm guessing it was the mother. I glanced back at Kate, her own delicate fingers wrapped around the elevator jamb to prevent the door from closing, and I thought — not for the first time — we were crazy to have come.

I whispered for Kate to follow. Another clatter of footfalls as she darted to my side. Behind her, the elevator door slid shut, plunging us into darkness. Kate made for the light switch, but I stilled her with a touch. We stood that way for what seemed like forever — listening, waiting.

Eventually, our eyes adjusted, and shapes appeared in the darkness. The faint glow of the eggshell walls, broken here and there by squares of black: by daylight, art, no doubt, and originals at that. Ribbons of manmade starlight, extending from floor to ceiling: the city lights, peeking through half-drawn curtains. The bulk of furniture: a high-backed chair, a low-slung chaise, more felt than seen in the darkness.

Kate gestured toward one of the hallways that extended outward from the entryway. We crept its length in silence, Kate clinging to my side.

At the end of the hallway was the largest kitchen I've ever seen, all granite and stainless and cherry, the surfaces gleaming blue by the light of the microwave display. It wasn't until I saw the place that I realized how hungry I was, how long it had been since I'd last eaten. I could've spent all night in there, chopping, roasting, sauteing — the place was a cook's dream. Then Kate turned on the lights, and that dream became a nightmare.

It was my fault — she'd asked me with a glance, and I'd acquiesced, my reluctance evaporating at the thought of something hot to eat. But when the lights came on, I lost my appetite.

The place was a fucking mess — cupboards emptied, drawers upturned, their contents scattered across the floor. A set of stools were tossed haphazardly into the center of the room, their cushions slashed, their batting stained brown-red.

In fact, the whole place was covered with blood: the floors, the counters, the walls. Even the tray ceiling above, a tasteful buttercream trimmed in purest white, was spattered with flecks of blood.

I looked to Kate, expecting to see her recoiling in horror, but she wasn't. Instead, she stood stock-still, her eyes glazed and faraway, her face slack and emotionless.

"This is where I killed them," she said.

"No."

"But it is," she said. Kate gestured toward the piano across the room, a baby grand. A bowl of cereal was perched atop it, half-empty and moldering. "Connor was sitting over there in his cowboy pajamas, banging away on the piano. He was supposed to be eating his breakfast, but as always, he had other plans. Dad was in his study, calling Tokyo, and he kept shouting at Connor to keep it down. And Patricia — Mom — was in the kitchen, making lunches for the both of us. She knew she didn't have to — our school provides lunch daily for everybody — but she always insisted. 'There's no food in their food,' she'd say. 'It's all fat and sugar and preservatives.' And that's when it happened."

"Kate-" I said, but she just ignored me.

"Connor was the first. I picked him up like he was nothing, and I tossed him across the room. When the piano stopped, Mom looked up. When she'd seen what I'd done, she started screaming, and Dad came rushing in. That's when I found the knife."

"Kate," I pleaded, "don't do this."

"Dad tried to stop me, of course, but I just shrugged him off. Connor was crying, I remember, and screaming for his mother. Then all of a sudden he wasn't crying anymore."

She nodded toward the far wall, where a streak of brown led downward to a floor crusted thick with dried blood. "There was so much blood," Kate said, "in my hands, my hair, my mouth. And so much screaming. My mother, my father — me, too, maybe, although that may have only been in my head. When Dad tried to stop me, it was bad. What I did to him made Connor's death seem merciful.

"But it was Mom that got the worst. I tied her to a chair, and fetched some rubbing alcohol from the bathroom. A tiny cut, a splash of alcohol, over and over again. Do you have any idea how excruciating that is?" Kate glanced down at the stab wound on my leg, seeping red-black through my ruined jeans, and smiled: thin, humorless. "But of course you do. Although at least you had the benefit of blacking out. I allowed her no such luxury."

She clenched shut her eyes, fighting back tears. When Kate opened them again, that faraway look was gone, replaced with one of sadness and regret. "Mom screamed for hours, you know. Screamed until her throat bled, until she forgot her own name. Screamed in fury and in agony, and eventually, she even screamed for mercy. But in the end, it didn't matter. I just kept cutting and dousing, cutting and dousing, until finally the police arrived. Only then, when she was of no more use to me, did I end her pain."

"That wasn't you, Kate. None of what you're saying was you."

"What does that matter? What does it matter when the three of them are dead, and all I'm left with is the memory of their blood on my hands?"

I pulled her close, and held her tight. Kate resisted at first, but then the tears came, and she buried her head in my chest, sobbing for what seemed like hours. There was nothing I could say, so I just let her cry.

Finally, her sobs diminished; she dried her eyes on my shirt and let me go.

"It was a mistake, coming here," I said.

"No," Kate replied, "this was something that I had to do."

"Still, we shouldn't stay for long. It's not healthy. It's not safe. I think we should try to get some sleep, and then head out in the morning. We can grab some clothes, some food, maybe a little money, and then we'll see about getting out of the city."

Kate nodded, folding her arms across her chest and suppressing a shiver. "Yeah," she said. "Maybe getting out of here is not the worst idea."