All the Pretty Dead Girls Part 24

Ginny's mouth opened, but words did not form right away." Ishtar..." It was the only word she could utter.

"Was that her name?" Bernadette seemed to be asking a genuine question. "I did not know her name..."

"Ishtar," Ginny repeated. "The great Mother G.o.ddess of the ancient Babylonians, invoked for battles."

"Yes, Our Lady was dressed for battle, for indeed a battle awaits," Bernadette told her. "A few nights later, she appeared again to me in my dreams. Only this time, she rode a tiger, and she had eight arms-and in each hand, she carried a weapon."

"Durga," Ginny said, stunned. "The Mother G.o.ddess of the Hindus. The destroyer of demons..."

"Precisely," Bernadette said.

"Then you didn't have a vision of the Virgin Mary," Ginny told her. "You had visions of ancient G.o.ddesses..."

"But what is it that you teach about the sacred feminine, Dr. Marshall?" Bernadette asked, leaning toward her almost imperceptibly.

Suddenly, Ginny understood. "That ultimately they are all the same," she breathed. A chill ran through her body.

Bernadette smiled. "When I look at her over there," she said, nodding across the room, where a statue of the Virgin sat surrounded by lilacs, "I see her as clearly as I did when she appeared to me. Though we cannot see it, her sword is still strapped to her side. I am confident of that. She is not as submissive as she appears. Like any mother, she will fight for her Son-for all all of her children." of her children."

Ginny was stunned. It seemed impossible that this girl should know so much. If Bernadette was telling the truth-if Father Ortiz was telling the truth-then this was the most radical Virgin sighting Ginny had ever encountered.

"But tell me," she said, leaning forward toward Bernadette, her hands imploring. "What was the message that she gave you? What is this battle you say is approaching?"

Ginny steeled herself for the answer. This was the part that Father Ortiz had seemed most anxious about. The answer to this question was what he most feared.

Just then the phone rang, shattering the silence. Everyone-except for Bernadette-jumped. Mr. and Mrs. deSalis looked at each other, startled and annoyed by the interruption, yet neither moved to answer it. The phone rang again. And then again. And again.

Finally, Mr. deSalis stood and rushed across the room into the kitchen. In a hushed voice, he answered the phone.

They could hear him in the living room. "Mike?" His voice was a whisper. "What's wrong with Mike?"

"And so," Bernadette said, overhearing, a terribly sad look crossing her face. "It begins."

From the kitchen Mr. deSalis shrieked, "No!"

His wife stood now and hurried into the other room as well. Father Ortiz followed.

Bernadette motioned to Ginny to draw near.

"I will tell you now," she whispered. "For you must hear Our Lady's message. The time is late. We must begin."

Ginny stood and moved over to sit on the couch beside Bernadette, in the spot vacated by Mrs. deSalis.

"Tell me," she said.

And so Bernadette did.

37.

"He dropped right over there," Marjorie was telling Miles and Perry Holland. "I came out of the kitchen and Mike was on the floor, and Wally was doing CPR."

"Was it a heart attack?" Perry asked. "It would be strange in a kid so young, but not unheard of."

Marjorie shrugged. "Well, that's what they're still trying to find out."

Miles brought a forkful of hash browns to his lips. "Kid's been in the hospital now for four days," he said just before taking a bite. "You'd think they'd figure out what was wrong with him by now," he added, mouth full.

"Well," Marjorie said, leaning on her elbows on the counter, "what's really odd is that at the same moment, down the street at the boutique, one of Mike's cla.s.smates was having a similar attack. She just dropped, and she's been in the hospital now the same amount of time he has."

"Who's that?" Perry asked.

"Heidi Swettenham. The girl Billy Honeycutt dumped for that Wilbourne girl."

Perry paused, holding his cup of coffee in midair. "What Wilbourne girl?'

"Oh, I don't remember her name." Marj started wiping down the counter. "I'm getting old. What's the use of being the town gossip if you can't remember names? Susan...Sue...something."

A little bell went off in Perry's head. "Not Sue Barlow?"

"Yes," Marj said, nodding. "That's the one. Know her?"

Perry shook his head. "No. I just gave her a warning for speeding, that's all."

He and his father exchanged glances. Perry had filled Miles in about the daughter of Mariclare Barlow attending Wilbourne this year. But they'd both dismissed any thought of following up on the coincidence, since Mariclare Barlow had returned home safe and sound twenty years ago. Unlike the other girls, she didn't remain missing or turn up murdered and dismembered.

Even if what had happened to her on campus was surely horrendous enough.

But now...there was Sue Barlow's name again. Perry couldn't help thinking that there was something about her that he needed to find out. But what?

"Okay, Marj," Miles was saying, pus.h.i.+ng back his plate. "It's time for us to start our s.h.i.+fts. Thank Wally for another superlative high-calorie breakfast."

Marjorie cleared away their plates. "I'm just glad to see you cleaned up for a change, Miles. That scruffy look went out with Don Johnson."

Miles clapped Perry on the back. "The boy here is keeping me in shape."

Perry smiled. He was pleased that his father seemed back to his old self. He was eating better, taking care of himself. Working together on this case seemed to have galvanized him. Without telling the state cops in charge of the investigation-big lard-a.s.ses who were doing nothing to find Bonnie Warner- Perry and Miles had trudged down to the bas.e.m.e.nt of the town hall and begun pouring over old death records.

It hadn't taken them long to find something. "Lookee here," Miles had said, his voice low. "Millicent Berwick. October 18, 1887. Cause of death, multiple stab wounds. Found on the Wilbourne campus."

"And here," Perry had said. "Just a week later. Phoebe Singleton. Wilbourne student. Cause of death." He'd gulped. "Severed head."

"Every twenty years or so," Miles had said, awed.

They had been right.

But what did it mean?

They headed out of the diner. Perry zipped up his nylon jacket. A sudden cold wind had whipped up, swirling leaves in the street.

"Early winter this year," Miles observed, s.h.i.+vering.

The trees were a riot of color, mostly oranges and yellows. There was nowhere more beautiful than upstate New York in autumn, Perry's mother used to say. The morning sun sparkled through openings in the leaves.

"I'm going back to the station to make a few calls," Perry told his father.

Miles nodded. "I'll take the first patrol around town. Make sure n.o.body's robbing the bank or slaughtering any more pretty co-eds."

Perry smiled. "I'm glad you're feeling better, Dad."

Miles shrugged. "It's been good spending these last few days with you, son. And I think your mother is happy about it, too."

"You never stop thinking about her, do you, Dad?"

Miles's smile faded. "No, I don't. But lately..." His smile flickered again. "Lately, it's been getting easier."

Perry gave him a thumbs-up. He watched as his father slid behind the wheel of his patrol car and drove off. They exchanged a wave. Then Perry hopped into his own car and drove back to the station. He nodded at the secretary, checked to make sure he had no messages, then closed the door to his office and sat down on his desk.

He looked down at the file marked BARLOW BARLOW, MARICLARE MARICLARE.

He opened it and read it again. It still had the power to sicken him.

He'd found a number for her parents in New York. They'd be Sue Barlow's grandparents. He'd thought about just calling Sue herself and asking her a few questions about her mother, but he suspected she didn't know what had happened to her mother on campus twenty years ago.

So he picked up the phone and called New York.

"h.e.l.lo?"

"Mrs. Barlow? This is Deputy Sheriff Perry Holland from Lebanon, New York."

The line went quiet.

"Mrs. Barlow?"

"Has something happened to Sue?" the woman asked in a small voice.

"No. ma'am. Your granddaughter is fine, as far as I know." He could understand the woman's fear when she heard his voice. Had she gotten a similar call twenty years ago?

"Then why are you calling?"

"Mrs. Barlow, you may be aware that a girl has gone missing from Wilbourne. In fact, three girls are missing, although that hasn't been publicly acknowledged yet."

Perry knew that within a day or so the state police were planning on holding a news conference to disclose the names of Joelle Bartlett and Patricia Lewis. The families were exerting pressure, and word had leaked out on the Internet. He decided telling Mrs. Barlow about it now wouldn't matter-in fact, it could only help to explain the reasons behind his call.

"So I'm looking back into the files of the department, and I'd like to ask you a few questions about your daughter Mariclare."

"But Mariclare came home." The woman's voice was icy.

"Yes, I know, but I thought she might be able to tell me a little about what happened while she was missing-"

The woman on the other end of the phone line made a clucking sound in her throat. "She simply ran away from the school. There was no kidnapping or anything like that! She ran away and came home to us."

"Still, I'd like to talk with her," Perry said. "I mean, about what happened to her on campus..." His voice trailed off, unable to articulate the words. "There was some thought here in the department at the time that it might be related to the other girls who went missing and then were killed. That the same perpetrator who-"

"You'll need to talk with my husband, and he's not home," Mrs. Barlow said tersely.

"Well, actually, it's your daughter Mariclare I'd like to speak with..."

"Mariclare is dead!"

Perry was silent for a moment. "I'm very sorry, Mrs. Barlow. I didn't know that. Could you tell me when she died?'

"Years ago. Many years ago."

"When your granddaughter was very young?"

"Right after she was born."

Perry was doing subtraction in his head. A horrible thought came over him.

"Mrs. Barlow," he said. "If you can't speak with me, maybe you'd give me a number where I can reach your husband?"

"He's a very busy man. He doesn't have time-"

"Mrs. Barlow," Perry interrupted. "Did you hear what I said? Three girls have gone missing from the campus where your granddaughter is living. Three girls have gone missing from the campus where your granddaughter is living. We suspect there may be some kind of pattern going on. Every twenty years-" We suspect there may be some kind of pattern going on. Every twenty years-"

"That is absurd!"

Perry was losing his cool. "Are you not the least bit concerned about your granddaughter, given that twenty years ago your daughter was brutally raped on the very same campus?"

There was no hesitation in the old woman's reply. "Wilbourne takes good care of its girls," she said.

Perry couldn't believe his ears. "I'm sorry to have bothered you, Mrs. Barlow. I'll be calling your husband at another time."

She hung up on him.

She might call the state police and complain, Perry knew. But at the moment, he didn't care. He knew now his father was one hundred percent right.

They were indeed on to something.

Perry's eyes dropped back down to the file spread out on his desk. He read again the paragraph at the top of the report.

Screams were heard from Room 323 in Bentley Hall repeatedly, but the girls on the floor did nothing because of ghost stories about the room. It's campus lore that the room is haunted. At ten minutes past midnight, Mariclare Barlow emerged from the room, according to three eyewitnesses, girls who lived on the same floor of the dorm. She was naked, bleeding profusely from the v.a.g.i.n.a, and her face and arms were battered and scratched. She seemed in a state of shock. She told the three eyewitnesses that she had been raped, but did not say by who. No intruder was seen either entering or leaving the room. The eyewitnesses called for the dorm monitor, Mrs. Annette Oosterhouse, but by the time Mrs. Oosterhouse arrived, Mariclare Barlow had locked herself back in her room, telling the other girls she had to "go back to him." But when Mrs. Oosterhouse opened the door, there was no one in the room.