The house would have appeared abandoned if not for the meticulously maintained lawn and rose bushes. A mass of shabby roof tiles and flaked paint were surrounded by thick bunches of roses lining the driveway and perimeter of the lawn. Hank stood at the door, suddenly unsure of himself. He hadn’t seen or spoken to Deanna Montgomery since her daughter had been revealed to be Lamia. ‘A child killer. An eater of children. A horrible fucking monster.’ He rapped twice, staring at his shoes. When the door groaned open and a sty of unkempt, graying blond hair and distrusting blue eyes peeked out, he did the most natural thing he could think of. Hank held out a cigarette.
“Gotta minute?”
Deanna smiled but it didn't reach her eyes. She opened the screen door and stepped out. She had lost weight since he’d seen her almost two months prior. It appeared she’d let makeup and maybe even showering lapse as well.
“Not a good time,” she said. “I don’t know what to say.”
“Neither do I. I’m sorry for not coming by sooner if it makes a difference.”
“There was nothing to say.”
“Yes there was.”
“What? Sorry but your daughter is never coming home and by the way, she’s a killer of little babies!”
Hank recoiled. The remark had meant to be sarcastic but punched with horrible sadness. He felt a tightness in his jaw. Deanna bent to a small love seat and plucked a lighter off the cushion. She lit her cigarette then held out the flame so Hank could light his own. Their eyes met as he puffed the cherry to life.
“Has she come home?”
“I just said no.”
“Are you lying?”
“Why would she come home? She knows the police are looking for her. She knows what she did.”
“She has to sleep somewhere. Stephanie hasn’t reached out at all?”
Deanna’s eyes glazed for a beat. As if something occurred to her that she’d rather not remember.
“Maybe you should check the sewers. Wasn’t that where you found her anyway?”
Hank took a long drag of the cigarette. He turned his head and dry hacked into the back of his hand. “Where did she go after that night?” He asked.
“What night?”
“The night we brought her here!” He all but screamed. Deanna fumbled back involuntarily, her hands jerked in small tremors.
“She talked with the police for a few minutes then told them she’d go get a check-up at the Emergency Care. She was tired and wet and filthy! The cops took her at her word! They thought she was the victim! How were we supposed to know?”
“Hecate knew.”
“That lying bitch. I’ll kill her if she comes around here again. Is that how you found out?”
“About Lamia?”
“Yes.”
There was a loud pop inside the house like popcorn being cooked on the stove. Hank nodded, trying to be tactful.
“Hecate gleaned the truth the same time we did. In fact, I’m betting she put it together in the sewer. I saw her face down there. She didn’t know Stephanie and Lamia were one and the same.”
“That’s horseshit! How could she have not known?”
“Don’t forget that it was you and she that came down to my office last year. Stephie was missing. You’re telling me Hecate knew then? She didn’t have a clue.”
“Then she figured it out along the way,” She scoffed. “They were in on it together. For god’s sake, Dolan, they planned her own disappearance!”
“You’re right,” Hank said softly. “But her vanishing wasn’t because of her crimes. They were hiding from somebody. I just don’t know who. It was Hecate that had her hidden away. That explains her shock.”
“Her shock. Then how do you know that whoever they’re hiding from isn’t the child killer?”
Hank paused. Deanna had spat out a real possibility. He needed time to process who Hecate would be terrified of. His mind flashed to Apollo. It had been months since he’d last been seen. He startled as a shuffling scrape somewhere in the kitchen or perhaps the dining room caused Deanna to glance back hesitantly.
“Do you have company?”
A light inside, just past the hallway switched off. Hank got the sudden urge to urinate. A deep, unsettling pit settled in his bowels.
“Deanna?”
“No, it’s nothing. Probably the cat.”
She wouldn’t meet his eyes. Her hands shook now with each drag. She followed as Hank stepped inside.
“Wait just a goddamn minute, Hank.”
He glanced into the kitchen, his eyes surveying the washer and dryer in the corner and broken dining room table in the middle of the eating area. He walked up the stairs. When he reached the second floor, he noticed all the blinds were shut. Behind him, Deanna gurgled out a string of obscenities. He stepped into the bathroom and turned on the light. There were stains in the toilet bowl and he caught the odor of urine. Behind him, in a bedroom across the hall, a low rustling was barely audible.
“Did you get a dog?”
“I told you I have a cat!” Deanna shot back dripping with sarcasm.
Hank pushed past her and tried the door. It was locked. ‘She’s here’.
Hank grabbed Deanna by the hair and pulled her back onto the porch. She thrashed cursing him in the most colorful of ways. He reached into his waist band for his weapon. The cold steel was a comfort but barely.
“She’s inside the house, Deanna.”
Deanna whispered, clearly frightened. “She came just after.”
“Stay out here.”
“She doesn’t sleep.”
“What?”
“She’s been here thirty six days. She hasn’t slept in that time. I’ve been here, Hank. She doesn’t sleep. Ever.”
“Alright, go to the police station and ask for Ackermann. I’ll come when I have her.”
“And the stench. The odor is death.” Her eyes were faraway now, a mixture of awful dread and hopelessness.
He turned back to the screen door and shut it in her face. He glanced back down the hallway. It was probably ten feet from the hall to the staircase. He knew Lamia was on the second floor or attic if Deanna had one. He took one step, then another, the weight in his legs like iron. He walked through the living room and kitchen then back up the stairs. He tried the bedroom door. And it was unlocked. For a long second, he was uncomprehending. He stood dumbly as the door creaked open a few inches. No light came from the other side. Behind him, he heard Deanna shrieking something.
“Lamia!” He shouted.
He craned his neck to listen. Nothing. Only goddamn Deanna and her bellowing. He pushed the door open and groped for a light switch. When he flicked it and heard the bulb pop, the pit in his stomach reached all the way to the floor. He turned back to Deanna and a blur rushed forward from the back of the hall. Hank hadn’t time to so much as scream before Stephanie threw her weight into him. He was weightless for a frightful few seconds. When his back struck the stairs he bounced like a rag doll upside down. Hank was sure the next sickening crack would be his neck. A piercing pain lanced up his hip and shoulder blade. He came down hard on his elbow, his head banging the bottom step. His vision was filled with tiny white spots. He heard Deanna gasp and the knock knocking of feet bounding down the stairs. The screen door slammed open. Hank lifted his head. He got to his knees, fighting back nausea and jabbing pain in his back and hips. He crawled outside and looked up the driveway to see Stephanie pointing his glock at him. Her eyes were sunken and steely. She had cut her hair short, almost boyish since the sewers.
“Lamia!”
Deanna stumbled outside and opened her arms wide. “Stephanie, honey! Come back inside.”
Hank got to his feet. “That’s not her goddamn name,” he spat.
Lamia spared him a glance. Then she pulled the trigger. Hank flinched but there was no bang. No parts of him being blown off in bits and blood. ‘She doesn’t know about the safety!’ He sprinted forward, praying that Lamia didn’t disengage the safety latch before he could reach her. When he got within ten paces, Lamia dropped the weapon and raced up the sidewalk. Hank stumbled to his sedan. He threw the keys into the ignition and jolted forward. It was too late. Lamia had cut across the street, ram to the back of a neighbor’s house and jumped a fence. Hank sped through an intersection, narrowly missing another small car, made a sharp right then slowed on the next block. He spied each yard looking for her in the bushes and shadows. Then his car door flew open. ‘Oh shit.’ Lamia’s wrist flicked out three times, a short blade cutting his left fist, ribs, and shoulder. Hank lashed out, backhanding her on the side of the head. The sedan lurched to a stop.
“They’re mine!” She hissed.
Hank rolled out of the car and struck the pavement. The pain in his back had stretched to his neck and he noticed warm wetness on his side. The blood wasn’t gushing. ‘They’re superficial,’ he thought. ‘It was probably a pocket knife or kitchen utensil.’ He vomited onto the curb and was further sickened to see Lamia hovering above him, still within striking range.
“Why eat them?” He shouted. “Why on earth would you eat them?”
She smiled a grimace. “For Hera.”
“Hera?”
The smile dropped away. “Hera.”
“You’re an insufferable, evil bitch,” he croaked.
Lamia squinted at him, as if trying to focus her eyes. She licked her lips. It caused Han’s stomach to hurt. He felt gorged, or the onset of food poisoning. He stared at the road, the concrete was hot. It shimmered under the sun. He thought he might vomit again. He looked back at Lamia. Her eyes were dead as they stared back at him. And he saw triumph. There was a wailing up the street and Hank squinted to see Deanna lumbering towards them. Lamia sneered, a low, inaudible mumble escaping her. She looked back at Hank for a split second then sprinted down the sidewalk. Hank put his head down and groaned loudly.
