Chapter 8 - The Desecration
The siren of Vance's unmarked cruiser tore through the rain-slicked suburban streets, scattering water three feet high on either side.
I sat in the passenger seat, my fingers clawing into the dashboard as the speedometer climbed past eighty miles an hour. Outside, the world was drowning in gray water and early morning gloom. It was barely 6:30 AM.
"Why Emily's grave?" I shouted over the wail of the siren. "Why would she go there?"
"Because sociopaths don't just want to win, David," Vance yelled back, drifting the cruiser through a sharp turn onto Memorial Boulevard. "They need to dominate. In her sick, twisted mind, Emily is her rival. Emily had the life Patricia believed she was entitled to. If she can't have your family, she's going to destroy every trace of Emily that remains on this earth."
The iron gates of Oakridge Memorial Park loomed ahead through the sheets of rain.
The cemetery was massive—rolling hills of manicured green grass dotted with gray marble headstones and weeping willows. The main gates were chained shut for the night, the heavy iron padlocked.
"Hold on!" Vance roared.
He didn't slow down. He floored the accelerator.
The reinforced steel push-bar on the front of the police cruiser struck the center of the iron gates with a deafening, metallic explosion. The chains snapped, the iron gates flew open, shrieking on their hinges, and the cruiser bounced violently over the curb onto the gravel access road.
We fishtailed up the curved hill toward the Whispering Pines section—the highest point in the cemetery, where Emily had chosen her plot six years ago because she loved the view of the sunrise over the valley.
Through the rain-streaked windshield, I saw it.
Parked beside the tree line was a rusted, beat-up farm truck—likely stolen from a rural property nearby.
And fifty yards away, standing on the crest of the hill in front of Emily's granite headstone, was a solitary figure clad in a yellow rain slicker.
She was holding a red plastic jerrycan.
"PATRICIA!" I screamed, slamming my palm against the window.
Vance slammed on the brakes. The cruiser slid sideways on the wet grass, coming to a halt twenty yards away.
Patricia turned.
Even through the lashing rain, her face was completely recognizable. Her hair was plastered to her skull, her clothes soaked, her eyes burning with an unhinged, feral madness that bore no resemblance to the polished woman who had poured tea in my kitchen.
She was pouring gasoline. Not on the grass—she had used a shovel to dig up the sod directly over Emily's burial vault, exposing the dark, wet earth beneath. She had drenched the granite headstone in fuel, along with the fresh flowers Ava had placed there two weeks ago.
"Stop!" Vance shouted, kicking his door open, drawing his weapon, and leveling it across the roof of the cruiser. "Patricia Holloway! Drop the can! Step away from the grave! Put your hands in the air!"
Patricia didn't drop the can. She emptied the last splash of gasoline over Emily's name, etched into the stone, and tossed the plastic jug aside with a wet thud.
In her right hand, she produced a heavy, brass road flare.
"Stay back, Detective!" she screamed, her voice carrying over the thunder. "One step closer and I light this entire hill on fire!"
I threw my door open and stepped out into the freezing mud.
"Patricia!" I yelled, stepping past the hood of the cruiser.
"David, stand down!" Vance warned, keeping his sights centered on her chest.
"Patricia, look at me!" I screamed, walking forward into the open. The rain plastered my shirt to my chest, but I felt no cold. I felt only a pure, burning clarity. "The kids are fine! Do you hear me? Ava is alive! Lucas is alive! You failed!"
A look of venomous, agonizing hatred twisted her features.
"They should have died!" she shrieked, spitting rain from her lips. "They were weak, just like their mother! I spent fourteen months cleaning up Emily's mess! I raised those brats! I cooked your meals! I slept in her bed! That house was mine! That life was *mine*!"
"You were never Emily!" I shouted, taking another step. "You were never their mother! You're nothing! You're an empty, pathetic parasite who steals other people's lives because you don't have one of your own!"
"Shut up!" she roared, her knuckles whitening around the flare. "I gave Emily everything! I gave her a peaceful way out! She could have just gone to sleep, but she fought it! Just like you're fighting it!"
She reached for the striker cap of the road flare.
"Drop it!" Vance commanded. "Drop it now!"
"If I can't have you," Patricia laughed—a high, broken, hysterical sound that rose into the storm—"then I'll burn her memory to ash, and you'll spend the rest of your pathetic life knowing you couldn't save anyone!"
She struck the flare.
A violent, blinding burst of crimson fire hissed into existence, throwing harsh, demonic shadows across her drenched face. She raised her arm, ready to plunge the burning phosphorus onto the gasoline-soaked grave.
"No!" I lunged forward through the mud.
*Crack.*
May you like
A single gunshot cracked through the cemetery, sharp as a whip.
***
