Clay held the pillow against his chest, feeling his fingers curl into the thin stuffing. The pillow was stained in the center, where Holly's head had lain for so many days.
The sound of the shower was a constant background noise. She'd probably stepped in by now; the hot water didn't take long to crank up. She promised she wouldn’t leave. He knew she wouldn't. Not with her son stuck here with Clay the Monster. Her son. Her son...
He leaned over the edge of the crib, holding the pillow overhead as if to shelter the baby from rain. In a way, he knew, that’s exactly what he was doing. Sheltering the bastard from what was coming. Saving Holly the grief of seeing her son die.
The baby smiled wider, made a cooing, gurgling noise that was his trademark laugh. A sound of joy. It was a good sound to end with. Clay lowered the pillow.
“Clay, don't.” The woman's voice behind him was soft. Calm. He wanted to ignore it. The pillow hovered a couple of inches above the child's face. Connor gurgle-laughed and gripped the pillowcase with both hands, playing the game. As if sensing Clay’s muscles tightening for the final push, the voice behind him said, more sternly, “I mean it. Stop now.”
He didn't want to turn around, but neither did he lower the pillow.
“You're not real,” he whispered.
He sensed her moving closer, but like the other times when she'd come to him, she made no contact. He risked a look back. The angel was more beautiful than he remembered, so much more beautiful than Holly with her earthly flaws and blemishes. This woman’s long blonde hair fell over a white dress, highlighting the perfect contours of her body. Revealing nothing. As before, Clay expected to feel a wave of lust when he looked at her, but did not. Just a strong, loving attraction. A joy from simply looking at her.
She said, “I know you sent me away. I'm back only to say what you're doing is wrong. It's too late for you to do anything.”
“You're not real!” he shouted, felt the rage, the comfortable, familiar surge through his body. That he understood. The anger.
“It might not be too late for them. For Holly, or the child. Nothing is certain, but there still is a chance.”
A sob caught in his throat. He said coldly, “The boy's not mine. He's not, is he?”
“What does that matter?”
“Is he?”
“No.”
Hands tightening on the pillow. As if sensing what was coming, Connor let go of the edges and let his small arms fall to the mattress.
The woman whispered, “It's never too late for redemption, Clay, even something as small as setting them free.” She moved closer until she was beside him, leaning on the crib. “It's never too late for damnation, either.”
“Too late for me. For everything.”
She nodded. “Maybe. You've been bad, that's for sure. It's not my call. What you do next, though, is your decision.”
Then she was gone.
“Not real,” he whispered. The sound of the shower stopped. Clay looked down and whispered, “You're not mine.”
* * *
Holly knew she'd spent too long in the shower. The heat allowed her to work out most of the stiffness and aches. Now she dried, feeling the soft comfort of the towel, and longed for clean clothes, to be whole again before it all was gone forever. She wrapped the towel around herself and stepped from the bathroom, paused. There was the phone, sitting on the table in the living room. She should sneak over and call Dot, let her friend know that she and Connor were okay, that they hadn't forsaken her friendship. She wanted to say goodbye.
Time was slipping away. She was wasting time with nonsense. Clay would hear her, and she'd been too long indulging herself rather than spending the time holding her beautiful son.
When she walked back into the bedroom, the stink assaulted her. So many days, too long accustomed to the smell. She fought a gagging in her throat.
Two steps into the room, everything seemed to stop. Connor was silent, though she could see his form (sleeping, she thought, he's sleeping) through the slats in the crib. Holly saw the pillow discarded on the floor. A stain in the center of it. Where she'd lain, of course, all these days. Just from her. Just -
She forced herself to move forward, staring into the crib, forcing her eyes to remain open. Clay said nothing as she passed his chair. He was slumped in his usual position. She kept staring at Connor’s body, forcing herself to stare into his face. His mouth was open slightly, and after she'd watched him for what seemed like hours, his eyes slowly opened as if from sleep. He saw her and became an animated little boy again. He reached up, little fingers reaching and reaching.
“Oh my God oh my God oh my God.” She lifted him up and held him against her, letting the towel drop. Connor stank like the room. Clay hadn't bothered to bathe him during their imprisonment.
Holly turned around, her heart still racing from the horror she thought she'd fallen into, tried to bring herself back to a proper calm. Why was the pillow on the floor?
On the bed, sheets had been folded up or curled into a tight ball against the corner. Sitting on the only clean spot on the mattress was a pair of shorts and t-shirt, white underwear, socks and sneakers. Hers. They were laid out carefully. Beside them, Connor's diaper bag, packed to the brim. The corners of one diaper poked out beside the unmistakable blue box of wipes and a Playtex nursing bottle in the side pocket.
When she saw the car keys beside the bag and her clothes, she stammered, “Clay, what...” She looked at the shrunken figure in the chair. It looked up at her with eyes too far back in the skull to be alive.
“Get dressed,” he hissed.
She scooted past him, laid Connor on a semi-clean area of the bed. When they fell across her body, the clothes caressed her like Clay's hands had done once, long ago when she thought he was perfect. She finished dressing except for her socks and sneakers. Clay looked ahead of him, towards the crib.
“Clay?”
He moved a little. Perhaps to indicate he was still alive.
“You can stay,” he said. “I'd like that. I mean, there isn't any place you can go. Not now.”
The image of the ark in Lavish came to her then. Like watching a movie, the Carboneau woman climbing aboard with her crew, waving to the crowds then disappearing below deck. Too late, she thought to herself. Too late for her.
Connor laughed at some unseen delight. Holly looked at him. Her heart resumed its rapid beating of earlier.
Clay was still talking. “Stay here. Stay with me. We can still be a family.”
His was a dry-paper voice. Holly stared at her son. Full of life. So small and tiny. A noise came out of her, half-shout, half-whimper. All she knew, all she could see, was her son, and the single thought in her head. Too late for her, but not for him. Not for him.
She lifted the diaper bag, slung it over her shoulder and grabbed the keys. She put them in her pocket and carefully lifted Connor. He squealed with delight. His diaper felt wet, but there was no time left. She didn't dare look at her boyfriend, but felt something brush against her legs as she passed, like a thin branch. Then it was gone. It was hard to walk. She was barefoot and her muscles, now that she was exerting them, threatened to knot up and send her toppling over.
Clay left his hand in the air. He couldn't close his fingers around her leg. Even if he had been able to find the strength, she wouldn't have stopped. Not this time.
The car started outside. He turned his head, looked at the clock.
“Holly!” he shouted. The word came out like a moan, unintelligible. A sound outside of tires on gravel, the click-click of the gears shifting. Acceleration. He listened as long as he could. The noise of the car's engine blended with the background hiss of the highway.