** All publicly recognizable characters, settings, etc. are the intellectual property of their respective owners. The original characters and plot are the property of Stephenie Meyer and I am borrowing her play dough. No copyright infringement is intended. **
Previously: Rosalie arched off the table so violently she nearly tipped it. "How long before it is over?" I asked, shuddering at my own burning memories.
Two and a half days, maybe less, he replied. Before she wakes, I will need to explain the situation to Esme. You should go out into the city to learn what, if anything, is public knowledge thus far. He pictured the spot where he found Rosalie's nearly lifeless body. I knew exactly where it was, not that I'd ever had trouble finding a giant pool of blood.
Chapter 2: Knowledge is power
It didn't take long for me to find the spot I saw in Carlisle's mind. Rosalie's blood had lost its heat and began to dry, but still marked the place where she'd been cut down. I scoured the area for any sight lines by which onlookers could have viewed the attack or Carlisle's rescue. I felt a small relief to the anxiety that started growing inside my head hours ago, but a relief nonetheless. Onlookers meant questions and if any got to close to the truth they could expose us for what we really were. Should news of a vampire coven in Rochester spread too far the Volturi, the lawmakers of our kind, would take little time disposing of us. To expose the existence of our kind was to court their wrath. It was always swift and merciless.
The alley was unlit with few windows. Garbage piled up around the run down brick buildings. The space was a common dumping ground for anything unwanted including sacks of garbage, old furniture and apparently, nearly dead fiancés. Broken liquor bottles crunched underfoot as I looked for any reason a woman like Rosalie Hale would have for passing through such squalor.
I picked up Rosalie's scent not from her blood, but from the path that lead her to her death. Along with her own feminine scent were traces of Carlisle and at least five others. All male. Their scent was much duller than Carlisle's, but more concentrated, as if they'd actually spent time in the alley. The liquor bottle shards bore the same scents, and numerous finger impressions. The men had passed several bottles around. Perhaps they were waiting for their prey, or perhaps Rosalie was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time. When I exhausted all the alley could tell me I used the rags and lye I brought to obliterate the bloodstain. Its presence would raise more questions when Rosalie's disappearance came to light. Without a body or the bloodstain there would be no reason for the police to visit this place or connect it to the mystery of the beautiful Ms. Hale. Without a police investigation into Rosalie's potential murder, the chance of Carlisle's involvement becoming public knowledge was also slim.
Following Rosalie's path back to her origin point, I found a small cottage set back from the road in the less attractive part of town. It was separated from the Hales' neighborhood by the rundown alley and a few boarded up shops. Through the dirty windows I saw a young mother, with a toddler on her hip, preparing a late supper. Her husband stood at a basin, washing his hands and face before approaching the woman and lifting the small boy from her arms. The child giggled at his father and immediately reached for his beard. He smile broadly as his hands disappeared into the thicket of hair. His father mirrored his grin. The woman looked to be about Rosalie's age. Rosalie's scent was on the doorknob and the knocker, like she'd been here before, and the young mother looked to be about the same age. Perhaps the girls were former schoolmates or friends. At least my hypothesis offered an excuse for Rosalie to be here. The alley would provide the fastest route between the cottage and her father's home.
Retracing Rosalie's ill-fated steps, I returned to the alley. This time I followed a new scent, that of the men. They'd arrived together, of that I was sure. The group's trail led back to the fountain in the centre of the city park, but from there the paths splintered. I followed each path to a series of non-descript buildings that offered me few clues about the motives or identities of the men who left Rosalie alone to die in an alley. My hopes of returning to Carlisle with concrete information were few until I followed the last path.
Unlike the others, this path led to a much nicer part of town. The others lead me to a middle class neighbourhood slightly more upscale than that of the Hales, but this one was in a clearly up-market area. As the trail's concentration grew I knew where I would land: the King residence, home to the bank owner and his son, both named Royce King, but only one of them being intended husband of Rosalie Hale. I grabbed for the nearest thing I could reach, a shrub as it turned out, and hurled it at the house. It bounced ineffectually off the brick and landed in a small pond in the garden. Royce King. Royce King. His named repeated in my head as my anger grew. Did he want a way out of marrying a girl below his station, or were he and his associates just too drunk to realize the repercussions of their actions? My rage both consumed and confused me.
Rosalie Hale and I were never friends or even acquaintances. I only knew her name because she was on the mind of nearly every person I encountered in the run of a day, especially with the wedding so close. Why her death should move me so much was beyond my comprehension. Any loss of life was sad, but by all accounts Rosalie was just as bad as the Kings, snobs who had little time for those outside of their social circles. That she spent her evening visiting a friend in the more run down part of town was curious, but not enough to change my mind about her. Regardless of Rosalie's shortcomings, what those men did to her was beastly.
I circled the house in hopes of catching a glimpse of the younger Mr. King. I finally spotted him through a kitchen window and crouched down below it to listen. A young man standing at the counter washing his hands stared out into the night. His face was nearly as pale as mine and slicked with perspiration. My years in medical school told me he was likely to either vomit or pass out within the next few minutes.
"What's next Royce? What do we do?" he said scrubbing now invisible blood from his hands like Lady MacBeth.
"Do, Harold? Nothing," Royce replied, cool and composed. "No one will tie it to us. If they ask, we were out having a bachelor party tonight. No one knows anything about the unfortunately Ms. Hale until it comes out in the press or through the grapevine, whichever happens first."
King was clearly the butter and egg man of the outfit. His suit was hand tailored and freshly pressed, while his compatriots' garments looked distinctly worn. Most of the men busied themselves near the sink rinsing blood off of cuffs or staring at their shoes and nervously taking long pulls from flasks or bottles. One I recognized as the owner of the hands that tore Rosalie's bracelet from her wrist. Searching his mind showed me an image of her lying on the ground in a crumpled heap. We could take her to the hospital, but it won't matter. She's done and if the police get ahold of her so are we, he said in his memory. He shrugged at the idea that this woman's life was worth saving.
My hands found their way into my hair for the second time that night as I held on for dear life to avoid crashing through the window and murdering each one in turn. Especially the man who shrugged at the idea that saving a life could be worth his time. I searched Royce's mind for his name. Tom. Tom would die slow, I decided. As would Royce. The key difference between both events is that Tom would die first and I'd leave him somewhere public to ensure the rest learned of his death. Perhaps I'd leave him in the alley where they abandoned Rosalie.
Then there was Royce. I'd kill one of them every day for six days, killing Royce on the seventh. By the time I got to him there would be no doubt why his friends were dropping like flies, nor that his time would soon come. He stood apart from the other men in the kitchen, both physically and figuratively. He shook a gold pocket watch that wasn't ticking. Its face was cracked and I could hear the tinkling of tiny destroyed gears rattling behind its face.
Stupid bitch. This watch is an heirloom. His mind didn't contain one nugget of sympathy for Rosalie or regret. She was an afterthought to his broken watch and the blood on his jacket from grabbing her by the face. If only she'd done what I asked and given the boys a show. I wouldn't have had to put her in her place like that. Too bad, she was a looker.
My hair wasn't enough to contain my anger so I leapt out of the bushes and ran as far from the house as I could. When I finally slowed I was standing on the sidewalk in front of the Hale residence. I couldn't hear voices from my vantage point, but the family's thoughts were enough to tell me Rosalie's disappearance was noticed. How many times have I asked her to call if she's coming home after dark? I would walk her or send a car. The worry in her father's thoughts betrayed his strong words. He was afraid. He'd already sent one of his sons around to Vera's house, the woman whose face he pictured matched the young mother from the cottage, and phoned the banker's home to inquire if Royce had seen Rose. As his wife's fears reached a fevered pitch, he had to admit that his own fears were growing.
It's time to call the police, he thought as he rose from his chair and walked to the telephone.
I returned home to find Esme sitting on the porch in the rocking chair Carlisle made for her back in Ashland. Its familiar squeaking was a tonic to my rattled nerves. I'd run across the entire city to escape the murderous rage I had for Royce King, but it returned the moment I stopped. As I reached the porch Esme stood to embrace me.
"Edward, it's so terrible," she said as she buried her face in my chest. My arms curled around her instinctively, as though my touch could relieve some of her burden. Upon releasing me she asked the question lingering in her mind from the moment she saw me: what had I discovered? I shared with her most of what I'd learned, omitting my near mental breakdown in the Kings' garden.
"Why are you outside?" I asked.
Esme turned her face away in shame and whispered, "That sound. It's too much."
Confused I searched her mind, only to hear the fast and uneven heartbeat that had punctuated my departure. Rosalie's change awakened Esme's own memories of the burning pain and confusion she suffered just over 10 years ago. I'd witnessed her change; a three-day ordeal that left me feeling physically exhausted thought I needed no sleep. That memory left me no doubt that I wanted to stay out of the cellar over the next 2 days.
"Carlisle wants to speak with you," she said hugging me again. "He'll want to know what you learned." When Esme released me the second time, I entered the house knowing that I'd never be able to avoid the cellar.
Though Rosalie's heartbeat was audible to the three vampires living above her as she thrashed, I was certain no one outside the house could hear her suffering. The dirt floor and stone foundation absorbed the sound well. We wouldn't have to answer any questions about the screams or why the missing socialite was thrashing about on a table in our root cellar. The smell of drying blood hit me before I reached the bottom stair. Carlisle sat on a stool at the table, taking notes and watching over Rosalie's change. I shared with him all I knew, this time leaving in my feelings toward Royce King.
"It's understandable," he said, to my surprise. "You spent the last several years hunting men like Royce, listening to their minds and equalizing the moral scorecard." It was the first time Carlisle had ever indicated he possessed any knowledge about my lost years.
In his mind I saw myself, red-eyed and stalking my prey. He was a businessman who sold young female labourers into Chicago's sex trade. Their parents sent them to the city to earn money to support their younger siblings at home, but all they found was misery. The girls rarely returned home in one piece, if at all. He was in his home, counting money at his kitchen table when I took him. I pounced onto the table from the doorway, scattering his precious bills. The terror in his eyes only fed my hunger. I didn't even need to chase him as his only action upon seeing me was to wet himself. As I watched myself drink through Carlisle's eyes I could taste his blood, rich, warm and vital.
I followed you. I needed to know you were alive, he thought.
"But why didn't you say anything? Then or when I returned."
I wasn't happy with your new lifestyle, but I understood your motivations. You needed to find your own path to our way of life. I knew my insistence that you follow my brand of morality could only survive so long. You're headstrong Edward, but you also have a keen sense of good and evil. I never doubted that you would return to us one day.
My eyes found Rosalie's face. It was twisted in pain as the change burned its way through her. Carlisle had covered her shredded dress with a sheet to protect her modestly, but her body was determine to shake it off as she twitched and writhed on the table.
"I need to dress and go back to the hospital soon. It's almost morning," he said aloud, knowing my mind was absorbed with Rosalie and no longer residing in his thoughts.
"You're going in today?" Esme had just reached the bottom of the stairs, eager to learn what we planned to do next.
"Yes. It's key that we act as though nothing is out of place. Rosalie's disappearance will be public knowledge soon, but there's little reason we should be dragged into it," he said as he stood.
"I'd like one of you to stay with her at all times. I know the change is hard to watch, but it's even harder to go through alone. I was alone through the worst three days of my life and alone when I woke up. I ensured neither of you faced the same fate and I hope you'll do the same for Rosalie.
"Keep in mind, unlike the both of you, Rosalie did not expect death. When she awakes there's no telling the extent of her confusion. I would like the first thing she sees to be a friendly face."
As I took his place on the stool he nodded and headed upstairs. Carlisle was a novice doctor at the Rochester Hospital, which meant he often worked 12 hours shifts. The only trouble it gave him was remembering to act tired as he neared his ninth hour and pretending to drink a lot of coffee. Esme returned upstairs to help him prepare and see him off.
Looking at Rosalie's face pained me, so I concentrated on her other attributes. Her formerly mud incrusted hair was now practically glowing. The large laceration at her hairline had mended too, leaving no trace of scar. Her broken and torn fingernails now glistened whole and strong. I slipped my hand into hers and whispered, "Everything will be all right."
Instead of feeling silly for speaking to someone who couldn't possibly reply, I was shocked to hear her response loud and clear in my mind: No. It will never be all right again.