by D. L. EVANS
“Whattt?” Hennesey felt the pain in top of his head like a piercing hot needle. He ran his hand over his hair feeling for a wound but the pain had just as quickly disappeared. He moved back, releasing Annie from his steel grip, not understanding her calm expression. His head ached under his skull and his eyes burned. The knife fell. Annie’s face twisted. He could not look away. She was melting, distorted, pulsing in and out of focus.
Another face shimmered into existence. He recognised her instantly. “Mom?” Hennesey asked, willing her to disappear. Fear began to ooze out of him like sweat. Annie’s face had somehow morphed into his mother’s before his eyes. “What the fuck was happening?” he said to the shimmering apparition. She was still young, just like she looked when he was a little boy. “Mom?” he gasped. “What…? How…?” The air felt thick. The reality of her presence had to pass through his shock and confusion to finally register. How could she be here when he knew she was safely dead? he thought. His mother, raised from the grave. Her hateful face was a nightmare exhuming the acid fear that he had interred long ago. A numbness formed inside as he slid down into the abyss of his past.
His mother snarled, her features coalesced into utter virulence. “Get yer hands off me you little shit. What do you think yer doing touching me like that? You want to go back in the closet again? ‘Cause I tell you, Jacky boy you’re askin’ for it!” Her voice scratched the heavy air like nails on a chalkboard; her eyes glared in challenge. The stale beer breath and murderous smile transported him back to the age of ten when his mother completely ruled his life. There would be no defence. His stomach was liquid. There would be no resistance. Hennesey could not move: the boy in him white with panic. She slapped him away from her. He cringed. Hennesey the adult wanted to punch her back through the wall, but his battered nerves were no longer processing the juice from his brain.
Hennesey, the child, inhaled her cheap perfume mixed with sour body odour. It hung in the air around them like a toxic cloud taking away the oxygen. The familiar smell made him sick. He saw the bleached hair, the dark roots and the small feral blue eyes but most of all he saw the pain. She continued to berate him with usual obscenities hissing like a faulty pressure valve stoking up her own anger. The vileness passed over him; but he knew what was coming. She had that wild look on her face: the unblinking gaze that told him that she was already beyond the borders of control. The disgust, the hate she vented aimed at every man who ever lived, was just the warm-up. He knew what she was going to do. Her hands roamed his child body. Whispered words loosened his bowels and he fought for control. She stalked his fear: a monster animal that scented a slow moving, already wounded prey. Tears ran down his face. He was naked, helpless on his stomach, tied to the bed. He closed his eyes feeling his wrists bleed as he struggled against the ropes. Mommy don’t please, I’ll be good, I promise. Please, please don’t …The pain unfolded like a giant serpent. He screamed.
Annie said; ‘Stop now,’ in her mind voice and the pain disappeared. Annie had seen enough… more than she’d wanted… much more.
Hennesey opened his eyes and sobbed with relief when he saw that his mother was gone. What the hell happened? He had taken a bad drug trip without the drug? Was it possible? He found himself hunched over leaning against the wall for support. His knees might give out if he moved. The residual effect of Annie’s words still flowed through him. He was exhausted but could still feel her energy, the tidal power of the moon reverberating in that small room. Tension crackled in the air. Taking deep breaths, Hennesey noticed his face was wet with tears and his throat was sore. He remembered screaming. He had been to hell and back. This was one powerful bitch, he thought to himself and he didn’t even want to fucking know what had just happened. Annie watched as he shuddered forcing himself to stand up straight knowing he was emotionally eviscerated. She told him to go home. He was too weak to answer. He left, backing away, afraid to turn his back to her, afraid to look directly at her. She was a witch, he thought, not that he cared any more. Who would believe what he just saw… or felt? He would do nothing to this woman ever again that would risk bringing out those memories. He would die first. He realized he was still exposed, and looked down at his withered penis, hanging uselessly. He left it there, unable to touch himself, and still staggering slightly, he turned and ran.
Chapter Thirty-Six
POLICE HEADQUARTERS
At 5:46 a police dispatcher recorded the next morning an electronically altered voice as it reported the location of the body ‘of a Disciple of Satan’. The address was in an exclusive residential enclave in the downtown area and warranted sending two plainclothes cops to investigate. Lieutenant Martchenko, the senior officer and Detective Elphick arrived on the scene fifteen minutes later. According to the elderly, but elegant and well-spoken doorman, nice Mr. Jack Hennessy owned the apartment. He was totally confused, as there had not been any indication of any problem, but proceeded to lead the two detectives through the beautiful lobby resplendent with brass planters, exotic plants and tinted mirrors, and into the gleaming elevators. The two men noted the security camera above them. The doorman, Mr. Price, didn't recall actually having seen Mr. Hennessy for a while but that wasn't unusual. The tenants usually drove their cars into the underground and rarely used the front doors. Guests however, had to be buzzed in through double doors by whichever doorman (there were three) happened to be on duty. Mr. Price filled them in on the short history of the building on the way to the fourteenth floor, one below the penthouse suites. It was five years old, had video cameras covering all the hallways, elevators and parking levels monitored by a top agency and there had never been any trouble involving the police. The record was about to be broken.
The doorman led the way down the thickly carpeted hall to apartment 1204. They found it slightly ajar. Detective Elphick, his gun appearing in his hand, gently pulled Mr. Price out of the way and pushed the door wide open. When nothing happened, the men looked around the frame and into the room. Mr. Price came in behind them and quietly fainted. The two detectives were frozen momentarily as they stared across the living room at a quite obviously dead, naked man. They checked out the other rooms but they were alone. The sliding glass door to the balcony was open.
Lieutenant Elphick spoke dryly into his radio, ordering an I.D. team, who handled forensics and the morgue. His partner helped Mr. Price to his feet and told him to go back to the front entrance and let the backup teams in. The little doorman was a sickly white and very shaky, quite willing to have something to do that involved leaving, and hurried away.
Careful not to disturb the scene, the two detectives put on their plastic gloves and closed the door behind them. They waited and observed. The living area was two stories high. A den or study overlooked the main area behind a half wall of white wrought iron grillwork that flowed down to the curved staircase to the left of the living area. The right side of the room was ceiling to floor windows arched at the second story level. Someone had taken the body up the stairs, tied him by the ankles with a pristine white nylon rope, and lowered him over the fancy iron, down the opposite wall from the door. The rope was barely visible against the white wall. At first glance, he looked like he was stuck there upside down, by some kind of evil magic. Martchenko remembered the dispatch telling him the caller had said 'Disciple of Satan.'
The whole place was decorated in navy and white. Now it was red and white and blue. He, or they, had slashed the body with long strokes, disembowelled him and nailed his arms outstretched, to the wall. He hung above the carpet by at least two feet and steadily dripped blood and gore into an ever-expanding puddle. Purple shiny intestine and viscera seeped from a slash above the pubes and hung in a mass covering the chest and face. The copper smell of blood was blended with the odour of urine and faeces. Red dripping slashes were all over the body. Splatters also covered the white leather furniture, the windows, the sheer curtains and the elegant brocade that hung the full two stories. Detective Elphick fought to keep his breakfast
down in front of the more experienced Martchenko. When the I.D. team and a photographer burst into the room minutes later, they froze at the sight.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
MACK MACKENZIE:
Detective Mackenzie stared at the copies of newspaper articles that filled his desk, courtesy of the late Morgan Burnanski. The air pulsed with fluorescent light, fax machines whined, phones rang and computers hummed their electronic whir. He should be home in bed but he had a feeling he was due for a break. He re-read the newspaper articles and swallowed his disappointment. Several clippings, complete with photos, were all too familiar as they dealt with the disappearance of Melissa Como, Jasmine Train and Lorraine Johnson. He could almost recite them word for word. He placed them neatly into a new file folder and added it to the pile. So much for Morgan's dead end. He had so hoped she could help from the grave.
Jessica Farr had been waiting quietly in a hall chair sipping machine-made coffee observing the comings and goings of the precinct with interest. The night shift was about to end and it was already busy. Mack escorted her to an office where three hundred or so photos had just been delivered. It was still only seven in the morning but she appeared well rested and confident in her wine coloured suit, looking more the skilled businesswoman than the grieving friend he met at Morgan’s home. She was determined to help.
He had learned that she also represented two more up and coming artists and was now in a position to turn down clients. Something told him that the soft-spoken Ms. Farr was probably tough as nails and could flatten anyone who tried to mess with her, which probably explained her success he supposed. Mack smiled to himself. He was reminded of his mother. Every person at Morgan's wake was represented in the pile. Still-frames, taken from the specially installed police cameras were blown up to eight by ten black and whites. A pantheon of characters that Jessica would no doubt identify by putting names to the faces, with Mack eliminating the group that had already been questioned. It was slow work. The prints were amazingly crisp and fairly detailed. Not exactly magazine quality but it was obvious that the gathering was a social success.
“Detective Mack, can I ask you a question?” He nodded absently slightly annoyed at her old fashioned politeness.
“Was it arson?” she asked.
He continued making notes about the photos but answered, “Not according to the Fire Marshal’s office.” He looked up into her concerned face, “No trace of accelerant residue and only one point of origin,” he explained, expecting her to understand. When she appeared confused he continued, “The elderly tenant, Mrs. Jamieson said she forgot to turn off an old iron on a wood ironing board and they didn’t find anything to suggest that it happened any other way. Case closed.”
She made a clucking sound and sighed. “But, what do you think?” she persisted.
He took a deep breath and exhaled. “Jesus, It would be nice to get a clean one once in a while... But let’s just say that between the wall and us, it was bloody convenient. We just find out she’s been murdered... and her house burns down. Someone didn’t want us to find something... not that we would have in that mess. Could’a taken years. Is the insurance going to settle?”
“Yes, it’s in the works,” she nodded. “Three of Morgan’s cousins went back to Poland with the collection but Jorge Burnanski is staying until all the legal work is settled. He’s the one who speaks English so he doesn’t need much help... Nice man. I think he likes it here.”
“I noticed. He was having a good time at the wake. Made me think of that old song, How you going to get them back on the farm, after they’ve seen Par-ee?”
She laughed. Her old eyes twinkling. “Yes, I think it’s true. They were quiet vegetable farmers until their distant cousin... died. Now, well, their lives sure have changed.”
Mack felt a curtain of fatigue open in his mind. He popped a few aspirins to delay the headache that was simmering, hoping to last another hour until the end of the double shift. Felicia thumbed through the next pile of photos. “Whatever happened about those newspapers we found in Morgan’s basement? Were they any help?”
“Fuck all. Pardon my French.”
“I’m from Montreal,” she smiled.
“Pardon my Irish.”
She laughed. “I’m sorry. I was so hoping I could help.”
“Not your fault.” he replied briskly. “Turns out they were just articles about three women that I’ve been investigating. Only one was found. I have the same clippings from the same papers stuck on my board.”
“Can I see Morgan’s copies?”
“Sure. They’re in that brown file on the left hand pile on my desk.”
She opened the folder and glanced through the sheets of paper. “Why are they photo copies and not originals like yours on the wall?”
Mack sighed, “The Reference Library doesn’t keep the actual newspapers Mrs. Farr.” He let irritation creep into his voice. He was very tired. “The records go back into the eighteen hundreds. They’d be buried if they kept the actual newspapers, besides, they would disintegrate. Everything is on micro film.” He gestured to the next desk, “Les just took cell phone shots of Morgan’s cut up papers, looked up the same issue and brought up those pages on the microfilm, then output prints and photo copied the page, enlarging the missing article.”
She didn’t react to his obvious impatience.” The Reference Library? Not the Sun Archives?”
“Actually, both places have duplicate micro film. Why do you ask?”
“It’s just that Morgan spent a lot of time there... the library, the month before she...died.”
“Do you know why?”
“I’ve no idea,” she answered.” She was frantic to finish her pieces,” she continued, “so I thought it was strange that she would take time to check out reference material at the library. She usually only went there when she was creating something... But there weren’t any new pieces, she was just finishing up, you see. I just thought it was odd. I picked her up there a couple of times when she was waiting for her new car to be delivered. She never did give a satisfactory answer when I wanted to know what she was doing.“
She had Mack’s complete attention. “That, my lady, may be something we can use. Now, will you go through this pile of goodies and see if you can put the names of any former students or associates with the faces. I’ll be right back.”
She watched Mack stride over to the other detective’s desk and ask him to take a photo of Morgan to the Reference Library. He said, “See if any of the staff recognize her. Start in the newspaper section.”
“Got the wind up, boss?” the other man replied.
“Maybe. I want to know what she was doing there the month before she died. Drop what you’re doing and get on it now.” Felicia overheard the exchange. She didn’t know what she had said to change the little detective’s demeanour but he seemed to catch fire. He was on to something all right. Maybe she was helping in some way.
Jessica went back to the photo pile and pulled out one shot that was unusually blurred. There were three casually dressed men facing each other in conversation. Two were clear and identifiable, acquaintances in the business, one was not. He never quite faced any of the cameras full on and the odd time when he turned into the range of one, he seemed to have lowered his head. Mack put that one aside and they proceeded through the rest. He was no longer tired. Several shots later, the same man was in view again but his face was again behind some obstruction, floral arrangements, other taller people, or he rubbed his face with his hand as he faced a camera. From the colour of his suit and approximate build, it appeared to be the same man. Mack felt an odd stirring in the pit of his stomach. The final photo that looked like him was also indefinable. The cameras were not obvious. These men had to know where each one was located and yet subtly hide his face and appear natural to everyone around him. It was impossible but had done it several times. Mack thanked Ms. Farr for taking the time with him, making light of the three photos that were too vague to identif
y, passing it off as a camera malfunction. It would be no use telling anyone his suspicions, when they sounded crazy to him. Someone didn't want his picture taken and knew how to evade the cameras? Who would believe it? He wasn't sure he believed it!
Chapter Thirty-Eight
ADAM STONE:
After briefing Mack about Annie and our new ‘understanding’ I left the wake around midnight hoping to get a decent night’s sleep for a change. I understood his scepticism but some things in life are not so predictable. One can’t always have a plan. Sometimes life requires a leap of faith. Still, the past few days kept rolling around in my head and sleep eluded me. I found myself once again being haunted by various females, some familiar, some not, usually running from problems. Surely this running thing is fraught with meaning? Savannah Jane would have known. We often held our own post-mortems after a night out, over a coffee, putting concerns and issues into categories, and generally solving the problems de jour. Would Savannah have approved of Annie? Damn what a thought? How could anyone help me with that? I had to let go of my past with Savannah. Why was it so difficult, after all this time? Being alone had never bothered me before I loved her. I am finding that love is made from something too fine to be subdivided and analysed and I guess that death was too slight a force to banish it. I have to rely on time, the universal panacea. I slept dreaming of my dead wife. The phone rang and scattered my thoughts.