Speak the Dead

by Grant McKenzie

  “You can go in there.”

  A shuddering breath escaped Sally’s lips as fresh tears filled her eyes. She didn’t have the strength to argue, never mind fight or run. Her display of weakness annoyed her. Not the fact that she felt so powerless but that she couldn’t hide it from the monster before her.

  Aedan’s dark eye narrowed as though contemplating his options. When he reached his decision, Sally couldn’t help the trembling fear that overcame her. He leaned into the trunk, slipped his hands under her arms, and lifted her out.

  As soon as her feet hit the ground, Aedan grabbed her hands and fastened a metal handcuff around her left wrist. He then attached the second cuff to a welded anchor point inside the trunk. The two cuffs were separated by a four-foot length of chain.

  Sally decided any argument on her part could result in something worse than four feet of freedom. Aedan backed out of the tiny circle of light spilling from the trunk.

  “You have five minutes,” he said from the darkness. “Don’t waste it.”

  Sally looked down at her bound ankles and carefully shuffled her way around the car until its rear fender gave her partial privacy. She then unbuckled her jeans and wiggled her hips until they slid down to her knees. She felt foolish and angry and more scared than in all the years since the death of her parents.

  Life hadn’t been easy as she grew into a woman. There were so many times when Sister Fleur made her leave a town just as she was settling in, making friends and discovering who she was inside. The explanations for their sudden departures were never good enough, the secrecy as thick as lies, and when troubled adolescence turned to reckless adulthood, they became even less so. Sally had come to despise her guardian and when Sister Fleur finally settled in Seattle, Sally took off for Portland. The gulf between them, however, was much larger than a three-hour drive could bridge.

  But now in the darkness, under a blanket of stars and the watchful eye of a brutal stranger, Sally wished with all her might that Sister Fleur was with her, whispering that everything would be all right. Just as she had done all those years ago when Sally would wake up screaming in the middle of the night, haunted by visions of her dead parents.

  As Sally squatted beside the rear tire, she heard the strike of a match followed by the pungent aroma of loose tobacco blended with something much harsher, like vinegar. She glanced over her shoulder, staring into the darkness until she saw a crimson firefly blossom and die. The unpleasant vinegar smell carried on the wind.

  “You finished?” Aedan’s voice sounded strained as though he was holding his breath.

  Sally stood and refastened her jeans. “Can I ride up front again?”

  Aedan stepped into the circle of light with twin funnels of smoke trailing out of his nostrils. The effect made him appear demonic.

  “I warned you, I’m not someone to mess with.”

  “I know. I’m sorry, but—”

  Aedan lunged forward with the reflexes of a snake and grabbed Sally’s arm.

  “Okay, Okay,” Sally whimpered as Aedan squeezed flesh and bruised muscle against bone.

  As Aedan returned her to the trunk, more tears fell from her eyes, but they did nothing to soften his mask of stone.

  He closed the lid, sealing her in darkness.

  34

  Jersey arrived at the front entrance to Harborview Medical Center on Seattle’s First Hill after a frantic two-hour drive from Portland.

  He had kept himself awake with a thermos of black coffee plus his entire music collection set on shuffle and blaring out of the car stereo via his attached iPod. The combination of strong coffee, sleep deprivation, and dead anarchist rebel songs had him feeling wired and punchy.

  A tall, strikingly handsome woman with skin the color of bittersweet chocolate and curly hair so short it could have been a woolen skullcap, stood under the harsh lights of the hospital’s art-deco inspired entrance. She was wearing skinny blue jeans tucked into dimpled ostrich-skin boots and a caramel-colored cashmere sweater under a light nylon windbreaker. She was also smoking a small, sweet-smelling cigar and under the fluorescent blue light, her flawless skin practically glowed.

  As he moved closer, Jersey couldn’t decide whether she would be best suited in the role of an untouchable runway model—all pouty lips and attitude—or a disemboweling Zulu warrior. Either way, she made him nervous.

  Perhaps sensing his anxiety, the woman opened her lips to reveal a blinding and utterly captivating smile. A bright pink tongue followed as she plucked a flake of tobacco off its tip.

  “Kameelah?” Jersey asked.

  The woman held out her hand. When Jersey accepted it, he discovered the Seattle detective had a very firm grip.

  “Amarela says good things about you, which is rare for her when it comes to men.”

  “Yeah, she’s not too fond of my gender. We all tend to—”

  “Piss her off,” Kameelah finished.

  Jersey laughed. “So you do know her?”

  “Indeed.”

  Kameelah took a final drag on her cigar before stubbing it out in a stone pedestal filled with sand that had been designed for just that purpose.

  “I checked with the doctors and they’ve agreed to let us see the Sister, but they don’t expect her to be responsive.”

  “Do they know when she might be up to answering questions?”

  Kameelah shrugged. “The docs tell me it’s out of their hands.”

  Jersey looked deep into Kameelah’s eyes. They seemed bottomless and had the unsettling quality of making you want to dive in headfirst. “Let’s hope she’s a fighter.”

  “After the beating she received, she’s had to fight for every breath.”

  Sister Fleur looked as fragile as a child as she lay under a plain white blanket on the stiff hospital bed. Twin transparent tubes were taped to her nostrils and bags of clear liquid dripped into a catheter in her arm.

  Her face was one massive and ugly bruise with both eyes bulging like overripe plums and her lips so swollen they seemed ready to burst.

  A young nurse checked the intravenous drips. “She’s breathing on her own now. That’s always a good sign.”

  “Has she said anything?” Jersey asked.

  The nurse shook her head. “Not a word, poor soul.”

  Jersey crossed to the bed and took the Sister’s hand. Four of her fingers were in metal splints and her arms were mottled with yellow and purple bruises.

  “Christ,” he muttered.

  “You should see the rest of her,” said Kameelah. “This bastard didn’t miss an inch.”

  “I’ll take your word for it.” Jersey released the woman’s hand and stood back. “She’s the key to where this animal has taken Sally.”

  “Then lets figure out where she fits,” said Kameelah. “That’s what we’re good at, right?”

  The confidence in her voice filled Jersey with hope. He liked this woman.

  In a deserted sitting area, Kameelah and Jersey sipped from paper cups of coffee and filled each other in on the missing details of each case.

  “So you don’t know how Sister Fleur connects with your missing mortician?” Kameelah asked.

  “No idea. Sally called in a panic and gave me the name. She was cut off before…” His voice faded.

  “Which means she trusted you could put the puzzle together,” said Kameelah. “With Sister Fleur out of commission, we should run a deep background check and see where their paths cross.”

  Jersey pulled out Sally’s driver’s license and handed it over. “If you want to handle the computer work, I wouldn’t mind taking a look at the Sister’s room in the mission. Maybe there’s something there that isn’t on the grid.”

  “Tell you what.” Kameelah parted her lips to show strong teeth. “Since we’ve just met, I’ll let that slide. But when you’re on my turf, you don’t go solo. We’ll both do the computer work and then we’ll visit the mission together. Deal?”

  Jersey couldn’t help the grin that creased his
face. He would have had the exact same reaction to a visiting detective coming onto his turf.

  “You know,” he said. “I can see why Amarela likes you.”

  Kameelah’s eyes sparkled.

  35

  Sally was exhausted, stiff, and sore as the Cadillac slowed once more before finally coming to a rolling stop. Locked in the disorienting darkness of the trunk, she had lost all track of time, but the aching weariness in her bones told her they had been traveling for hours and across hundreds of miles.

  Sleep had been impossible, despite the rhythmic rocking of the vehicle and the stifling warmth that radiated from beneath the floor. Every time she had tried to close her eyes, a wave of fear that she would never wake up washed over her. Despite knowing she was in a car, it still felt too much like a coffin and Sally now understood how people developed claustrophobia.

  The driver’s door opened and closed with a passive click rather than an angry clunk. That was a good sign. The man’s anger had cooled. Sally waited for the trunk lid to be opened, the delay interminable. One part of her desperately wanted to see the sky again and to breathe fresh air. The trunk had become stale, and she was all too aware of the ripeness of her own body. Fear had turned her sweat sour.

  Another part of her, however, felt reluctantly safe in the dark cocoon, and she feared what would happen once she was back in Aedan’s hands. The pain inflicted by his fists had been both crippling and humiliating, each blow making her feel small, weak, and powerless. It wasn’t something she ever wanted to repeat.

  Voices.

  Sally strained to listen. Aedan and at least two others, one of them female, but it was difficult to hear clearly. The only word that cut through the chatter was: Salvation.

  When the trunk lid finally opened, Sally blinked up at the night sky and felt a wave of relief when she saw the stars still shone. The feeling was short-lived as the trunk light snapped on, and Aedan reached in to pull her out.

  After she was on her feet, Aedan unfastened the metal cuff around her wrist and tossed the chain into the trunk.

  “Can you walk?” he asked.

  Sally nodded, too afraid to open her mouth in case all that came out was a blood-curdling scream or, worse, heart wrenching sobs.

  “You’ll be safe here.” He bent to cut the bonds around her ankles.

  “Safe?” Sally queried. Her voice was constricted, gravelly, as though she had been gargling dust and stones.

  “We’ll get you water and food, and Mother will see you get bathed and dressed in fresh clothes.”

  Aedan reached out his hand and tilted Sally’s chin up until he was looking directly into her eyes. “You’re home,” he said, his mouth twitching. “You’re finally home.”

  If Sally had managed to draw any moisture from her parched throat, she would have spat in his eye.

  Aedan took hold of Sally’s arm and turned her toward a formidable two-and-one-half-story wooden house on an imposing stone foundation fronted with river rocks. Painted white with black trim in a Tudor style, the house had a wide front porch and a solid front door painted a deep navy blue. The paint glistened as though still wet, and the door looked strong enough to secure a bank vault.

  Most impressive of all was a large circular stained glass window in the attic that gazed down upon visitors like a giant eye. The center of the window was made from a kaleidoscope of green glass, while the etched outer rim glistened in reds, blues, and gold. Something about the window was familiar, but before Sally could process it, she was dragged up the front steps, across the porch and through the blue door.

  Inside, the house was well used and tired, but also strangely familiar and oddly comforting. The air smelled of ginger muffins, boiled cabbage, and the rich aroma of strong coffee. But there was a scent missing that Sally couldn’t quite place. A scent that should have been there. Something sweet, yet… pipe tobacco.

  Sally inhaled the air around her and swore she could almost sense its ghostly presence: a blackened clay pipe smoldering with toasted Virginia tobacco laced with ripe cherry liqueur.

  She turned to her left and saw a pot-bellied stove in the middle of a huge, open-plan kitchen complete with industrial-sized, stainless steel fixtures. The old-fashioned stove was still radiating warmth, but there was no one in the room to enjoy it. Sally turned to her right where an antique, barroom-style player piano sat by the porch window and made her think of summertime parties and people singing along to old songs they knew by heart.

  I know this house, Sally thought.

  Aedan led Sally to the foot of the stairs, and then waved her ahead. But as they rounded the top bend and stepped onto the landing, Sally froze. The door directly in front of her led to a bathroom. Sally knew this even though the door was closed. A flash of memory ignited in her brain, and Sally’s knees went weak.

  Run, Sally! Run!

  The distant voice of her mother.

  Sally swiveled her head in panic, but Aedan was behind her, barring any retreat.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “I don’t want to be here.”

  “You’ll be fine.”

  Sally moved past the bathroom, her eyes growing in panic. The door to her mother’s bedroom loomed at the far end of the narrow hallway. It was open a tiny crack and Sally could hear music playing from inside. The song was familiar—the ting, tinkle, ting of a wind-up music box—and Sally had an overwhelming urge to flee.

  Aedan stopped in front of Sally’s old bedroom door and pushed it open.

  Sally shook her head aggressively. She didn’t want to be here, she didn’t want to return. Didn’t they know that her mother had told her to run?

  “You need rest,” said Aedan. “Mother will see to you.”

  Before Sally could protest further, Aedan shoved her into the room and pulled the door closed.

  Sally skidded on the floor and immediately rushed back. She grabbed the handle and pulled, but the door wouldn’t budge. Then she heard a metal bolt sliding into its hasp and knew she had become a prisoner in the same house she fled as a child.

  With her back pressed against the door, Sally took in the room. Nothing seemed familiar except… a hand-sewn patchwork quilt covered the single bed next to the lone window. Sally knew the quilt contained over two hundred separate pieces of fabric recycled from old clothes and blankets that had been important to her mother. Some of the pieces had come from Sally’s own clothes as she outgrew them, while others had come from her grandmother’s. Until this moment, Sally hadn’t thought about the quilt in almost a quarter century.

  Other memories awakened within—her mother tucking her in at night with a lullaby on her lips. She was a beautiful woman with eyes the color of a Mediterranean sea, the color of Sally’s eyes. Her mother’s hair had been long and curly and a natural orange so bright it was like the setting sun on an autumn night.

  Is that why Sally dreamed of being a redhead?

  She had forgotten her mother’s beauty and her gentle songs. Her violent death had blotted everything else out. Happiness scrubbed away by the pull of a trigger.

  Sally crossed to the window and attempted to open it, but found it had been nailed shut from the outside; wide nail heads shiny from hurried blows. Frustrated, she sat on the bed and angrily brushed pointless tears from her eyes. She didn’t know what these strangers expected of her, but she didn’t want to return to a past where her only clear memory was so full of pain.

  Laying her head on the pillow, Sally pulled her mother’s quilt around her like a cocoon. Beneath the spicy fragrance of cedar from the trunk where it had been stored for all these years, the tattered squares of cloth held another scent, a secret perfume of childhood laughter, giggles and tears.

  Sally inhaled deeply as she closed her eyes, too tired to think and too sore to move.

  36

  Aedan drove the Cadillac through the wide front gate that sat between the two main homes and guarded the vast compound beyond.

  His tires crunched noisily along the c
ircular gravel drive to the rear of the walled estate. There, he pulled into a one-car garage that had been designed for a much smaller vehicle. The interior of the garage was so tight; he could barely swing his door open far enough to squeeze out.

  After side-shuffling his way to the overhead door, Aedan pulled it down and fastened a heavy-duty padlock on the hasp. In the morning, he would replace the Idaho license plates with the car’s original North Dakota ones. He would also destroy the stolen plates with that week’s garbage in the old oil drum they used as a burning barrel.

  Aedan knew he was being overly cautious, but it only took one slip to bring down their fragile house of cards. For all its boasting about freedom, America was not a country that embraced difference. In his experience, the great melting pot was actually a sausage maker that ripped, chopped, and ground you down until you became part of the same quivering mass. Instead of a country of leaders, it had become a country of lambs. And lambs, as he knew all too well, were destined for the slaughterhouse.

  Aedan walked across the courtyard designed by his grandfather after a medieval fortress in the north of England. The simple layout and elegant symmetry of it had always stayed with him.

  Two matching and impenetrable homes dominated the front of the property as gatekeepers to the secret paradise within. On the far side of each house, eight-foot-tall stone walls jutted out at hard right angles and stretched for over sixty feet before turning ninety degrees and running the entire length of the perimeter to form a protected square. At the rear corners of the property, but inside the protected grounds, were two more stately homes, now in sad disrepair that had once belonged to two of the four founding families.

  In the center of the square—surrounded by raised garden beds, a bounty of fruit trees, and crushed gravel pathways—a circular church dominated the enclosed two-acre spread.

  The only entrance to the church and gardens for the families who lived outside the walls was the imposing stone and iron gateway that Aedan had passed through. And although the gate was rarely locked, as strangers were few, the community found it comforting that it would be a formidable obstacle to overcome if the need ever arose.