Speak the Dead

by Grant McKenzie

  “Most of the family calls me Mother.” Her voice was warm, welcoming. “But I know that may sound strange on your tongue having lost your own at such a tender age. So ’til we get to know each other better, you call me Helen. That okay?”

  “Where exactly am I, Helen?”

  The woman smiled. “Why, you’re home, child.”

  Sally swallowed the acrid taste of fear invoked by those words. None of it had been a dream.

  “I’m sure,” Helen continued, “you’d like a bath, breakfast, and a clean change of clothes. That always makes a person feel better, doesn’t it?”

  Sally nodded.

  “I’ll start the bath, then. Back soon.”

  The moment the woman left the room, Sally leapt out of bed and rushed to the door. She turned the handle and pulled, but it was locked from the outside.

  No matter how pleasant the woman seemed, Sally reminded herself, she was still a prisoner.

  When Helen returned, she took Sally by the arm and led her into the hallway.

  “Your bath is nice and toasty,” she said. “I’ve laid out clean towels and fresh clothes. There are just a few ground rules…”

  Sally stopped listening as they approached the bathroom. It was the same room where her father had stood with a shotgun in his mouth. The same gun he used to kill her mother.

  Sally wrenched her arm free from Helen’s grasp. “I can’t.”

  Before the woman could react, Sally bolted for the stairs, running past the bathroom without looking, taking the corner and—

  She slammed straight into a burly man with a shaved head. He was dressed in black pants and shirt, but with a priest’s white collar cinched around his thick neck. Sally bounced off his barrel chest and tumbled backwards before finding herself unexpectedly snatched up in strong arms and pulled into the man’s coarse embrace.

  “Is this little Salvation Blue?” the man chortled. “Come to give her old uncle a hug at last.”

  Sally squirmed against the stranger, but his arms were too powerful. With her face squashed against his chest, she could hear his heart thumping loudly beneath a heavy layer of pectoral muscle.

  “My we’ve missed you,” continued the man. “It was like losing a lung when you disappeared, half the oxygen just seemed to leave the place.”

  The man pushed Sally out to arm’s length, hands the size of catcher’s mitts still gripping her tight. She tried to break free, but the man didn’t seem to notice. He beamed at her, his oval face lit up like a Jack O’Lantern.

  “You’re the spitting image of your parents,” he said. “The beauty of your mother and the stubbornness of your dad. Ach, we miss them so.”

  Tears formed in the burly man’s amber eyes as Sally stared at him in horror.

  Helen approached to take hold of Sally’s arm. The man, with a tinge of sadness in his voice, said, “She looks at me as if she doesn’t know me.”

  “She was only six when she left us, Father. You’ve changed a bit since.”

  “Me?” Father chortled again and winked at Sally. “I can’t believe that.”

  “I was taking her to the bath,” said Helen. “But she got startled, poor dear. Could you help me?”

  Sally opened her mouth to scream out her frustration—she didn’t want to be here, she had been kidnapped, didn’t anybody notice… or care—but a rippling shadow, like a snake swimming in a jar of cream, beneath the man’s skin caused her to hold her anger inside.

  “You’ll want to listen to Mother,” he said, all warmth gone from his voice. “Her kindness is great, but her temper can curdle your blood. I ought to know.”

  “Don’t frighten the girl, Father.”

  “She’s already that, Mother. I just want her to understand her options.”

  The icy calmness of the man’s voice frightened Sally more than Aedan’s fists.

  When he released his grip on her, Sally allowed Helen to escort her into the bathroom without further trouble.

  40

  Her father’s ghost wasn’t waiting in the tub when Sally lowered herself into the warm, sweet-smelling water.

  Despite the steam rising into the air, it took five minutes for Sally to stop shaking and finally uncurl her body from its tight rigor. Helen had left her alone in the room at least and for that Sally was grateful.

  As her tension unwound, Sally soaped her body, her fingers massaging deep into sore and tired muscles. None of this made sense to her: a family she had forgotten existed; a house she had never desired to see again; a husband promised at birth; and the vision that started it all, a gift or a curse that she never knew she possessed.

  After she finished soaping, Sally dunked herself under the water. Her eyes remained closed, not wanting to look up at the ceiling, just in case there loomed a shadow that she had no desire to see.

  Next, she shampooed her hair and dunked under again. This time she stayed submerged longer; holding her breath, testing herself. The silence was bliss.

  When she finally emerged, Helen was sitting on the toilet, lid closed, watching her.

  Sally gasped and covered her breasts; protective, embarrassed.

  “What do you see down there?” Helen asked, her violet eyes twinkling. “In the darkness.”

  “N-nothing,” Sally stammered.

  “But that’s not the truth.” The woman’s voice was dark, edgy. “Is it, child?”

  Sally straightened her back, refusing to play the victim. “Can you hand me a towel?”

  The woman stood and a strange blue halo appeared around her head, created by the sunlight streaming through a small lead-paned window behind her. Despite the beauty of the light, however, the unreadable face hidden in the shadows beneath it remained an enigma. Helen handed Sally a towel. It was thick, fresh, and fragrant.

  “Breakfast is on the table downstairs. When you’re ready.”

  When the door closed, leaving her alone once more, Sally released a long breath that she hadn’t realized she was holding.

  After drying off, Sally looked around for her clothes. Her jeans and T-shirt were gone, as was her dainty undergarments. In their place was a simple white dress with buttons running up the bodice and a pair of pedestrian, plain white granny panties. Flat-soled, white leather slip-ons lay on the floor to finish the virginal look.

  Neat trick, she thought to herself. Either dress like they want or go naked.

  Sally slipped into the dress and studied herself in the mirror. With her shock white hair, pale complexion, and white dress, she looked like a ghost.

  Not surprisingly, she felt like one, too.

  Breakfast consisted of a bowl of powerfully chewy oatmeal with a miserly sprinkle of brown sugar and raisins, fresh orange juice, a soft-boiled egg served in an eggcup, and multigrain toast. The toast was buttered and sliced into fingers just the right size to dip into the egg yolk.

  Sally tried to hide her enthusiasm for the food, but she was too famished.

  Helen beamed at her as she ate.

  “That’s the spirit,” she said. “You’ll need your strength.”

  “Why?” Sally asked between bites of crunchy, yolk-soaked toast.

  “We’re having a special ceremony this afternoon. The first of its kind since your mother passed.”

  Sally stopped eating and wiped her mouth. “You knew my mother?”

  “Of course, she was my sister-in-law. Your father was my husband’s brother.”

  “What was she like?”

  Helen’s mouth formed a tight line. “I’m sure you knew her as well as anyone.”

  “But I didn’t,” Sally blurted. “I mean… I don’t remember. My entire childhood is a blur.” Sally’s eyes narrowed. “Didn’t you like her?”

  Helen bristled. “Your mother was very likable, dear. Everyone misses her greatly as we do your father.”

  “Why did he do it?” Sally asked in a small voice. “Why did he kill my mother?”

  Helen busied herself at the sink, turning her back in an effort to hide the
flush that burned her cheeks.

  “We’ll never know,” she answered curtly. “Now finish your breakfast before it gets cold.”

  Sally dipped another bread soldier into the soft yolk and changed tactics. “What kind of ceremony are you planning?”

  Helen turned back around. Her eyes were closed in reverential memory, and her mouth had formed a beatific smile.

  “You’ll speak for the dead, Salvation. You’ll lead them through death’s door, and you’ll bring back the word of God.”

  41

  Kameelah called Jersey over to the computer to look at several news pages Sister Fleur had bookmarked in her web browser.

  “She viewed these articles numerous times over the last few months,” Kameelah explained.

  Jersey pulled over a small wooden stool and scooted close to the screen. The first page contained a short article published in the Spokesman-Review that was a follow-up to an earlier story about the body of a young woman discovered on the banks of the Spokane River. There were few details except the woman’s identification being officially released, and a disturbing passage that read:

  Spokane investigators are still refusing to verify one witness’s report that the victim was missing both eyes and her throat had been torn open, “Like she was attacked by a wolf. A human wolf.”

  “This reporter’s working for the wrong paper,” said Jersey. “National Enquirer should pick him up.”

  Kameelah switched to a second page. This one was a news story published in the Idaho Statesman. It was dated eight weeks ago. Another young woman had been murdered and her body dumped on the banks of Snake River in Idaho Falls.

  Kameelah pointed to the relevant section:

  Police are refusing to speculate at this time on a possible connection with the unsolved murder of a woman discovered on the banks of Spokane River six months earlier.

  When confronted by this reporter about grisly similarities in the two cases, Chief Sydney Charles did admit he was very concerned “by the removal of the victim’s eyes. That tells us we’re dealing with a real animal here.”

  “Same reporter?” Jersey asked.

  Kameelah scrolled up to check the byline and nodded. “Must have switched papers.”

  “Which means there could easily be other victims with the same M.O. The only reason there’s a connection between these two is because our boy was on the scene to see the damage or interview witnesses who did. Cops in other jurisdictions could be keeping the eye removal quiet.”

  “Standard procedure,” said Kameelah. “Keep something back to rule out false confessions.”

  “But why was a nun so interested in these two cases?”

  “The victims are both females in their early thirties,” said Kameelah. “Same as Sally.”

  Jersey paled. “If this killer has been searching for Sally, maybe these women were false leads. He could have been fumbling in the dark until Sister Fleur’s voice led him here. She was the missing key.”

  “But why remove the eyes?”

  Jersey pinched the bridge of flesh between his eyebrows. “Did I tell you about Sally’s…” He paused. “What Sally claimed she saw after touching the victim in the alley?”

  “Claimed she saw?”

  Jersey squirmed. “She said it was like a vision, or a dream or something. She saw the murder through the victim’s eyes as if it was happening to her. That’s how she knew the car’s license plate.”

  “Like a psychic?”

  “I guess. It’s tough for me to digest, but I… well, I know that she believed…”

  Kameelah knit her brow, the unexpected wrinkles like ripples on a calm lake of unfathomable depth. “Okay” she said after a few moments. “What if Sally’s ability is the reason she’s been kidnapped. If these two dead women were false leads like you said, removing their eyes could be a form of punishment for not having the gift.”

  Jersey took it to its logical conclusion. “Which means if Sally can’t repeat her vision trick, she could be next.”

  42

  Sally stood by the window and watched through a gap in the curtains as a steady procession of some two dozen cars and minivans drove down the long gravel driveway to park side by side in a small meadow in front of the compound. The meadow was separated from the main road beyond by a thick copse of red cedar and occasional silver maple.

  The maples were beginning to lose some of their leaves, flashes of fishing-lure silver as they lost their grip, spun and fell; a sure sign of the oncoming winter.

  Smiling faces, young and old, emerged from the cars to greet one another. The children laughed and ran around with friends from other vehicles as though they had been trapped inside for days; the men shook hands and shared jokes; the women hugged and showed off baked goods they had brought on best china plates and covered in clear plastic.

  The men wore suits in dark shades. The women wore long-sleeve dresses with high collars and sensible shoes; older women added hand-knit or crocheted shawls to ward off the chill. All the children were in their Sunday best with teeth brushed, hair combed, and shoes polished.

  Sally watched them through the glass, wondering if they knew she had been brought here against her will, if one of them might help her return to her own life.

  “They know who you are,” said Helen softly as she approached from the kitchen. “They’ve been waiting for you a long, long time.”

  Sally turned from the window. “I don’t understand. This isn’t my home, it isn’t my church, and it’s not my life.”

  “Of course it is, child. You were chosen by God to house this gift, just as your mother before you and her mother before her.”

  “But I’ve tried to tell you, I don’t have a gift,” Sally protested. “And my mother—”

  “You were too young to remember,” interrupted Helen. “But your mother was very gifted. She delivered to us great news and great joy.”

  Sally’s frustration bubbled to the surface. “I work with the dead every day in the funeral home, and I’ve never received a single vision.”

  Helen’s smile never faltered. “Of course not. Their souls were long gone by the time their bodies reached you. How can you follow a soul if it’s not there? It’s like answering the phone after the caller has hung up.”

  “Are you listening to yourself?” Sally stomped her foot like a frustrated toddler. “I don’t want any part of this, don’t you understand that?”

  Helen lost her smile and her face grew dark. “It’s your destiny, child.”

  “Screw my destiny.” Sally jammed her fists against her hips and glared at the woman in petulant defiance.

  “That,” said the booming voice of the barrel-chested priest as he rounded the corner to join them, “is not an option.”

  Sally stared into the priest’s stern face and raw honey-amber eyes. She saw the snake slither within his flesh, and she recoiled.

  The priest held out his hand. “Come. The congregation is waiting.”

  Sally was led through the kitchen, out the back door, and into a large courtyard that spread itself around the uniquely shaped church in its center.

  The building had the appearance of a funnel turned upside down but with its erect tail snipped short. The main circular base was painted white like the large homes that dominated each corner of the acreage, but every few feet a curved rib of smooth red cedar flowed from the ground to the edge of the roof. The walls between each rib were constructed from dozens of angled slats, like window shutters, that would allow light and air to enter while maintaining complete privacy from anyone trying to look in from more than a couple of feet away.

  The distinctive roof had a hand-woven quality to it and sat atop the base like a bamboo Chinese peasant hat, but with its peak cut open to form a chimney. White smoke puffed from the opening.

  As Sally was escorted across the courtyard, she noticed the well-tended gardens and peaceful calm of the walled commune. Each house had its own garage, garden shed, and private patio surrounded by a sma
ll patch of lawn and flower garden. The open areas between the houses were dotted with communal vegetable beds, large greenhouses, and multiple flower gardens designed with a commercial, rather than esthetic, purpose.

  The sound of grinding metal caused Sally to glance behind her. The two massive doors that led into the courtyard from the meadow shuddered slightly under mechanical pressure and began to swing closed.

  A man operating the machinery looked in her direction and waved, but Sally didn’t believe the gesture was intended for her.

  The burly priest holding Sally’s arm tightened his grip and steered her away from the church’s front doors. Helen followed obediently behind as they skirted around the side of the building to an unobtrusive opening set into the concrete foundation at the rear.

  The priest led Sally down a short flight of steps and through a wooden door into a brightly lit cellar. Apart from a few boxes pushed to the sides and assorted junk hanging from the curved walls, the basement was bare. On the floor, however, were two circular platforms of polished wood.

  The priest led Sally to the circle positioned in the epicenter of the room and helped her step onto the shallow platform.

  “Don’t move,” he said. “Mother will tell you what to expect.”

  The priest then moved to the smaller circle closer to the rear of the basement and pressed a button on the wall. His platform rose upon a silent steel pedestal until he vanished through a hole in the ceiling.

  43

  Father Black ascended from a hole in the floor and studied his audience gathered in the round.

  Spread out in a horseshoe around him, faces were beaming as excitement buzzed like a swarm of caffeinated bees.

  These were his children, his followers, his family. And they were hungry for the Word.

  Father Black stared at the burning wood fire contained within a massive cast-iron bowl in front of him. He grinned wide; the cat with the newborn bunny, milk-fed and blind.

  They had been waiting twenty-five years for this moment. Twenty-five years of fumbling in the dark, praying for the guiding light.

  It was time to tell his congregation that the long wait was over.