Speak the Dead

by Grant McKenzie

  “What are you—”

  Sally halted in mid-sentence as the prayers ended and the church became as silent as a tomb. She turned to the audience, but all eyes were on—

  Aedan strode behind the two kneeling parishioners and raised the knife above his head. The sharp steel reflected the blood-red glow of the crackling fire overhead.

  Father Black raised his hands to the ceiling in capitulation as Aedan grabbed the toothless old man by what was left of his hair, yanked back his head and gamely slit his throat.

  Sally screamed so loud her lungs threatened to burst as a fountain of blood splashed over the altar and across her white dress.

  Members of the congregation leapt to their feet in celebration, their communal prayer erupting into an even louder chant than before.

  Aedan grabbed the arm of the terrified elderly woman before she could run. Foaming saliva spilled from the woman’s mouth as she stared up at the monster in black.

  “We’re going on holidays,” she sobbed.

  As Aedan repeated his gruesome task, a chorus of “Hallelujah” and “Praise God” erupted from the congregation.

  Sally vomited her breakfast across the floor as she struggled to get away from the flow of blood, but her ankle was cuffed tight to the floor and the chain only stretched a short way.

  After laying the bodies across the altar, Aedan whipped off his hangman’s mask and returned to Sally. He grabbed her by the arms.

  “It’s your turn.”

  Sally squirmed and cried and—

  She looked at Aedan’s face; his deformity was gone. Somehow, he had been miraculously cured and, yet, he looked more horrifying than ever.

  Sally pleaded, “Let me go.”

  Ignoring her pleas, Aedan forced Sally down to her knees in front of the altar. The floor was awash in blood, the victims’ slit throats having filled the basin to overflowing.

  “Follow the souls,” Aedan said. “Tell us what you find.”

  Sally screamed again as Aedan plunged her hands into the trough of warm, fresh blood.

  46

  In the basin of blood, Sally’s hands entangled with the dead and a blinding light flared in her mind.

  She felt the knife blade slicing across her throat; the sharp agony of ripping muscle and sinew; the suffocating loss of blood rushing from her body; the sleepiness of death; the longing to hold on; to never let go…

  Two minds merged with her own… two journeys… one path… the light began to clear and beyond it she saw…

  when sally opened her eyes, Helen was cradling her head in her lap. They were still in the church and the bloodthirsty congregation was watching in rapt silence.

  Sally tried to push herself up from the floor, but the wood was slick with blood and Helen’s grip was too strong. She groaned. “What’s wrong with you people?”

  Helen stroked Sally’s hair. “What did you see, dear? Tell us what you learned.”

  “It was horrible,” Sally gasped. “I felt you murder them. Don’t you people understand? You cut their—”

  “What did you see in the light?” Helen hissed. “Did The Almighty speak to you? Did He impart a secret?”

  Sally lurched into a sitting position and angrily shook off Helen’s grip. “There’s nothing there! Okay? Nothing but death and pain and—”

  Helen slapped her across the face as a female member of the congregation screamed and fainted. Sally’s eyes burned with hatred as she recognized the woman who had led her own mother down the aisle to an execution.

  “Concentrate, child,” urged Helen. “You were with them as they traveled to the light. Tell us what you saw.”

  But Sally refused to say another word.

  47

  Jersey poured himself a fresh coffee and gazed out a smog-streaked window at the blocky, faceless buildings that made up Virginia Street. A good ten blocks from the scenic Puget Sound waterfront, Seattle’s West Precinct was a glass-sided rowboat stuck in a turbulent sea of concrete and tarmac.

  Serving a downtown population of around seventy-six thousand spread over twelve square miles, the busy police bunker felt sadly too much like home. Even the posters and notices stuck on the wall beside the coffee pot bore an uncanny resemblance to the ones back in Portland.

  One notice in particular made him laugh. It was a candid snap of a young, rebellious looking character cradling a camera and sticking out his tongue. He was identified as Tom Hackett and the word Prick was scribbled over his face in red pen. Next to it was a newspaper clipping showing a photograph of a police officer being elbowed in the face by a protester at a recent rally. The photographer had perfectly captured the moment of agony as sharp bone broke the officer’s nose in a spray of blood. Jersey leaned closer to read the photo credit and grinned when he saw Hackett’s name. Prick indeed.

  Kameelah pushed open the glass door to the lunchroom, a puzzled frown creasing her otherwise flawless face.

  “I just received a phone call.”

  “The nurse?”

  “No,” said Kameelah. “The nun.”

  The nun with the face like Seventies corduroy opened the front door to the Mission of the Immaculate Heart and ushered the two detectives inside.

  “Thank you for returning,” said Sister Gillian. “Sister Mary Theresa has received an unusual email that appears to have been sent by Sister Fleur.”

  “The unconscious Sister Fleur?” Jersey clarified.

  “Mmmm, precisely.”

  The nun led them down the narrow corridor to the intersecting hub of the cross-shaped building, and then right to a long row of offices.

  As they passed open doors, Jersey saw groups of nuns, both young and old, dressed in casual clothing and busy typing on computers. Each of them wore a headscarf of robin egg blue.

  At the end of the hallway, they came to a closed office door. Sister Gillian knocked, waited a moment, and then ushered them inside.

  Sitting behind a desk, practically hidden by an impressive widescreen computer monitor and backlit by a large picture window overlooking a spacious garden, Sister Mary Theresa beamed at the detectives with such voltage, Jersey wondered if she was under the impression they had brought her a cake.

  “Ah, welcome, welcome.”

  The nun leapt from her chair and came around the desk to greet them. Her energy was electric.

  Dressed in full habit, bib collar, and impenetrable blue dress, Sister Mary Theresa grabbed Jersey’s hand in a firm grip and gave it a powerful shake. She then moved to Kameelah and said, “Do you mind?” as she opened her arms.

  Kameelah shook her head, though her eyes grew wide as the nun lunged forward to give her a big hug.

  When the nun stepped back, she said to Kameelah, “You are so very pretty. How did you ever get into this violent business?”

  “I could ask the same of you,” said Kameelah.

  Sister Mary Theresa brushed away the rejoinder. “You’re a helper. I can tell by your soul. So kind and full and generous.” She turned to Jersey. “And you. You’re just too gentle for this work. I can see right past your armor to the very heart of you, and it’s devouring you. Right…” she stepped closer and laid a hand over his soft stomach “… there.”

  “U-uh.” Jersey stammered.

  “You need to exercise more and watch your diet—especially salt,” continued the nun. “The stress will kill you. Do you have hobbies?”

  Jersey nodded as the nun rested her hip on the edge of the desk and folded her arms. A small curl of unusually vibrant yellow hair had escaped her white headscarf.

  “Hobbies are good. They help us put life in perspective. I like to grow tomatoes. Don’t I, Sister Gillian?”

  The wrinkled nun who had escorted them to the office nodded vigorously.

  “I love tomatoes,” Sister Mary Theresa continued. “Beefsteak, Cherry, Plum, Marmande, Oxheart… have you ever tasted a Cherokee Purple? I love them raw, in pasta and salads, on toasted bread with aged white cheddar, but I especially love them in s
oup. Do you know how I make the most wonderful tomato soup?”

  “We were told you had an email,” said Kameelah.

  The nun’s eyes twinkled and her lips twitched in an amused grin.

  “So pretty,” she said, “but so sad.”

  “Can we see the email?” Jersey asked.

  “Of course.”

  Sister Mary Theresa led them around the desk to look over her shoulder at an iMac with a twenty-seven inch screen.

  “It appears to have come from an automated Internet relay service,” explained the nun. “Probably triggered when Sister Fleur failed to log onto their site to reset the countdown. I’m guessing she had to log in once a week.”

  She called up the email and the detectives read:

  Dear Sister Mary Theresa:

  If you are reading this, then I am either missing, dead, or injured in such a way that I can no longer communicate.

  I have always feared this day would come, and I only pray this reaches you in time to save the woman under my protection.

  The attached file will give you everything you need to find her. Please take her to one of our sister missions and hide her from those who wish to use her for purposes our Lord would never condone.

  Yours in spiritual devotion,

  Sister Fleur.

  “Can you print off the attachment?” asked Jersey.

  The nun turned to a printer on the desk beside her and pulled out a sheaf of papers. “Already done.”

  Jersey took the papers from her hand and looked at the top sheet. It contained a candid black-and-white photo of a young woman with a troubled smile.

  “That who you’re looking for?” asked Kameelah.

  Jersey nodded. “She’s younger in this photo, but it’s definitely Sally.”

  Sister Mary Theresa looked up from her computer. “The report says her birth name is Salvation Blue and she was raised in a small community outside New Town, North Dakota. However, it appears she was living…”

  The nun continued to speak, but Jersey was no longer listening. He was too busy heading for the door.

  “Hold up!” Kameelah grabbed onto Jersey’s arm in the long hallway of the mission that led to the main doors. “Where are you going?”

  “North Dakota.”

  “Why? What makes you think she’s there?”

  “When she called me, she was in Spokane. It makes sense that whoever took her is taking her back home. You read the email. Sister Fleur said she’s in danger. Sally wanted me to know where she was.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “This isn’t your case.”

  Kameelah bristled. “Some son-of-a-bitch murders a nun and batters another on my patch. Damn rights it’s my case.”

  Jersey squeezed the knot of flesh between his eyebrows. “Sally’s safety comes first and…” He hesitated. “And I can’t promise I’ll do everything by the book.”

  Kameelah raised her eyebrows. “You mean you’re making this personal?”

  “Yes.”

  “Well, good. That makes two of us.”

  48

  Father Black stormed around the kitchen, kicking chairs and denting table legs as he fumed.

  “You made me look a fool,” he yelled at Aedan. “You swore she had the sight.”

  “She does,” Aedan challenged. “You saw for yourself at the altar. She blanked out for at least five minutes. She was with them on the Journey. She saw—”

  “How could she have walked the path?” Father Black argued. “How could she bathe in the Lord’s light and then refuse to tell us?”

  “She’s scared,” said Helen. She stood on the other side of the heavy kitchen table, keeping it between herself and her husband’s temper. “It was too soon.”

  “Too soon?” White foam flew from the corners of the preacher’s mouth. “I’ve waited twenty-five years for—”

  “We need to win her over,” said Helen. “Show her we’re family. She didn’t even know she had the gift. I told you that, but oh, no, you—”

  “Win her over?” Father Black tore at his hair, his eyes bulging. “Win her over?” He yanked the white collar from around his throat and threw it on the floor. “Florence just about had a heart attack in her seat when that witch said there was nothing. Nothing! She sacrificed her mother for the Journey because she believed in our ways, believed in my sermons.”

  “Her belief hasn’t changed,” soothed Helen. “She’ll understand—”

  Father Black took another swing at a toppled wooden chair, sending it soaring across the kitchen floor to smash into an industrial-sized baker’s oven. It missed Aedan’s leg by inches, but he didn’t flinch in the slightest.

  “We’ve told the congregation we’re bringing them proof of the Word. Proof that the Journey leads to a better life. We live by that faith. And if this witch is going to rebel like her whore of a mother did, then we’ll need to find another way.”

  “I’ve sent her cousin up—” Helen was cut off.

  “There is no other way.” Aedan stepped forward to face his father. “Salvation is our only link to the Journey. We need to make her tell us what she saw.”

  “And how do we do that?” asked Father Black.

  Aedan’s eyes narrowed. “We don’t give her any other choice.”

  49

  Sally lay curled in a bloody ball beneath her bedroom window, sobbing. Her captors hadn’t allowed her to stop and wash when they dragged her back to the house and locked her in the upstairs room.

  Her white dress was such a mess of congealing gore she could barely find enough clean material to wipe her bloody hands, arms, and face. The cloying smell was so overwhelming it was making her head spin, but after vomiting at the church, her stomach was empty.

  She heard the lock in the door being turned and, fearing a beating, curled into a tighter ball. The door opened and closed almost instantly, the lock quickly re-engaged.

  Curious, Sally opened one eye to see a girl of no more than fifteen. She was standing by the door, studying the room behind glasses so thick and round they made her eyes bulge. Her face was a near perfect oval except for a flat chin. She also had a tiny button nose, dark bushy eyebrows, and a flush of pink in each chubby cheek. Her lips were thin and her mouth looked too large for her face. Someone had made her wear an unflatteringly plain white dress.

  When the girl noticed Sally’s one-eyed gaze, her mouth opened in a wide grin that curved higher on one side than the other.

  “Hel…lo,” she said.

  Her speech was slightly garbled and as she walked closer, the distinct signs of Down Syndrome became more apparent.

  “What ha… ha… happened to you?” The girl’s words were spoken carefully, each one formed and released before the next left her lips. “You are… dir… dir… messy.”

  Sally slowly uncurled her limbs and sat up. She brushed a matt of tangled hair from in front of her eyes, blanching at the sight of her fingers stained with dried blood.

  “I had an accident,” she said carefully. “Who are you?”

  The girl moved closer, but became distracted by the window.

  “You can see… see… the gardens,” she said as she moved beside Sally and looked out. “That is… nice.”

  “Yes,” said Sally. “What’s your name?”

  The girl turned her back to the window and plunked herself down on the floor beside Sally where she began to smooth the wrinkles out of her white dress.

  “I am April,” she said. “I have a friend… May… and I have a friend… June. Isn’atfunny?” She laughed at her own joke.

  “That is funny,” said Sally. “Do you live here?”

  “No. Just… visit.”

  “Who sent you in here to talk to me?”

  “Mother told me… your name is Sally. You lived here a loooong time ago… whenyouwere… little.” April scrunched up her nose. “Mother isn’ my mom, but I… I… tol’to call her Mo… Mother. Isn’atfunny?”

  “That is,” agreed Sally. �
��Why did Mother send you?”

  April shrugged. “I was playing in the garden. I saw… carrots. Baby ones. Doyoulike… carrots?”

  Sally nodded.

  April wrinkled her nose again. “Your dress is stinky.”

  Despite herself, Sally laughed. “It is. I’m sorry.”

  “That okay.” April turned her head and looked into Sally’s eyes. She frowned and tilted her head slightly to one side. Then she beamed. “There you are.” She lifted her finger to point. “You were… hiding.”

  Sally was taken aback. “What do you—”

  The lock turned and the door swung open to reveal Helen. She had her arms crossed firmly over her bosom and the crimson flush in her face was a disturbingly mottled hue. Her eyes were red, too, as though she had been crying.

  “Hel… lo, Mother,” said April in a sing-song chant.

  “Hello, April. Should we take Sally for a bath now?”

  “Oh, yes.” April clipped two fingers onto her nose. “Stinky.”

  While April sat on the toilet lid, looking out the small window and humming a familiar church hymn, Sally filled the bathtub and stripped off her ruined dress. Her pale skin was a canvas of blotchy pink and red from the blood that had soaked through. Her left arm was also noticeably bruised in the shape of fingers from Aedan’s grip as he dragged her from the church.

  Helen took the soiled dress without a word and closed the bathroom door behind her.

  “Bye, bye,” said April before returning to her hymn. Sally recognized it as Jesus Loves Me.

  When the bath was ready, Sally dumped her granny panties into a wicker hamper and climbed into the tub. The water was scalding, but Sally relished the heat.

  She began to scrub herself clean, using a loofa the size of a rolled-up magazine and a thick bar of unscented soap that appeared to be homemade by someone with no passion or joy for the art. Her skin protested the rough treatment, but Sally wanted every molecule of the blood removed.

  Tears began to flow again as she thought of the madness in the church and recalled the feel of the knife blade against her throat, the sharp edge slicing through her skin, muscles tearing, her windpipe…