by Tim Waggoner
She steered Dale out of the entranceway and into the front hall. The walls and floors were made of wood so highly polished that it gleamed. A series of small chandeliers hung from the ceiling, lighting the way. They appeared to use real candles instead of candleflame-shaped bulbs, but though their lights flickered like fire, the white wax of the candles themselves showed no sign of melting. The air was filled with intermingled scents that made Dale think of an exotic spice market in some small desert country with an unpronounceable name. The precise make-up of the smells changed as they walked — stronger with jasmine here, patchouli there, now sandalwood … with each breath he took he felt his pulse slow, his breathing even out, his lightheadedness recede. Weariness subsided as strength and alertness began to return. Perhaps it was merely an effect of his relief at escaping the Beast. But he didn’t think so.
They passed no doors as they traveled down the hall, and it seemed to Dale that they walked a long time until they finally reached an open doorway near the end of the hall on the right. He no longer needed the raven-haired sylph’s support to walk, but she didn’t remove her hand from his own and he wasn’t inclined to encourage her to do so just yet. She led him into the room, and as soon as he stepped across the threshold he felt as if he’d taken a sledgehammer blow to the gut. This wasn’t a parlor. It was the living room of the first house he and Marianne had bought back in Chicago, right after Alice was born. The same second-hand couch Marianne’s mother had given them, sorely in need of reupholstering, the same wooden floor, creaky and worn smooth by the previous occupants, nothing like the gleaming wood in the hall outside. Same floor lamp with tacky tassels on the shade — a wedding present from Dale’s grandmother — same TV, same picture window with the same hideous red velour curtains inflicted on them by Marianne’s great aunt …
His thoughts stalled for a minute as he saw through the window not Eve’s apple trees, but rather streetlights, passing cars, and on opposite side of the street, the Kolzinskis’ house. He suddenly felt light-headed again, and he wondered if that was why the sylph had continued holding onto his arm, because she had known what he’d see in here and how he would react.
She escorted him to the couch and helped him sit. It seemed smaller than he remembered, but the groaning protests of the old springs were the same.
“Wait here. I’ll go see if Miss Eve is available.” She gave him a parting smile that was half amused, half sympathetic, and then left.
He sat, breathing in the familiar odors of frying bacon and brewing coffee. Marianne’s bacon and coffee. He heard the sizzle of meat, the burble of water being heated, the sound of a baby whimpering softly, followed by a gentle, “Hush now,” spoken in a voice he hadn’t heard in twenty years. He turned toward the open doorway that led to the kitchen, tears welling in his eyes, for he knew then that time hadn’t blurred his memory, and his wife’s voice was just as he remembered it. The living room astonished him, made him question his sanity, but it was still easier to deal with than that doorway. As miraculous as it was, the living room contained only memories in the form of furnishings. But the doorway to the kitchen … if what he heard through it was real,then Marianne was in there, Alice too. If he got up from the couch, walked over to the doorway and stepped into the kitchen, where would he find himself? Reunited with his wife and daughter in a world that had been dead for decades, or would he be standing in another room in Eve’s house, the illusion of the past dispelled? And if somehow he could rejoin Marianne and Alice, would he still be a man in his sixties, or would he return to his young adulthood physically as well as temporally? Youthful once more, his whole life ahead of him, his wife and child at his side.
He started to rise from the couch when the black-haired girl in the red gown returned. He settled back down with a pang of regret as she walked over to the couch and sat next to him. The springs didn’t make a sound beneath her, but then she was so petite she probably didn’t weigh enough to dimple the cushion, let alone compress the springs.
“I’m sorry to inform you that Miss Eve is engaged in entertaining another visitor at the moment. But I will be most happy to take care of you myself. As we say here at the Garden of Unearthly Delights, your pleasure is our life.”
She smiled — not in a lascivious way, but gently, with sincerity — and placed her small doll hand over his. The ivory color of his skin made him think her touch would be cold, but it was surprisingly warm. An event most rare occurred then. Dale Ramsey, lifelong reporter, found himself struggling to find words.
“I … how … this room …”
Her gaze showed understanding. “Everyone reacts like this. It’s only natural. But yes, it’s real.” She nodded toward the window. “All of it. But it’s not just the room that’s important, Mr. Ramsey. It’s the day.”
At first Dale didn’t know what the girl was referring to, but then a numbing terror clasped his heart with icy claws, and he understood. The girl continued talking, and while her voice now seemed far distant, he had no trouble making out every word.
“You left for work early that day, skipping breakfast so you could meet with a source at a diner downtown. The story you were working on wasn’t all that important for a big city like Chicago — allegations of financial mismanagement at a small charitable arts organization. Allegations were unfounded, as it turned out. But there were no small stories as far as you were concerned, were there? You were young and ambitious, a would-be crusading reporter determined to save the world one word at a time.”
Dale detected a new scent mixed with the smells of coffee and bacon, an acrid tang that stung the back of his throat.
“You hadn’t wanted to get a gas stove, but your wife insisted. She said they were easier to cook on, that food prepared on them tasted better, that her own mother had never used anything but a gas stove. You were very much in love and wanted to please her, but you still had your misgivings. You were a reporter, and even at so young an age, you’d seen much of the darker side of life. One tragedy after another … accidents, murders, scandals, betrayals … a random series of meaningless events that convinced you the universe was indifferent at best and maliciously cruel at worst. You used to joke that you didn’t think the glass was half empty. You weren’t even sure there was a glass.”
The odor of gas grew stronger, until Dale could no longer smell the bacon or coffee. His throat felt thick and swollen, and every breath became an effort.
“If you hadn’t left early that morning, you’d have been there when the stove exploded. You might have been able to keep your wife and daughter from dying in the fire that resulted, and failing that, you could have at least shared their fate. But you didn’t find out until several hours later, when you stopped in at the office and your managing editor took you aside to tell you what had happened.”
The smell of gas was overwhelming now, and Dale felt dizzy and sick to his stomach.
“You can stand up and walk into the kitchen, Mr. Ramsey. You can turn off the burners on the stove before it explodes. You can save Marianne and Alice.” A pause, one that seemed heavy with hidden meaning. “If that’s your desire.”
Dale’s gaze was fixed on the kitchen doorway, and though he wanted nothing more than to leap off the couch and run to the aid of his wife and daughter, there was a question he had to ask first. “Is this real? If I go in there, if I save them, will …” He couldn’t bring himself to complete the sentence.
The girl finished for him. “Will the past be changed? Will the fire have never happened? Will you have continued your life as a reporter in Chicago, watching Alice grow up, Marianne by your side? Yes and no. The past will remain the same in what most people consider the real world. But things will be different for you, Mr. Ramsey. You and you alone.”
Dale tried to speak, coughed, tried again. “It won’t be real.”
“It will seem real. Isn’t that almost as good?”
Dale was tempted — God, was he tempted! — but how could he abandon Joanne and retreat into an il
lusion of the past merely to ease his loneliness and guilt? Was that the kind of man he was? The kind of man Marianne and Alice would want him to be?
He looked once more toward the kitchen doorway, suppressed his tears, and turned his attention back to the girl. Dale struggled to choke out a single word. It was the most difficult thing he’d ever done in his life.
“No.”
The girl shrugged, and at once the smell of gas was gone, along with the scents of bacon and coffee, and the sounds of Marianne and Alice in the kitchen. The silence came near to breaking Dale’s heart. He told himself that they hadn’t been real, that none of it had, but it didn’t matter. Real or not, losing them again still hurt like hell. But painful as it was, Dale fought to push his feelings aside. He could deal with them later. Right now he had work to do.
His throat felt normal again, and he was relieved to find himself able to speak easily once more. “I came here for information. A friend of mine suggested Eve might be able to help.”
“As you wish. Our only purpose is to satisfy your desires, whatever they might be. We can supply the information you seek … if you can afford to pay the price.” She said this last part matter-of-factly, but her ice-blue eyes shone with a cold, calculating light. He’d seen eyes like that before. Marshall had them, as did Lenora. All pure-bred Crosses had them.
“You’re Eve,” he said.
Much, if not all, of the coldness left her gaze and she smiled with genuine joy. “Very good, Mr. Ramsey. I thought you might guess the truth.”
Dale had never visited the Garden before, but he wasn’t surprised Eve knew who he was. Gleaning that bit of information had to be ridiculously simple for someone who could see into the hidden recesses of his heart and bring his most secret desire — or at least an illusion of it — to life.
“Why the pretense?” he asked.
“It keeps me from having to explain why a woman as old as I am looks the way I do.”
“So it’s true. You are Althea’s sister.”
Eve nodded. “Her fraternal twin, actually. She could do all this too, if she wished. But she keeps herself cut off from others for the most part, preferring to implement her convoluted schemes from her mausoleum of a home, using my nephew as her agent. As for me, I just want to make people happy. That’s why long ago I left Sanctity and came here. So I could live the way I wished and use my abilities for the benefit of others.”
“At a price.”
A sly gleam came into her eyes. “Perhaps I’m not quite as selfless as I make myself out to be.”
“I saw the vehicles parked outside. Are your other … clients being entertained by the rest of your staff?”
“I have no staff. My garden has only one tender. Me. And my other visitors are enjoying themselves elsewhere in the house. Forget about them. We’re here to focus solely on your needs. You seek information.”
“Yes.”
“And you’re willing to pay for it?”
Dale didn’t like the way she said the word pay. It seemed to contain far too many connotations for his comfort. But he answered yes.
“I always tell my visitors the complete cost up front. Nothing hidden, no tricks. Your price is this place, Dale.” She gestured to indicate the living room.
He frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“The memory of it. In exchange for the information you want, you will surrender the memory of the morning Marianne and Alice died. You won’t forget that it occurred, of course. But the sensory details — Alice’s laugh as you tickled her under the chin, Marianne’s lips pressed against yours as you kissed her goodbye for the last time — these will be gone. Forever. No matter how hard you try, you’ll never be able to recall these details again.”
Dale’s gaze flicked to the kitchen doorway. He thought about it, thought hard. Eve sat patiently, not speaking, not moving, her too-warm hand still resting on his, but he barely felt her touch. Long ago, he’d made a promise to protect Joanne and help her in the performance of her duty — not her job as sheriff but her true duty — and he would not break that promise. Marianne and Alice wouldn’t want him to.
“I’ll pay.”
Eve showed neither approval nor disapproval. She lifted her hand off Dale’s and rose from the couch. “Done,” she said.
Dale expected to feel a sudden hollowness inside him as his memories vanished, with the room perhaps collapsing into dust around them as a visual metaphor for what he had lost. But nothing happened.
“Don’t look so disappointed,” she teased. “The room will remain exactly as it is until we leave it.” She turned her back to Dale, reached around, and began to pull down the zipper of her red dress.
“Uh, you did hear me say I want information, right?”
She didn’t reply, and a second later her dress fell to the floor with soft whisper of cloth. Eve stood naked before him, her petite body sleek and well formed. But the most striking feature was the large tattoo stretching from her upper back all the way down to her smooth, rounded buttocks. It was a design done in lines of lines of black, and it began moving, swirling slowly on her flesh, beginning as a mandala, morphing into a spider’s web, becoming a pattern of jagged fissures like cracks in a pane of glass. The effect was hypnotic, and Dale felt drawn toward the changing design, almost as if it were trying to pull him in. Without realizing it, he leaned forward until he was sitting on the edge of the couch. He almost reached out to touch the tattoo when Eve’s voice broke the spell.
“Tell me what you want to know.”
“Who is Carl Coulter’s real father?”
As Dale watched, the lines of ink beneath the surface of Eve’s skin bent, twisted, and reformed until they resolved into the image of a man’s face. Dale stared at it for several seconds before speaking.
“Well, that’s interesting.”
“I take it that you’re satisfied,” Eve said. Still keeping her back to him, she knelt down to retrieve her dress and slipped it over her small, slender frame.
“Zip me?” she asked.
Dale stood and did as she requested. Now that he knew who and what she was, she remained as beautiful and exotic as ever, but in a cold, remote way, as if she were a magnificent piece of artwork — a statue or painting — instead of a living woman. When Dale finished, she turned around to face him, and he said, “You couldn’t see the answer to my question, but do you know it anyway?”
“My sister and I may have different philosophies regarding our roles in the county, but we still talk from time to time.”
It wasn’t an answer, but Dale sensed it was all the reply he was going to get. But he had the information he’d come for, so he decided not to press the issue. Not that he could’ve persuaded Eve to tell him more if she didn’t wish to.
“We are finished here, and I have other visitors to attend to. I’ll see you out.” She started toward the parlor’s doorway and Dale followed. “One more thing. Don’t look back as we leave. Trust me. It’ll be easier that way.”
She stepped out into the hallway, and as Dale neared the threshold, he sensed more than saw the objects in his old living room begin to deform, to lose shape and substance. Heeding Eve’s advice, he kept his gaze focused straight ahead and didn’t look back as the Garden of Unearthly Delights accepted his payment.
Eve led him back to the entryway in silence. The halls no longer smelled like spices, and Dale wondered if that was because his visit was over and he was no longer welcome. He grieved for his lost memories of Marianne and Alice, but his grief was leavened somewhat by the knowledge he’d gained from Eve. He was still trying to sort out all the implications of this latest revelation when they reached the front door, and he remembered what waited for him on the other side.
As Eve reached for the doorknob, he grabbed her wrist to stop her.
“I have a problem.”
“No, you don’t. All my visitors enjoy my protection.” She pulled away from his grip and opened the door.
The Black Beast lay on th
e front porch, head resting on its paws. Its eyes snapped open and it sprang to its feet, a threatening growl rumbling deep within its throat.
“Hush now,” Eve said, gently but firmly. “You’ve had your fun.” She stepped onto the porch without hesitation, and Dale wanted to reach out and pull her back to safety. But though the Black Beast continued growling, it didn’t attack her.
Eve placed her hand on the creature’s head, as if it were no more than a dog that wanted to be petted. The thing fixed her with a baleful glare and displayed long, sharp teeth, but it still made no move to harm her. Eve kept her hand on the Beast’s head, and slowly it stopped snarling and the growls tapered away to nothing.
“Beauty hath charms,” Dale murmured.
Eve smiled. “You don’t know the half of it.”
The Beast began to whine, and Dale saw a shadowy substance begin to flow up Eve’s fingers. The black stuff picked up speed, sliding over her hand and crawling up her forearm. As it continued moving onto her shoulder, the Beast’s whines became howls of pain and fear, and Dale saw that the creature appeared smaller than it had a few moments ago, almost as if it were losing substance and dwindling away.
She’s absorbing it, he thought.
With a final ear-splitting howl, the Beast collapsed into a pool of shadow that was swiftly absorbed by Eve. The remains slithered up her arm, flowed over her shoulder, and disappeared down her back.
Dale now knew where she got the ink for her ever-changing tattoo, and he shuddered.
She smiled at him again, but there was no mirth in her arctic-blue eyes.
“A girl can never have too many pets.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
On the way to the hospital, Marshall insisted they stop at the county building, though he refused to say why. Joanne agreed to do so, mostly out of curiosity. She accompanied him to the morgue, head throbbing in time with her footsteps as they walked, and when they arrived, she was mildly surprised to discover Terry wasn’t there. On the phone earlier, he’d told her that he’d finished the preliminary examination of Tyrone Gantz’s body. Shouldn’t he have been performing the official autopsy by now?