The Ice House

by Ray Ouellette

  He had said to Mrs. Lowell that he left early when he found out what the entertainment was to be. He told her that she should look into what went on there. He said that he couldn't because he needed Lawrence Lowell's support. He assured her he was a good man but couldn't turn Lawrence Lowell or Scott in because he needed their support to even hope to attain the high offices he aspired to.

  Once he arrived in those high offices he could do some good, but right now he would just destroy any chances he had if he talked and it wouldn't achieve anything anyway. The Lowell men had the police in their pocket, local government in their wallet, and many of the state politicians owed him for his financial support. They would just look the other way at best at whatever Lawrence Lowell chose to do to amuse himself.

  Mrs. Lowell had looked into it discreetly and had found out the truth but had done nothing for the same reasons as the young politician. Lawrence Lowell had the power, the money, and fear on his side. Mrs. Lowell knew it was useless to complain or protest about anything Lawrence did. Anne Boleyn would have been more successful trying to make Henry the Eighth tow the line. Just enjoy the comfort, the wealth, the prestige, and keep your mouth shut.

  She recalled how happy she had been at the news that Lawrence had Leukemia and how she had to hide that happiness. She knew that would end the killing at the cabin. At least it would end Lawrence's part in it. Without Lawrence. Maybe Scott would cease his activities too. She worried about the young man and woman from Boston. The young lady was exactly the type that Lawrence and Scott liked from what she had heard. She didn't know if Scott had continued his activities at the cabin, because he had become reclusive after his wife died.

  She remembered how she had tried to get some information out of Scott's wife Denise at a holiday get together, had asked some round about questions that didn't let on that she knew what was going on out there. Scott's wife had just brushed off the questions about what Scott and Lawrence had been doing out at the pond by saying something like, 'It's just them trying to relive their childhood. Harmless fun.'

  But now that Lawrence was about to be revived she knew it would begin again and she knew that once more she wouldn't be able to do anything about it and that nobody else in town or the area would either.

  It was like Al Capone having a merchant killed off if he refused to pay protection money. The merchant was dead, nobody to tell what Capone was really up to. Only those left alive to say what a great guy Capone was because of the ball fields he had donated to some Chicago neighborhood or because of his donations to the police benevolent fund. The family was left behind to tell the world what Capone was, but nobody wanted to listen. Lawrence had the same power.

  It was Bostwick who had phoned her with the bad news that she had been spared from for forty years.

  “Mrs. Lowell,” he had said. “We are about to try to revive your husband.” He had waited for a comment and when there was silence he continued, “I thought I should call to give you the chance to prepare, to do whatever you might feel you need to do to get ready.”

  Silence, then she had said, “What do you estimate the chances of early success?”

  Bostwick answered. “Well, as you know, the cure for his Leukemia exists now and is pretty much standard procedure. Our revival technique looks extremely promising. I'm about 99% sure that within a few weeks Mr. Lowell will be back with us. If not, then it won't be more than just a little bit longer.”

  Mrs. Lowell hadn't felt much like speaking. She thanked Bostwick and hung up. The nerve and disrespect of that man phoning her. It seemed about on a level with announcing a birth that way, the nurse phoning the waiting room and saying 'Congratulations, Mr. Somebody, you're a father of a baby boy.' But then it sunk in that what she was irritated over was not so much the way in which the message was delivered but the message itself. She had gotten used to living on her own, not being disappointed by her husband's actions, not having to face the guilt of knowing what he did and not being able to do or be willing to do anything about it. Now it was threatening to come back, with the added insult of her being forty years older.

  Her car arrived at the pond and she headed for the hated cabin of Scott.

  God, Frank thought, I couldn't have imagined before how a condemned man feels. At least I know that the spirit really does exist. I've made the trip. I know my spirit will leave my body but instead of going to the afterlife, I'm going to end up in someone else's body. He wondered if he would remember his life as Frank Tilton.

  He wondered if he would even care. Or would he become Lawrence Lowell? He wanted to run, but what about Lynn? The cops at the exits out of town. The guard at the gate? He felt nauseous and terrified, sweated profusely, and his hands trembled. He pictured what his body would look like in dry ice or cryogenically frozen. Or would his body be disposed of? His whole body trembled now.

  Frank thought back to the various times in his life when he had been afraid. The one that stood out most was his first game in college. The coach had put him in when victory was assured, the traditional time for a third string player to get a chance in an actual game. Frank had been petrified. But right now it was a comforting memory considering what he now faced. If the team went through an entire season playing close games he might never have gotten a chance to play, but there he was, in a game.

  The play was called and he was going to carry the ball. Frank had to muster all his will power to avoid giving away the play by looking at the two opposing linemen to see who in a few seconds might be taking his head off. He kept his gaze on the quarterback as he finished the huddle. They broke and lined up. Frank's legs felt like rubber. He felt like he might collapse into a heap. The signals were called, the ball snapped. Two of his teammates bullied aside the opposing linemen and Frank willed his body forward, received the handoff and picked up speed. The hole was filled with a huge linebacker and Frank felt like he had been hit by an MTA train. But he held onto the ball, rolling off the linebacker, his momentum carrying him forward for a three yard gain.

  He was now a real college running back. Could the first string have done better he thought. Frank got up and went back to the next huddle. He felt as good just then as if he had just scored the winning touchdown in a Super Bowl.

  Frank would never make the first team, but he would get into a lot of games, rack up a lot of yardage, start in two games when the first string player was injured, and score two touchdowns. There were the memories, local newspaper articles, a bit of prestige back home. He never got over the pre-game jitters. That was normal, but he would never again in his college career feel the fear of that first time he carried the ball in a college game. This was the fear he felt now multiplied many times, the dread, the potential for disaster, but this time it was the fear of almost certain disaster. No way out.

  He sat in the board room, with his thoughts, regrets, memories, and wishes that weren't fulfilled as he faced the impending end to his life, with the stone cold figure of Lawrence Lowell frozen in mid word, mid expression, looking like he was about to make a point. Frank felt cold and shivered. A tapping of finger tips startled Frank and he glanced at the fingers of Lawrence Lowell before realizing it was his own hand trembling, producing the drumming sound on the table top.

  No windows, a locked door, the only other door was the one leading to the control room for Lawrence Lowell's figure. It was like being in a prison cell, a condemned man, but not even being offered a last meal, a smoke, or the comfort of a priest in the prisoner's last moments of life.

  What was I thinking, Frank wondered. I was alone in here with Scott and I stood there debating with him. I should have flattened him. Why didn't I flatten him? But what difference would it have made? I wouldn't have gotten out the gate anyway.

  There must be something I can do to get out of here to get help. James Bond could get out of this. MacGyver could put together something from what was in the room to get him out of this. Frank looked at the walls. Cinder blocks. He examined the heating and air conditioning ve
nts. Too small. The floor. Cement. Frank couldn't think of anything. There wasn't anything. He just sat there staring at the Lawrence Lowell figure.

  Scott entered. “It's time. Come with me.”

  “Can I ask a few questions first?”Scott nodded but looked impatient.

  “I saw your torture chambers. How many did you kill? What did you do with the bodies?”

  “I used them for fish food.” he smiled then added, enjoying the look on Frank's face. “I sort of already told you. The fish thrive on it. Great fishing.”

  Frank could say nothing at first, then managed, “Jesus! You fed the bodies to the fish? But how would you have found out that they'd even eat them?

  Where Scott had been impatient with Frank's questions, he now took the opportunity to show off about the pond. “Fish are territorial too, you know. One fish might stake out a territory and mostly live just there. Anyway one inlet of the pond is directly opposite the camp. We used to take the bodies up, over the ridge, and down to the nearest part of the pond...the inlet. We'd always put them in at the same spot. And the fish in that one inlet were always bigger when we caught them. We never even drew the connection for quite a while though.”

  “You just threw the bodies in?”

  “At first we didn't even dispose of them there. Lawrence had come across a person that amused him, a sort of leather, biker type that would dispose of the bodies. He enjoyed it. Sometimes we'd let him do the killing and we'd just watch or film it to watch again later.

  We kept using him for these purposes until some time in the sixties. He evidently had some other project going and was not always available when we needed him so we just threw the bodies in the pond, weighted down. Always in the same place.

  “Then we heard about those new, at the time anyway, backyard shredders and bought one. Sometimes we would shred the bodies but sometimes the biker was around and he would handle that for us and we'd pay him more for that bit of extra service. The body parts would be put into the shredder and the little bits would come out the opening and go directly into the pond.

  That biker ultimately ended up as fish food too. It was mostly Law who was amused by him and liked to have him dispose of the bodies for us, but I felt uneasy about one extra mouth to keep quiet and eventually Law agreed and the biker ended up in the shredder.”

  “We thought at first that the little pieces would rot quickly or settle to the bottom and be eaten by underwater worms or something, but after about a half a year or so, we drew the connection that the fish from the little inlet were always considerably bigger than fish from the rest of the pond.”

  “How could you do that to a human being?” Frank kept Scott talking, hoping for something to happen in his favor.

  “They were already dead,” answered Scott, missing Frank's point.

  “I mean the indignity to the bodies.”

  “Mostly they were prostitutes, brought up here from the New York City. Considering the kind of life they had, being fish food was an improvement.”

  “I didn't see a shredder,” Frank said.

  “We've progressed. I take it you didn't examine the other rooms of my cabin?”

  “Not all of them.”

  “One of them would have answered your question,” said Scott. “We've upgraded to a professional fish food processing machine.”

  This was something he would have expected of someone in power in the early 1940s in Germany. “No!. I'm not doing it. You won't revive me...or Lynn. You've just got her in there for show.” Frank took advantage of the one chance he had, the fact that Scott was unarmed. Frank moved toward the door. “You'll turn off the cooling system or let the dry ice dissipate and let us rot after you have what you want or maybe we'll end up feeding your fish.”

  “You don't have much choice. I had hoped this would be voluntary on your part. But at least it will be relaxed anyway. We'll tranquilize the hell out of you. You'll even enjoy it.” He laughed and added, “And don't worry about your pretty friend. I won't let her rot. I've got better things in mind for her.”

  Frank wanted to say that Scott would have to rebuild his compound before he did anything there and that maybe this time he wouldn't be so successful in hiding the construction of a torture chamber from the outside world. But instead he backed away, then turned to run. The door opened. Three of the staff, including Randolph Hill, whose eyes were wide with fear at the thought of violent confrontation at his age, stood in the way. Frank hesitated a moment. Then charged. Hill took a shoulder block right in the stomach with such force that Hill's stomach contents were forced out, filling his esophagus and throat with acrid vomit, and his intestines emptied themselves of gas with such a loud breaking of wind that the other two men and Frank himself were startled to inaction for a moment. Then Frank charged again but failed to get by the other two staff members. They brought him down and the scuffle resulted in Hill being violently kicked in the face as he lay on floor writhing in pain from Frank's block. Scott rushed over and put a needle in Frank's arm and he ceased resisting.

  CHAPTER 31

  Mrs. Lowell entered the broken door of Scott's cabin. She felt like a woman entering the apartment of her husband's mistress and exploring all the trappings of his secret life. She saw the smashed oil painting and shuddered at the realization of just how total was Scott's devotion to Lawrence. The sprinkler system had shut off as it sensed no further smoke or elevation in temperature.

  The door to the back rooms caught her attention. She hesitated. Nothing in the part of the cabin she had seen so far had indicated that the information she had been given was accurate, that the unimaginable horrors the young politician had hinted at were real.

  A footstep behind her made her jump. She turned

  “I'm sorry.” said the chauffeur. “I thought you might need me here. I saw the smoldering papers on the floor and the water dripping from the doorway.”

  “That's okay, but you wait outside, please.”

  She walked over to the other door as the chauffeur went back to the car. She opened the door and strained to see inside, not knowing where the light switch was. Her hand moved along the wall and found the switch.

  Mrs. Lowell stood silent as the light confirmed what she had feared for most of her married life.

  She walked through the rooms that Frank had walked through. Afraid to breathe, she stepped silently, as if to avoid awakening the ghosts of the torture victims she now knew for certain had died here. How many had there been she wondered. To have had a place like this set up, there must have been hundreds. Forty years? Maybe thousands.

  She found a room where there were hundreds of period costumes from medieval to World War 2 on racks, and there was a makeup table and mirror. Wigs and hats filled shelves. Mrs. Lowell was as fascinated as she was repulsed by this room. She could tell by the distance she had walked through the rooms, that without a doubt, these rooms extended back into the hill and that she was now underground.

  Her legs felt increasingly weak and she grabbed a doorknob to steady herself. The door opened and she found herself in the final room. There was simply a cement floor, cinder block walls with sealant brushed over them, a metal grid about 6 inches above the floor that machinery of some kind rested on. A hose hung on a reel on one wall. Beneath the metal grid along one wall were what appeared to be some type of sluice gate doors. A control panel was to the left of the doorway. Mrs. Lowell looked over the machinery. There was a large funnel-shaped opening leading to the first machine. The arrangement reminded her of leaf and lawn debris shredders that the gardeners used. Behind it was a short conveyor belt that led into the other machine which was about ten or twelve feet long. She looked around the back of the second machine, into the end of it. The last half of it resembled a mechanized pizza oven with its conveyor belt to move the pizzas along. Collecting boxes of cardboard construction were hung from the end of this processing unit. Each was lettered 'Fish food.' There was a lone pellet on the floor that must have missed a box.

 
; Judging by the rest of the complex, she concluded that this was the final indignity for those females unfortunate enough to be lured or brought here. Recessed in the wall near the end of the processing was a dumb-waiter, elevator type of arrangement, where she imagined the boxes of human, pellet fish food were sent up through the rock of the hill and brought down to the edge of the pond.

  Mrs. Lowell knew now that her husband and Scott could not be allowed to be reunited again. She made her way back through the cabin. The chauffeur helped her into the limousine.

  CHAPTER 32

  Frank became unconscious about 10 minutes after being given the tranquilizer. He drifted into oblivion. From the time he was given the drugs until he lost consciousness, he kept repeating to himself, “I will remember. I will remember. I will...”

  Frank's spirit was floating in that untouchable, undefinable, dimensionless space that he had been in before, during each of his dreams. He felt himself hovering there, not being drawn in any direction. He wondered why there was this delay, this departure from the usual way things went.

  He heard the voice that he had heard before in this other dimension, the voice that had told him to resist. The voice spoke. “We will help you to remember.”

  “Who are you?” said Frank.

  There was silence, then “We are...” Another period of silence in which Frank could imagine a spiritual shrug of the shoulders, then completion of the reply, “We are...all.”