The Nightmarchers

by J. Lincoln Fenn

  You are terminally naive, Ethan had texted back when she complained he’d committed perjury.

  She pulls out the electric bill marked URGENT with a red stamp. Slices the envelope open with her finger. Pulls out the statement, scans for the total due, and the total overdue, and the late charges accrued. Overwhelming, of course. Impossible.

  Or maybe not.

  It’s just tea.

  CHAPTER 3

  THE ORANGE GROVES JULIA REMEMBERS are long gone, of course, replaced by strip malls with Laundromats, internet cafes, and Chinese markets—the standard, anonymous sprawl of Los Angeles concrete. The afternoon sun glares through a film of dust on the windshield. Julia hits it with a splash of wiper fluid, but there’s not enough; the blades just smear the dust into half-moon circles. At least the sound drowns out the ping in the engine that’s made her nervous for the past week. The air-conditioning is on the way out, but it’s working well enough to stave off the Santa Ana winds and keep the temperature an ambient eighty degrees.

  It’s strange to think that all this time she’s been living within driving distance of her only living relative but never knew it. After the great unraveling of her life, Julia had headed back to Los Angeles with money from the sale of her engagement ring—that, at least, Ethan hadn’t contested—thinking there would be more opportunities. And there were: in food service, anyway.

  Her great-aunt’s story is dodgy at best. No, there must be a trigger for this meeting, something important that Aunt Liddy wants. Probably at a hefty cost to Julia, although she can’t imagine what it’ll be.

  That damn letter was so odd. Something disingenuous about it too, like every word was crafted to pique her interest.

  You are my last of last resorts.

  For a couple of days, she let it linger on her counter next to the bills—no need to become the patron saint of lost causes. But a Google search at the library revealed that Dr. Lydia Greer had indeed done quite well for herself—she’d sold the rights of a biological patent to one of the largest genetic and fertility research firms in the UK. Her six-bedroom house, according to Trulia, was worth more than eight million dollars.

  Blue lights ahead, some kind of accident. A police officer waves for her to stop. She uses the time to glance at the crumpled city map she’d found buried in her closet—no GPS, since her cell phone was cut off that morning. Her great-aunt’s estate is a ten-acre fortress plunked squarely in the middle of an ocean of townhomes. There had been an article about her unwillingness to sell, attributed to a kind of elderly kookiness since developers had offered mountains of money and a prime lot in Brentwood for relocation. Her new, middle-class neighbors complained that she was unfairly skewing the property taxes in their zip code. A request by the mayor to discuss the situation had been flatly refused.

  I can always say no.

  Can you? says Ethan between her ears. You never say no when you should.

  She tries to mentally put him back in the imaginary closet, lock the door as her therapist advised. It’s not his voice, really; he was never that cruel, or at least not until the end. It’s your own negativity speaking through him, Dr. Stolz said, using him as a cloak. Trying to hold you back, keep you from moving forward.

  Saying no to Aunt Liddy could be dangerous; maybe that’s why Ethan’s crept back into her mind. From her ex, she learned that the wealthy strike back when they don’t get what they want—first through overwhelming force, sending you headfirst into an economic tailspin to soften you up, tenderize you for the feast to come, then a fat cash offer if you just sign X in order to absolve them and seal the lie. And then if you refuse, grinding you through systems weighted against the poor, then claiming victory, that justice has been done, that you are getting exactly what you deserve.

  The thing is, she’d seen him do it before. He hadn’t been shy about his techniques. There had been a fledgling start-up he’d gleefully run into the ground. She just never thought he’d apply that particular skill set to wife number three. And back then, Evie was just barely walking, and they had the house in Palo Alto with the view of the ocean, and he dazzled her with love, or maybe the affectation of love, and if she had any misgivings about the way he conducted his business, she banished them with the thought that this was the way the sausage was made.

  At least, that’s what she told herself at the time. She should have known better—no, she already knew better—it was just that she hadn’t felt her own moral drift.

  His lips, brushing the soft skin behind her ear. In spite of everything, even the memory of him is dazzling.

  She’s buzzed in through wrought iron gates, which sweep open like curtains before an opening act. The Spanish-style house is larger than she remembers and impeccably kept up, a picture postcard of the kind of mansion a silent film star would own. The grass is so green, clipped and perfect, each shrub so meticulously trimmed, each redolent flower blooming as if on cue, that it unnerves her. The forced domination of nature, and in a desert at that. The grounds are protected by a twelve-foot-high wall covered in ivy, high enough to partially obscure the suburbs outside the realm.

  The only thing out of place is Julia’s battered Volvo, which seems unsure of the cobbled, circular drive—every turn of the wheel causes a minor shudder. There’s a rectangular space near the front entrance that looks designated for guests, so that’s where she parks. She half expects a butler in a tuxedo to greet her.

  Just the kind of place where Ethan would shine. The thought causes a panicky roll at the base of her stomach. Maybe she should turn around. Leave. Go back to where she belongs—resume her uncontrolled free fall into poverty. But then she’d never know if she could have brought Evie back to her. She would always wonder.

  And do I really have something better to do?

  Not really.

  The first time Ethan had taken her to one of his wealthy friend’s estates—an actress, an after-party for a film premiere—he’d gripped her elbow and told her, They’re all sharks. Bored sharks. Pretend you don’t notice and they’ll find something else to eat.

  She opens the car door, ignoring its creak of protest, closes it behind her, and approaches the mansion’s arched entrance. The scent of honeysuckle floats in the dry air. Before she has a chance to knock, a woman about her age—maybe a few years older—immediately opens it. She has bobbed blond hair and neat, white teeth. Whispers of cool air-conditioning escape, curl around Julia’s ankles.

  “You’re Julia!” the woman exclaims, reaching out a hand. Manicured nails. “I’m Bailey, Dr. Greer’s assistant.”

  Julia nods, offering her hand in exchange. They size each other up. Julia takes in the pressed khakis, the silk shirt distressed to look like cotton, navy blue Keds, and a chunky gold bracelet. In other words, Ethan’s kind of people. She’s sure her own thrift store jeans and the one decent black shirt she owns—bought with a Nordstrom gift card, a wedding present—barely passes muster. She can already feel sweat creating little half-moons under her armpits.

  But then Bailey’s the hired help. Ethan had a way of noticing but not noticing the help, a practiced aloofness. She decides to give it a shot.

  “Come on in,” says Bailey, and so Julia does. But she takes her time.

  She steps into the entry, pauses. There’s a quiet shush to the place, like a library or church. An elaborate, dark-stained mahogany staircase curls to the second-floor landing with a kind of feline grace, so ornate it makes the stairs in her old Victorian look like a poor cousin. White plaster walls unmarred by even a single hairline crack; gilt-framed Impressionist paintings tastefully arranged throughout; terra-cotta floors, darkened with patina, polished to a high shine. Her memory had served up marble floors, but the rest is pretty much as she recalls. A gigantic flower arrangement in a ceramic Art Deco vase settled on an antique, half-moon console table. That small crystal bowl filled with hard round candy.

  “You’ve been here before?” Bailey takes a few leading steps in front of her, a prompt, this way.
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br />   Julia notices without noticing. She lets a hand drift to the flowers in the antique vase. Leans over to smell them. Lilacs and roses, asters and lilies. She reaches out for the cellophane-wrapped candies, picks up two, a cherry and an orange. Takes her damn sweet time.

  “Yes,” she finally says.

  Now it’s Bailey’s turn to pause. She clasps her hands in front of her, a carefully arranged smile on her face. Waiting.

  The order has been established. Julia feels a quiet thrill of victory, an emotion that’s been woefully absent of late. She idly slips the candies in her pocket, gives Bailey a nod. Bailey returns it, beckons with an arm, and they move on.

  It’s the kind of library that also seems pulled from a film set, the perfect setting for an Agatha Christie mystery—built-in walnut bookshelves, marble fireplace, a heavy oak desk and two matching antique pale blue silk settees with a low table between them. But the books themselves aren’t right; they should be leather-bound with gilt titles but instead are academic textbooks, thin paperback journals, and hardcover books with sun-faded spines. Structural Biochemistry, Evolutionary Pathways and Enigmatic Algae, Origin of Mitochondria and Hydrogenosomes. Any leftover space is crammed with papers.

  The first evidence that a real human being lives here.

  “She’ll be with you in a moment,” says Bailey. “Please have a seat and make yourself comfortable. Could I get you some coffee? Tea?”

  Julia’s first instinct is to decline, but that would be so like her. “Coffee,” she says instead. “Black.”

  “Would you like anything to eat? I just baked some scones this morning.”

  All Julia’s eaten is cold spaghetti with a spoonful of peanut butter on the side. But she doesn’t want to get too comfortable. Every negotiation is an attempted robbery, Ethan would say. Keep your gun loaded at all times. Hunger will give her a slightly irritated edge.

  “No, thank you.”

  Bailey nods, her Keds barely making a sound as she leaves.

  When she’s gone, Julia lets out a sigh she didn’t realize she’d been holding, and sits on the settee. It’s as uncomfortable as it looks. Two tall French doors lead out to a brick patio, shaded by a lemon tree, ripe with fruit.

  Another candy bowl, filled with saltwater taffy, sits on the coffee table. A small book beside it catches her attention, the cloth cover a faded red, the edges soft and fraying. She picks it up. The Fall of Man, the Birth of Gods in gilt lettering. By Dr. Alfred Greer. Her great-grandfather? She opens the cover and sees a faded inscription on the yellowing title page.

  No wonder if the country’s breed declines—

  Mixed metal, Kyrnos, that but dimly shines.

  —Father

  Her mother never mentioned Alfred Greer, and Julia’s research at the library hadn’t yielded much. He’d gotten his doctorate in chemistry at Cambridge University and was an amateur horticulturalist, an avid skier, a friend of Sir Francis Galton and Darwin, and an early proponent of eugenics. Probably why her mother never talked about that side of the family.

  Suddenly she hears the squeak, squeak of wheels. She quickly places the book back on the table, like a child caught stealing.

  Steady, Julia. Everything or nothing could be riding on the next hour.

  “Ah, there she is,” says a raspy voice. “I see your father’s nose.”

  Briefly wondering if that’s some kind of Jewish slight, Julia turns and finds an ancient woman confined to a wheelchair being pushed into the room by a servant or nurse. Her great-aunt has the bone structure of a desiccated bird—sharp cheekbones and a beaky chin, thin legs propped on the wheelchair’s footplate at a neat right angle, elbows poking sharply from within a thin white cashmere sweater. A blanket on her lap. Her white hair is swept up into a French chignon, and she wears a Jackie Kennedy pearl choker. A waft of Chanel No. 5 drifts in with her. Another woman fighting reality.

  Julia starts to stand.

  “No need, my dear,” her great-aunt says with a dismissive wave. “We might as well stay at eye level.”

  So Julia stays put. The nurse/servant pushes her great-aunt to a spot in front of the coffee table.

  “Gracias, Guadalupe.” Not so much a thanks as a dismissal. Guadalupe leaves without a word.

  Her great-aunt then turns and regards her, faded blue eyes sparkling with a fierce intellect. “So. Please tell me Bailey’s had the good sense to offer you something to drink.”

  “She’s getting me coffee.”

  “Coffee? I would think a meeting of this importance would merit something stronger. Gin, at least.”

  There’s an edge that makes Julia wonder if Aunt Liddy is being serious or sarcastic.

  Maybe both.

  “Coffee is fine.”

  “Ah, yes,” replies Aunt Liddy. “Your father’s side had those . . . issues. Forgive me.”

  Julia’s face flushes just as Bailey enters with a tray. Her father’s side—like her blood itself is partially tainted, like she’s doomed to suffer the same fate. A quiet fury builds as Bailey places the cup and saucer—delicate bone china, gilt handles, decorated with pale roses—on the coffee table in front of her. Your Honor, the family history suggests . . .

  “If I remember correctly, he wasn’t a big supporter of the braces idea. You did get them, didn’t you? I can’t quite tell.”

  Another well-placed dig. Parry, Julia.

  “Yes, not that it helped in the long run. Money can’t solve every problem, apparently.”

  “Well,” says Aunt Liddy, “that just proves nature has her own designs. Eventually we’ll discover the gene that deals with tooth alignment and give her a run for her money.”

  Bailey has another cup on the tray, filled with tea the color of dishwater. This she places in front of Aunt Liddy.

  “I remember a day when they blamed crooked teeth on different races mixing. And back then, different races meant Italians marrying Irish. Thank you, Bales.”

  “Would you like me to—”

  Aunty Liddy cuts her off with a dismissive wave, and Bailey too leaves without another word.

  “The problem with being very, very old and very, very rich,” says Aunt Liddy, picking up her cup, “is that you never get a moment to yourself. When you die, you’re alone. It’s the one thing about it I am looking forward to.”

  There’s a slight tremor in her great-aunt’s hand, the skin so thin that it’s nearly translucent, the white bones of her knuckles clearly visible. The tea in the cup quivers.

  She doesn’t think Aunt Liddy has that long to wait.

  Julia reaches for her coffee so she won’t have to say anything for a moment. Slowly takes a sip. It’s strong, dark, and bitter. It was a mistake to show up without a strategy—Aunt Liddy may look frail, but her mind is sharp as the proverbial tack, and two insults in less than a minute is a definite attempt to throw Julia off-balance. Back in her reporting days, she would never have allowed herself to be so quickly ambushed. It’s time to push back.

  “And your father,” Julia says. “Did you inherit his racist, anti-Semitic views?”

  Aunt Liddy looks pleased. Like there was a test and Julia just passed it. “I thought I saw you looking at his book. I had Bailey go on a dig for it, to see if it’s as bad as I remember.”

  Julia rests the coffee cup on her knee. “And is it?”

  “Worse, I’m afraid,” says Aunt Liddy with a rueful laugh. “Terrible thing for our family, landing on the wrong side of history. Genetics was all so new then, like peeking into God’s toolbox; who can blame them for wanting to use the tools to become gods themselves? Remake the world?”

  “I think there were six million Jews who could blame them.”

  “Touché, my dear. Believe me, I’m not trying to be an apologist for the Third Reich, or for the forced sterilization of the poor and minorities in America, which no one seems to remember or care about these days. Our greatest scientific achievements are always undermined by our baser fears. We think that by creating tribes, or r
eligions, or ideologies we can somehow avoid the complete annihilation of death. But in the end, only the chromosomes survive. However, I like your spirit. I would say you get that from your mother, but I’m afraid that trait passed her entirely as well. No, you’re much more like Annabelle.”

  Julia chooses to ignore the double-sided insult/compliment. It’s better to draw her out. “I never knew my grandmother.”

  “Yes, I think you two would have gotten along very well. Until she went mad, of course. Like Mother.” For a moment, Aunt Liddy seems to stare through Julia, lost in another time or place. “It runs in the family. That particular genetic inheritance seems to have skipped me, and hopefully you as well. And your . . . daughter, correct?”

  She’s trying to emotionally bait me. “Were you close to Annabelle?”

  “Oh, she and Irene were very close, until the elopement. Irene was hurt that she didn’t know beforehand.”

  “And you?”

  “I was close to books, and data, and the numbers constantly swirling in my head. Half in this world and half in another. For me, Annabelle’s departure was just a data point on a timeline. What I did inherit from my father is my clinical nature. Some consider it cold. I prefer to think of it as clarity. You need to have clarity if you’re to fix nature’s design flaws. Sentimentality is anathema in my field.”

  Sunlight stretches into the room, casting long, probing shadows. For a moment it’s quiet, almost perfectly so, the distant traffic silenced by thick walls and carpeting. Dust motes float in a sunbeam. A faint scent of roses wilting in a glass vase. It strikes Julia that there’s nothing electric in the room except for the overhead light fixture and a single floor lamp, and it feels like she’s entered another time altogether. Sad and lonely, like she and the house and the things are marooned in a future they have no place in.