Shadow of the Past

by Thacher Cleveland

  “Yeah, it’s . . . well, there aren’t really any words. I’m just sorry I got you involved in all of this. I knew you were going to find out about my folks sooner or later, but I didn’t want it to be like this. It was stupid to hide it and I’m sorry. I know I must seem like a freak and you probably don’t want anything to do with me after all this.”

  “Mark, as fucked up as all of this is, I’m not going to abandon you or anything. I really like you and I want to help you get through this, okay?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah. Look, I should probably go try to settle my folks down or something, but I’ll see you tomorrow. Try to take it easy, alright?”

  “I will. Christine?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Thanks. I mean it.”

  “No problem. Bye.”

  After hanging up he staggered downstairs and got some food while dodging Joe’s questions of “Who was that?” and “What did she want?” He mumbled his way through an explanation and as soon as he was finished he went back upstairs to try to make a dent in his homework.

  Despite his nap earlier, he felt his mind sagging under the weight of exhaustion. His eyes fluttered and he let the pencil fall from his hand. He rolled over, pushing the books off the edge of the bed. That would fix it, he realized. He’d just sleep for years and it would all just be a distant memory by the time he woke up.

  It was supposed to be a good day, right? The best day? Well, I guess we all get what we deserve.

  He was waking up, but he felt lost again. He was dizzy, and when he went to rub some sleep from his face he realized there was nothing there. No hands and no face. He was just floating and formless in near total darkness. He thought for a second that something had ended and he’d be snuffed out just like Clara had been. Before he could decide if that would be a relief or a tragedy someone turned on a light.

  It was Clara, still alive and in her apartment, walking towards him. She was coming from her bedroom and wearing a nightgown, wiping sleep from her eyes. He was standing (or floating) in her kitchen. He called out to her, but there was nothing. No hands, no face and apparently, no voice.

  She stopped in front of him and reached out for the refrigerator. She paused for a second, her nose twitching, and then she turned to look right at him. Before he could tell if she could tell he was there a hand launched out of the darkness next to him and crushed her wrist, forcing her down on one knee.

  Mark was screaming and thrashing in his own mind, but nothing he thought could affect anything around him. From the darkness stepped the figure he’d seen in the apartment before, covered in swirling smoke and where eyes would be under the hat shaped smoke two tiny flames burst to life.

  The cane with the silver head swung out from the smoke, and just as Mark recognized it from his dream it smashed into Clara’s head. Once, twice and then a third time. He let go of her wrist and she tumbled to the ground, finally letting out a low moan as she pulled her injured wrist close to her chest.

  He circled her as she rolled over, swinging the cane down on her back. She doubled up in pain, trying to cover as much of herself as she could as he swung down on her again and again.

  The man stopped, turning his fiery eyes to Mark, and he could see the swirling smoke and blackness of his face twist into a smile.

  “Oh yes,” he said, his voice a rumbling echo of the one Darren had heard in Mark’s dream.

  There was a long metallic scrape and Clara, who’d been doubled over and whimpering, looked up. The man drew the blade from the cane-sheath slowly, moving to stand directly over her, his legs straddling her.

  “Don’t! Don’t! Whatever you want, just don’t do this! Not her,” Mark tried to yell, but there was still nothing.

  Clara turned, and Mark realized she was looking towards him. The flames in the man’s eyes followed her gaze and then the blade swung down on the back of her neck.

  With no eyelids or hands, there was no way for him to look away as her head did a little hop and then rolled about a foot to the left of her body.

  The man stood there watching as the blood drained onto the tile. He dabbed the tip of the blade into the growing puddle and the blood began to creep upward, coating it with red. When the blade was fully covered, he slipped it back into its sheath.

  He turned and headed for the door, rubbing the fingers of his free hand together. A ball of smoke collected in his hand, and then with a snap of his fingers a tiny flame burst to life in his palm. As the man walked past Mark’s disembodied dream-self and out the back patio door Mark found himself pulled along with him. As he reached the edge of the patio the man tossed the ball of flame over his shoulder. It landed in the center of the kitchen, a few feet in front of Clara’s headless body. The flames spread quickly, burning along the floor fast but curving around Clara’s body and head as they made their way towards the living room.

  The man stepped off the edge of the patio and Mark found himself plunging into darkness again

  Chapter Ten

  Mark never got around to finishing his homework. The next day in class he mumbled an excuse to Mr. Bucco, who stared at him with his beady, rodent eyes and told Mark that he expected it tomorrow, no excuses. Mark wasn’t surprised that threats from a balding algebra teacher didn’t have the same weight as they had on Friday.

  Steve met him at his locker after class, and after a moment of the two just staring at each other, Steve reached out and put his arm around Mark’s shoulders.

  “Dude. I don’t know what to say.”

  “It’s okay,” Mark said, shrugging Steve’s arm off his shoulders before anyone saw.

  Steve shook his head. “Light years away from okay. This has got to be . . . well, I can’t imagine it. I mean, when my Grams died, it was weird, but this--”

  “It’s a little different,” Mark said, walking off. By the time Steve caught up with him Mark was relieved that the hallway was a little less crowded.

  “I know, totally different, you’re right.” Steve said. “I have to tell you my mom was wicked pissed when that cop showed up. I mean, you know how much of a hard-ass she can be, but this? Whoa, baby.”

  “I’m sorry it’s such an inconvenience to her,” Mark said, making a quick left into a stairwell.

  “Dude, tell me about it. I mean, this is the fucking cops!” Steve said. Mark glanced sideways as one of the field hockey girls walked past, her eyes actually shifting over a bit to look at Steve and Mark.

  Mark let out a sigh and drew up short on the steps when they were finally alone. “Look,” Mark said, stopping Steve with a hand on his shoulder, “I know you’re trying to help and all, but please don’t talk about this at school. I don’t want people knowing this kind of shit about me, okay?”

  “Oh,” Steve said. “Of course. Yeah, you’re right, that was dumb of me.”

  “Steve . . .”

  “What?”

  “Did you--” Mark didn’t even have to finish the question before he knew they answer. So much for acting.

  “I’m sorry,” Steve pleaded. “I just mentioned it to Shannon in first period. I mean, she asked me what I did this weekend, and, y’know, this is kind of a big deal.”

  Mark balled his hand into a fist and pressed it into the throbbing pain growing between his eyes. Shannon Brown wasn’t the biggest gossip in the whole world, just the biggest one in the drama club. And no one in drama club ever spoke out of turn, or gave much thought to rumor. No, not someone in the theater.

  “I’m sorry,” Steve said, but Mark couldn’t see past the knot of rage that was spreading in his brain. By the end of the day it’d be over half the school, by tomorrow, it’d be everywhere. “She’s in my next class and I’ll tell her not to say anything to anyone.”

  Oh yeah, that’ll work. He can totally put that gossip outbreak monkey back in her cage.

  “Just . . . don’t tell anybody else, okay?”

  “Yeah. Of course. Man that was so stupid, I just can’t believe that I didn’t think--”r />
  “Can we just drop it please?” Mark brushed past him and tried to leave the knot on the stairwell behind him.

  “So, how’s your girl? How’s she handling all this?”

  Mark let out a sigh. “She’s fine. She called me last night and we talked, but I think her parents are going to give yours a run for their money in the ‘freaked’ department. Not to mention the fact that I had to level with her about Joe and the whole ‘I’m an orphan’ problem.”

  “Ouch. But she’s cool, right? I mean, you don’t want to let a chick like that slip away.”

  First smart thing he’s said all morning.

  “Yeah, she’s cool.”

  “Very cool,” Steve said with a wink and a nudge. “Look, I’m sorry for the screw up, but I’ll try to think of some way to make it up to you, okay? Or I’ll think of a way and tell Christine to do it to you from me.”

  “Get out of here,” Mark said, rolling his eyes. “I gotta get to class, and you do too.”

  “Right on, man.” Steve turned to go, but then stopped and looked over his shoulder. “I really am sorry, Mark. About everything.”

  “I know, man. I know.”

  It didn’t come up again the rest of the day, and lunch was spent with Steve and Christine talking about happier things, although Mark could swear that more people glanced their way than had the other day. You’re being paranoid. Not like you don’t have a right to be, but still.

  Even though the conversation didn’t turn back to what happened to Clara it never left Mark’s mind. It was as clear in his head now as when he woke from with a yell last night. What little sleep he’d gotten the rest of the night was punctuated with wondering if what he’d dreamt was just a mélange of his crazy visions and dreams or something that had really happened.

  It crazier than anything else that had happened this weekend (and what an accomplishment that was), but when he remembered the dream he could feel the heat from the fire and smell the smoke and burning blood. No dream had ever felt so real, and he knew that there was only one way he could be sure if he going crazy or if this was something far worse.

  “Detective Prescott? You’ve got a Mark Watson here to see you,” the desk sergeant said.

  “Okay, I’ll be right down,” David said, hanging up the phone.

  David welcomed the distraction from staring at the paperwork and various reports on his desk. Maybe Mark could tell him something that would help him make sense of all this. He’d been planning to go see him again anyway, so this saved him some time.

  Mark was sitting downstairs on one of the benches near the desk sergeant, drumming his fingers on the backpack on his lap. He knew Ms. Washington’s death had disturbed Mark a lot, but today grief had been replaced with a nervous energy that was usually reserved for the guilty or the scared.

  “Mark, how’re you doing?” Dave said as he came up to the bench.

  “Well, I’m okay. Better, I guess.”

  “That’s good. What can I do for you?”

  “Yeah . . . is there was some place we could talk?”

  David nodded. “Sure, I think I can arrange that. Follow me.”

  He led Mark down a hallway and into one of the small interview rooms. He sat behind the table and motioned for Mark to do likewise. The kid hesitated, taking the room in before sitting, setting his backpack on the table between them.

  “So what’s up?”

  “I . . . I just wanted to talk about Clara,” he said, still glancing around the room.

  “Don’t worry, all the recording stuff is off. This is just between you and me. What about her?”

  “I just wanted to know, to really know, what happened to her.”

  “Mark, I don’t want go in too much detail because this is still an ongoing investigation and well . . . it’s a little gruesome and I don’t want to upset you. Obviously you and Clara were very close.”

  “I’m not . . . Yeah, okay, I’m upset.” He started rubbing his forehead, eyes down on the table. “Clara was like a mom to me. When my aunt died, she was one of the only people that was able to be my friend without coddling me or making me feel like I was being pitied. She was one of the greatest people I ever knew and now she’s gone, and I’m just trying to figure out what happened.”

  David waited as Mark’s hand wiped at his eyes. “Mark, this is a real terrible tragedy, but--”

  “That’s what I’m saying!” Mark said, throwing his hands in the air. “Yeah, it’s terrible that she’s dead and now I’m all alone, but what if it was just an accident? How do you know someone did this?”

  “Mark, we’re pretty sure about this kind of stuff.”

  “How? If there was a fire how can you be so sure?” Mark was leaning forward, gripping the edges of the table. “If her body--”

  “Mark, her body wasn’t burned. Yes, there was a fire, but she wasn’t in it. She was assaulted. That’s how we know it wasn’t just the fire.”

  Mark trembled, dropping his arms to the table so suddenly that it echoed around them.

  “No. It can’t be . . . that can’t be right.” Mark’s trembling hands came up to his face as he tried to hide his tears. “Not like that. Not like that.”

  “Mark,” David said, getting up and moving his chair next to Mark’s. “We’re going to figure this out. We’re going to find who did this.”

  Mark wiped his eyes, quickly and then he gave a manic chuckle. “Oh god I hope so. I hope he fucking fries.”

  “I can get you a tissue, if you--”

  “No, no.” Mark said, shaking his head violently. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come down here, I just . . . I just needed to know. I just can’t believe she . . ." His hand drifted down to his neck, squeezing it for a second. “I just was hoping she didn’t die like that. I just wanted it to be an accident.”

  “I know, Mark.” Dave said, getting to his feet. “Are you going to be okay?”

  “Yeah, I think so, thanks. I’m sorry, I didn’t I mean to get all . . . y’know.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  Mark picked his backpack up from the table, and was just out of the door when David called him back.

  “Mark, can I ask you something?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about hearing something upstairs that night?”

  Everything that had drained out of Mark came rushing back, his body tensing and his face flushing with color. It was a cheap ploy but David knew it was his best chance at getting an honest reaction out of him. Sudden panic seemed pretty genuine.

  “What do you mean?” Mark said.

  “Well, both Christine and Steve said that you thought you heard someone upstairs that night, but you didn’t say anything to me about it.”

  Mark swallowed, and David just stared, hands in his pockets.

  “I was a little embarrassed. I fell down the stairs because I thought I saw someone but it turned out that it was nothing. I was trying to forget about it, and with Clara’s death and all I didn’t think it was a big deal.”

  “You forgot about it or you didn’t think it was a big deal?”

  Mark’s eyes narrowed for a second, but he relaxed and shrugged his shoulders. “I dunno. I guess I forgot about it when you first came to see me, but later, when I did remember, I didn’t think it was important enough to mention. We didn’t see anyone up there.”

  “Yeah, that’s what they said, but I was just curious. If there’s anything else like that, you let me know. Even if you don’t think it’s important, it might mean something to us.”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  David nodded and walked Mark back to the front entrance where they parted ways. Back at his desk, David pushed the various photos and scene reports around, as if they could make sense in different piles. His favorite was the note from the fire investigators that said “Fire doesn’t burn like this,” noting the perfect circle around Clara Washington’s body and head that had been left untouched as the rest of the apartment bur
ned.

  The fire hadn’t burned for long before the neighbor in the next building saw the smoke coming out of the back, and David wondered if that patch of floor would’ve been left in the rubble of the building still untouched and proudly displaying its decapitated passenger if the fire had been allowed to burn.

  Now, instead of that mystery preying on his mind on his mind he had something else bothering him. It was Mark, clutching his throat protectively, muttering “Not like that.”

  Chapter Eleven

  “I really don’t want to do this,” Mark said, tugging at his collar.

  “Oh relax, it’s clean. Now stop doing that or I’ll never get this damn thing tied,” Steve said, slapping away Mark’s hand and going back to work the tie. “I’m used to doing this on myself and everything looks backwards.”

  They were in Steve’s luxury suite sized room getting ready for Clara’s funeral. Mark had realized that the suit that he had worn to his Aunt’s funeral was now painfully small and called Steve in a panic. Of course, Steve had an abundance of clothes that could pass as funeral wear. Unfortunately Steve was an inch taller and wider than Mark, so he felt like he was getting ready for clown college instead of a funeral. It was just one more thing to feel uncomfortable and awkward about.

  “No,” Mark said, “this whole thing. I shouldn’t go to the funeral, no one even invited me.”

  Steve rolled his eyes. “Mark, funerals aren’t invitation only. There’s a reason why they put them in the newspaper, y’know, with the date and time and all that shit. Besides, we’re getting the day off from school. There,” he said, wiggling the knot around. “You’re gorgeous. Go check your fine ass out.”

  “I could give a crap about school,” Mark said, pushing his hair around, not really sure what else he should be doing with it. The enthusiasm he’d had for grooming had left him when Clara did. “I still feel . . .”