Your Son Is Alive

by James Scott Bell

  Paige looked at the bones on her paper plate, and quietly said, “I think not.”

  “What happened?”

  “I had to give him a spurn notice,” she said.

  “A what?”

  “We broke up.”

  Dylan smiled.

  “Boss?”

  “Hm?”

  “Maybe I can help.”

  “Help?”

  “Be another set of ears,” she said.

  “I don’t want put any of this on you,” Dylan said.

  “It’s for the team,” she said.

  He trusted her completely. No problem there. And maybe hearing the information again, and running it through her, would open up some sort of crack he hadn’t seen before.

  So he gave her the latest, up to the strange name Phroso and its connection with a film called Freaks.

  “I’ve heard of that one,” Paige said.

  “Have you seen it?”

  She shook her head. “My little brother is a film nerd. Sixteen and he’s seen everything. He told me about that movie. He tried to make me watch it even, but I didn’t.”

  In an offhand way, Dylan said, “Maybe he can figure out why this guy would use that name.”

  “I’ll ask him,” Paige said. “It couldn’t hurt.”

  Just before leaving the office, Paige did something she hadn’t done in the year she’d been working for Dylan Reeve.

  She hugged him.

  Alone in the office, Dylan popped another Corona and thought of his first years at U. C. Davis, where he had come to appreciate suds. He and his roommate had a saying that one beer was not enough, two was just right … and three was not enough. There were times when he’d pushed past to four or five and ended up in the oval office, as they say. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had more than two beers in close proximity.

  Tonight he’d stick with two.

  He thought about the reporter, took out his card. He used the desktop in the reception area to get to the guy’s blog.

  And read it, with increasing clenching of jaw.

  Hey crime buds, your beat reporter was on the move today. Guess where he showed up? If you said the office of the mayor of Los Angeles, you’d be thinking straight, but that wouldn’t be it. Somebody more famous than the mayor. The guy you’ve seen on TV doing his lawyer thing. That legend in his own mind, Sam Wyant.

  I hear he’s really a pussycat in person, but I didn’t get to find out. I was there to get a comment on the big murder case he’s handling, the one involving the L.A. Lakers favorite joint mechanic, Dr. Dylan Reeve.

  But because I’m always on the move, things happen. We crack reporters call this serendipity (good word, isn’t it?).

  I walk into the reception area of Sam Wyant’s office, and who should I see? None other than the miscreant doc himself.

  It’s criminal how lucky I am.

  The good doctor looked a little nonplussed (another good word) that I was there, asking him for a comment. And then I was unceremoniously asked to leave without a single comment from lawyer Wyant.

  Take that as you will. No protestation of innocence. No concern for the dead woman.

  But Dr. Reeve was unwilling to give me his side of the story. That IS a fact. You may do with it what you will.

  Your intrepid reporter will stay on the job.

  Dylan finished his Corona with an angry chug.

  And opened another.

  79

  The first flicker of consciousness had to fight through wet sandbags. Erin was aware only of the thickness of her thoughts, nothing coherent, her head lolling around on her neck. Darkness … no, something flashing, but where? She wanted to go back to sleep.

  No. No. No.

  Fight.

  Sitting. She was in chair. She felt the chair arms, tried to move her own, but they moved only an inch.

  She moved them again. Heard jangling.

  Handcuffs?

  Police.

  Detectives, in her condo.

  The last thing she remembered.

  She took a deep breath and willed her eyes to open wide.

  The light was in front of her. Some kind of flickering.

  It was a movie!

  A black and white movie … a silent movie.

  She heard the wicka wicka wicka of a movie projector somewhere behind her.

  She tried to turn around, then realized her waist and legs were manacled, too.

  And she had a desperate need to pee.

  The movie. Wait. It seemed familiar. A woman approaching a man in mask who was sitting at an organ, playing.

  The Phantom of the Opera. That was it. Everybody had seen that bit.

  But why here?

  And now the woman was reaching for the mask, hesitating, reaching again and …off!

  And that face! That horrible face!

  Why was she being forced to watch this?

  The movie stopped. The projector sound ceased.

  For a moment she was in total darkness.

  Then lights came on, filled the room. She squinted at the sudden assault on her pupils.

  A voice behind her said, “That is one of the great moments in movie history!”

  It was him.

  The excited voice.

  She turned her head as much as she could, but couldn’t see directly behind her.

  The room was large, with white walls.

  “And you’ve seen it in a beautiful sixteen millimeter print. As clean as the original audience would have seen it.”

  There were three chairs to her left, and three to her right. She was in the middle of a row of theater seats.

  “Did you know,” the voice said, “that they had to have ambulances ready outside the theaters showing this movie? At the sight of the phantom many people fainted. Some just could not take it.”

  Her mouth was dry and in her nostrils a medicine smell. Was that what knocked her out so completely?

  “Lon Chaney was the greatest actor of all time,” the voice said. “Bar none! Nobody could evoke such feeling just with his face. No words were needed. You’re horrified, and then you cry.”

  “Why …”—every word an effort— “… am I here?”

  “God, you’re going to love it here. I want you to be comfortable. I’ve got this place tricked out like a luxury hotel, if you like rooms made out of cement.”

  He laughed at that. Too loudly. The laughter bounced off the walls.

  “This used to be a bomb shelter,” he said. “The theater was built in the fifties, back when there was this big thing called the Red Scare. Americans thought the Russians were going to bomb them into oblivion, so it was a big deal for a while to build bomb shelters. A lot of movie theaters, especially in the Midwest, did that. The owner of this theater did it right. He was a Christian, sorry to say. He wanted to be ready for the Russians and the Tribulation. So here it is. When I bought the place, it was closed up. Had been since the earthquake of ’94. You doing okay?”

  She wanted to see his face, wanted to spit in it.

  “I have to … go to the bathroom,” she said.

  “I thought you might. No worries. The bathrooms in my theater are clean. That’s one of the things people like about this place. Clean bathrooms. I have a half-wit who does the cleaning. I’d like you to meet him.”

  “Let me go,” Erin said.

  “To the bathroom? Or in general?”

  She was getting her brain back, her equilibrium. Reasoning power, like a cold car engine struggling to turn over, started to churn.

  “You want me to go all over your nice seat?” Erin said.

  “Good answer. I like that about you. Always did.”

  Always?

  She heard soft footsteps behind her.

  He said, “Now don’t be afraid of what I’m about to do. This is just a precaution to keep you from doing something unwise. This won’t take a second.”

  Something looped around her head and tightened on her neck.

  “I
s that too tight?” he said.

  She wanted to reach for it but her hands were immobilized.

  He pulled the noose tighter.

  “Don’t fight me, please,” he said.

  She complied. She had to let him control her. Her bladder could not wait.

  “You just let me guide you,” he said. “Believe me when I tell you it’s going to be all right. Everything. It will become clear to you. And the bathrooms are clean. I promise. Please don’t mind the blindfold when I put it on you. It’s just a precaution. Everything needs to unfold in a very specific way. Just let me guide you. Trust me. You really can, you know.”

  80

  Three times in his life Dylan had a dream so vivid and real that he woke up sweating and thinking he could never show his face in public again. It was the same dream, with only a few minor differences.

  He had the dream first in college when he was preparing for an oral history exam. He’d fallen behind in his studies and was cramming for three nights straight, kept alive by Mountain Dew and Pizza Hut. The night before the exam he fell into a deep sleep and dreamed he woke up in a New York hotel room seven hours before his exam in California. The dream cut to him running through the airport, getting the last seat on a plane heading to San Francisco. He got off the plane and jumped into a taxi and told the driver he would get a big tip if he could get him to Davis in half an hour. The driver was Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  Somehow, Arnold got him to the university and right up to the lecture hall. The dream cut to Dylan bursting through the doors and running down to the front of a packed classroom.

  That’s when he felt the air conditioning on the most sensitive part of his body. The entire classroom gasped and began to laugh.

  Completely naked, Dylan stood for a moment like an inert skeleton in an anatomy class, then looked around desperately for something to cover himself with. The only thing available was an empty paper cup the professor had on the lectern. He grabbed the cup and held it where Adam wore his fig leaf, and started to shuffle toward the exit.

  That’s when he woke up.

  He next had the dream shortly after he received his chiropractic license. Only this time he was speaking to a convention of fellow chiropractors on the issue of vertebrate reconstruction. He woke up in the same hotel room in New York and this time flew to Las Vegas. The taxi driver was still Arnold Schwarzenegger.

  The result was the same. Auditorium, air conditioning, laughter. The paper cup this time was from Starbucks.

  The last time he had the dream was the night before he was slated to speak to some high school basketball coaches about common sports injuries. In the dream, that turned into the entire Los Angeles Lakers and Clippers teams meeting at Staples Center. New York hotel room, flight to Los Angeles, taxi. Only this time the taxi driver was Magic Johnson.

  Crowd. Nakedness. Paper cup.

  That same feeling of being exposed and helpless was what he felt now looking at the blog. He was an internet story. He was presumed guilty. They were probably reading about him in China now.

  And there was nothing he could do about it.

  Using the burner phone, he called Erin to let her know what was happening. But it went to voicemail. He left a short message for her to give him a call back.

  He hoped she was hanging in there. And in a way, hoped that he could somehow bring her through this nightmare into the soft, warm light of a lasting morning.

  After all these years … because when they first got married and honeymooned in Sonoma, they’d awakened that first glorious day and looked out their inn window, at a vineyard-covered hillside, his arm around Erin in her soft, white bathrobe, and he’d said, “My life has one purpose now. Your happiness.”

  And happy they were, especially those first precious years, when it was all newness and passion, and when Kyle arrived a different kind of newness and a deeper love for each other. The evenings they would spend on the bed, just talking, the baby between them in his onesie, until he fell asleep and they gently put him in his bassinet.

  He’d wanted to guarantee Erin’s happiness, always. Even during the dark years, and in the aftermath of their split.

  Now, staring at the computer screen and the reporter’s blog, the demon GUILT came at him again, teeth bared.

  Because he hadn’t made her happy after all.

  81

  He’d let her use the bathroom but kept the noose thing around her neck. He warned her about taking off the blindfold. It was everything she could do not to rip it off and look at his face. But he said she’d never see Kyle again if she tried it, and she believed him.

  She had to tap the stall walls and kick porcelain before she knew where she was. She felt the noose loosen a bit.

  “You can turn around now,” he said.

  “Close the door,” she said.

  “I can’t do that, but I’ll turn my back.”

  Nature made its final demand and she pulled down her pants and lowered herself into the humiliating position.

  “You know who you remind me of, Erin?”

  She didn’t care. And said nothing.

  “Claudette Colbert,” he said. “In It Happened One Night. You know the one, with Clark Gable. Have you seen it?”

  She had.

  She stayed silent.

  “It is so good! Always packs the house when we play it. It has that famous scene, where Clark Gable pretends he knows everything about hitchhiking, it’s so funny, and he tries to stop some cars with his thumb, but none of them stop. Then Claudette tells him—”

  Dear God, can’t this man stop talking?

  “—give me a chance, and Clark Gable laughs at her, but then she goes to the side of the road and as a car comes by she pulls up her skirt and gives the car a view of her very delicious leg. Screech! The guy hits the brakes. It is so funny!”

  Pause.

  Relief.

  “Are you finished yet?” the man said.

  “Are you still turned around?” Erin said.

  “Come wash your hands.”

  The noose got tight again.

  He guided her to the sink.

  “Let me turn the water on for you,” he said.

  She heard the shushing of water.

  “The soap dispenser is right next to it,” he said.

  She found the soap and washed.

  When she was done, he put a paper towel in her hands.

  “He wasn’t right for you,” he said.

  Her body began to vibrate, from her feet to her legs to her chest. Nerve piling on nerve.

  “What?” she said.

  “That Andy guy,” he said. “I’ve dealt with his kind all my life. Slick smilers. Empty suits. Worthless people. You know who would have played him in a movie? Edward Arnold. The world is better off without him, believe me. We need more real people. We need more Lon Chaneys.”

  “So you killed him? You monster—”

  “No! That’s what they always aid about Chaney! But I am going to explain all to you, and you’ll come to respect me.”

  “I’ll never respect you,” she said.

  “Maybe respect isn’t the right word. More like be in awe of. I have waited a long time for you to be in awe of me. And I don’t want you to worry. Let’s go back and sit down.”

  She felt the pull of the noose. A dog, she was. But she wasn’t going to let him master her.

  When she was in the seat again he said, “Don’t you see how awesome it was that I could kill a man attacking you at a phone booth? That I set it all up? That I had him carry your ex’s business card just to mess with the police?”

  “Monster …”

  “I did him a favor! His mind was riddled with drugs. He used to work for me. Now he doesn’t have to wonder where his next meal’s coming from.”

  Erin twisted in her seat.

  “I know you’re dying to rip my mask off, so to speak. Just like Mary Philbin does to Lon Chaney. A woman just has to know. And you will! Just not yet.”

  He
took her right arm and attached the cuff to it.

  “Is that necessary?” she said.

  “Be patient, Erin. You’re not in any danger. No one’s going to hurt you. There’s a point to all this.”

  Left arm, shackled.

  “That’s enough,” she said.

  “You’re right,” he said. “When the time comes, you’ll be completely free to move around. Now, are you hungry?”

  Erin didn’t answer.

  He said, “How would you like to have one of the most delicious culinary experiences of your life? I know you would.”

  “No.”

  “Ah, not so fast. I’m talking about one of the supreme pleasures. Maybe the second best. What do you think?”

  She didn’t think anything, except that in this unreal dungeon maybe some old-fashioned movie justice could get done. Somehow.

  “You are in such good shape,” he said. “A man should be able to compliment a woman on her figure, don’t you agree?”

  Erin gripped the ends of the armrests.

  “Women who let themselves go have no appeal for me,” he said. “You have great appeal. You kept it. Now, while I get you some food, I’ll give you a little hint. This is not the first time you and I have been together.”

  What?

  A moment later he took the blindfold off her. The room was dark.

  Then the projector sound started again, and on the wall in front of her the movie, The Phantom of the Opera, started again. Just after the unmasking. The Phantom and his horrible face, he was pointing, pointing at the girl, who was shrinking back in horror.

  Erin heard a door open.

  And close.

  82

  Dylan woke up with a headache, which he attributed to the extra beer he’d drunk at the office. He made the coffee strong and sat with a cup and his laptop in his living room.

  He looked at the crime blog again and noticed that the post had garnered fifteen comments.

  He didn’t want to look.