by Jack Lance
‘And so, on September second, Jason is born. Jason was the name she would have given her unborn child – the one Pete had murdered – if it had been a boy. Mikey dies, and her child is born. Oh, there are a few raised eyebrows about the size of her newborn, but no one is suspicious enough to delve deeper. After that, Pete leaves and Donna never sees him again. Her brother advises her to leave San Francisco behind and make a new life elsewhere. She picks Los Angeles. There she meets Edward Evans and falls in love, for real this time. She marries him two years later. For the rest of her life, Donna sticks to her story that Pete is Jason’s father and that she broke off her relationship with him after her son was born. The secret she takes to her grave is McGray’s abuse of her and her subsequent miscarriage.’
Mitch paused yet again. Jason was thirsty as hell. His throat felt scorched. He kept trying to move his wrists and ankles away from each other, surreptitiously, without drawing Mitch’s attention. It was still hopeless. He coughed and said, ‘But surely that’s impossible? Everyone must have seen that the other baby was missing. There must have been an inquiry.’
Mitch leaned back. He raised a skinny hand and his forefinger pointed at the roof of the van. ‘Of course there was an inquiry. Donna got away with it because no one saw her leave the scene of the crime. They put Halper on the rack. They suspected that he was the one responsible for your disappearance. But he insisted that he knew nothing about a second baby, and finally the chief of the Mount Peytha City Police Department – Joel Kaplan was his name, he died about a decade ago – had to accept his story. Halper’s head was Swiss cheese. He was an alcoholic and God knows what else, but he was also an honest man, and he had been a hero that day in saving my life. After that, Kaplan turned up all kinds of theories. Maybe you hadn’t been in the back seat. Maybe our mother had held you, and the fire had consumed all of you.’
Mitch gazed ahead, looking oddly vulnerable.
‘I don’t know,’ Jason started hesitantly. ‘Did he really think that? I would imagine there are always traces left after a thing like that. I mean, I can’t imagine a human body going entirely to ashes in a blazing fire, not even that of a baby.’
‘You’re right,’ Mitch agreed. ‘The human body doesn’t burn easily. Well, what would you expect? We’re made up of seventy-five percent water, aren’t we? Even crematoriums have to pulverize the bones of the deceased after the cremation.’
Mitch’s hazy expression did not change. ‘Another theory was that you weren’t in the car at all. Maybe a relative or friend was minding you that day. But you were never found, no matter who they asked.’
Agony pierced Jason’s heart. Until now he hadn’t considered that if Donna was not really his mother, his family was not really his family either. He must have real blood relatives out there somewhere. Who were they – besides his psychotic brother Mitch?
‘Kaplan didn’t know what to do any more,’ Mitch continued in the straightforward tone of a news reporter. ‘Everything and anything was possible. Of course, he also put forth that you might have been kidnapped, that someone could have plucked you from the burning Chevy. That’s why, besides Halper, they also questioned Silverstein. But that line of investigation proved just as pointless and fruitless as the others. To make a long story short: your disappearance has remained a mystery to this day. According to Kaplan you were the unlucky one, and I was the lucky one.’
Mitch grinned bitterly. ‘The chief, I have to add, was a man who was averse to working up a sweat. He liked practical solutions. He was the kind of person who sweeps the house and hides the dust beneath the carpet because he doesn’t know what else to do with it. In this case he could think of nothing better to do than push people into putting your name on the headstone. You were gone, most likely dead, maybe burned beyond recognition, and in the end that became the official account. You disappeared beneath the carpet, so to speak. Nor did the press become involved in the case. In those days it was much easier to keep bothersome things like a missing baby from the papers. The world believed that you were inside the coffin. And the grieving Chawkins family did not raise any commotion either. Your grave was covered up with sand and oblivion.’
Jason said nothing. There was nothing to say.
Mitch continued. ‘This happened in 1977. I survived and grew up. As a freak, cast out by everyone. I was in constant emotional and physical pain. No burn specialist could remedy that. That was the price I had to pay for my “good luck”. Until I was ten years old, I lived with my Uncle Sam and Aunt Dina; after that I lived with Uncle Kent and Aunt Kate. That didn’t turn out so well, and at the age of fourteen I was put in my first shelter. It was hell. If you look like me, you have no friends, no hope, no life. Trust me on that.’
The expression on Mitch’s face reflected all kinds of memories resurfacing. Dismal, painful shadows from a dark past.
‘You know what I mean. Despite that, people always kept telling me how glad I should be that at least I had survived. I grew sick of hearing such rubbish. The only thing I retained was a sharp mind. And the Internet has been a blessing to me. Without anyone needing to see me, I could make a decent living. And I also changed my name as soon as I was legally allowed to do so. I no longer wanted to live with that cursed name.’
Jason licked his parched lips. The pain of the rope around his wrists, tied to his back, was becoming unbearable. Meanwhile, the van kept on heading toward an unknown destination. What was Mitch planning to do? The question was on Jason’s lips, but he dared not ask. He let Mitch talk and forced himself to keep alert.
‘As I grew older I went in search of the man who had condemned me to my “good luck”. Steve Silverstein had been sentenced to thirty years in prison. He made parole in 1999. Not long after his release, he suffered a fatal accident.’
Mitch’s lips expanded into a wicked grin.
‘The brakes on his Toyota failed. That’s what the police report claims, at least. It happened when he was driving down a slope, along a deep precipice. Steve didn’t stand a chance. He lost control of the car and plummeted to his death.’
Mitch related this story as if he were reading a newspaper article.
He had also murdered the driver of the truck that had rammed his parent’s car.
Jason was not shocked. Mitch was spiteful, gone mad from the many years of suffering inflicted on him. Certainly he was capable of this degree of violence.
What interested him more was how Mitch could have sabotaged Steve’s car. Had he had help from Doug even then? No, probably not. He had gone in search of Doug after Jason had told Mitch about him during previous visits. That meant that he had to have worked with another hit man back in those days.
‘After Steve’s death, the riddle of your disappearance remained,’ Mitch went on. ‘Let me tell you, I didn’t believe for one minute that you had burned to a crisp. That theory made no sense. I had been pulled from that car alive, our parents’ remains were still recognizable, and of you there was no trace? Impossible.’
Mitch leaned forward.
‘I will be even more precise,’ he said sotto voce. ‘I knew you were still alive.’
Jason tried to crawl backward to avoid Mitch’s penetrating stare, but he was propped against the spare tire as far as he could go.
‘I felt it. We’re identical twins, for fuck’s sake,’ Mitch grated.
Jason opened his mouth to speak, but no words came out.
‘I’ll go you one better,’ Mitch went on. ‘I always knew that I wasn’t alone. Call it faith or whatever else you want. And I also had dreams, or visions, in which I kept seeing a hazy figure that seemed to belong with me.’
Shadows inside the van made Mitch appear taller and more threatening.
‘I spent years searching for you.’
Mitch drew his ravaged face closer to Jason, intent on his loathsome mission.
‘Finally I had something to go on. Thanks to an idea I had a couple of years earlier, to have a sketch of myself made without …’ Mitch
hesitated. ‘Without the burns. What would I have looked like if Steve Silverstein hadn’t been alive, or if he had been sober, at least on that day? With the sketch, I kept Googling PYROPHOBIA, and for birth dates close to my own. Nothing. Then came the day I thought I had found you. A man from Oakland seemed to resemble my sketch. I checked his data at the registry office and studied his family background – you don’t want to know what’s possible on the Internet if you’re at all proficient at hacking. But it couldn’t be the man from Oakland. Then I found your profile and photo on ipyrophobia.com. Right away, I felt sure that this time I was on to something.’
For an instant, a glint of yellow fire glowed in Mitch’s eyes.
‘You were the spitting image of my sketch. And you were almost the same age as I was. That was reason enough to take a closer look at you.’
Mitch leaned back, satisfied.
‘I wasn’t convinced right away. I just couldn’t believe I had actually found you. Even when I saw this one facial characteristic in you, the doubts remained.’
Jason’s eyebrows rose.
Mitch paused again. Not for long.
‘Oh, come on! Be honest. You really don’t see it? It was getting ever more apparent to me, especially when you came over to my place the last time, with my own photographs, and I had to pretend I was crazy, incapable of finding a tomb in a cemetery.’
Mitch spread out his arms, inviting Jason to take a good look at him.
Jason squinted his eyes and studied his twin brother as he never had before. He saw the scars, the skin that resembled a freakish red mask. In his mind’s eye, Jason looked at Mitch’s skin smoothing out. Then he added eyelids. Lips. A nose. Ears. And, what made the most difference, he gave the bald man in the wheelchair what he lacked most – thick black hair just like his own.
Then he got it.
In his mind’s eye, he could see in Mitch the mirror image of himself.
Mitch’s admission that he had murdered Steve Silverstein had not unnerved Jason. But this was a shock. His mind’s eye closed and the moment of recognition fled, like the image of a dream upon waking.
He opened his eyes and gazed out at Mitch. The similarities were gone.
But not completely. He could still see similarities. The shape of Mitch’s face was no different than his own. His chin protruded in the same way with the same diagonal cleft. Only now did he see it.
Mitch followed Jason’s gaze. Quietly he said, ‘Have you never felt that you were incomplete?’
Jason shook his head.
Mitch shrugged. ‘Oh well, I’ve always been looking for you. Not the other way around. But it doesn’t matter. My doubts remained. I’ll tell you what finally did convince me you are Mike. No, I didn’t go looking for other similarities, although I’m sure there are a couple more, such as our penchant for Polaroid photography. I took a different approach …’
Mitch thought for a moment. Suddenly he uttered a cackling laugh.
‘But why should I tell you? You already know.’
‘You interrogated Chris,’ Jason said, his throat as dry and raspy as sandpaper.
Mitch clenched his fists. ‘Precisely! Doug and I could have gone over to Edward’s, or we could have questioned you some more about your past. But when you mentioned Chris, your mother’s only brother, her last surviving relative, I decided to go see him. After all, Chris had been the person closest to Donna, certainly around 1977. It turned out to be a very enlightening visit. I had a suspicion beforehand that you were Mike, because of the physical similarities and the incidences of pyrophobia. If you were Mike, then maybe Chris would know something about it. The question was: how much did he know? Well, he knew all about it. More than I had expected! Everything I told you, I got from him. And it wasn’t even that hard to get him to spill his guts out. I don’t think he ever told anyone else his big secret. Imagine that, keeping it to himself for more than thirty years! But I am quick to add that Doug is an expert in getting people to talk.’
So apparently Chris had not kept it all to himself. He had once said something about it to Jason, although he had forgotten what it was. But it seemed it had inspired him to make his children’s drawing of burning graves, with ‘Mapeetaa,’ an adulteration of Mount Peytha City, written on one of the headstones.
‘And then you killed him.’
He heard his own words, and they hurt.
Mitch turned his head a little.
‘Yes, of course. I couldn’t let him go after that, could I? Besides, I didn’t do it. Doug helped him out of his misery. I couldn’t do it alone, and besides, I keep Doug handy for just that type of need. But I was the one who found the medical data about Chris’s illness. He hadn’t put the files away carefully enough. He admitted, after some prodding from Doug, that he didn’t have long to live. After we had strung him up in the attic, we left a goodbye note and did our best to make everything else look like it was a suicide case. I believe we managed pretty well.’
Jason bit his lower lip. Fresh, hot anger boiled up like magma.
‘That’s how I found out that you were my brother Mikey who had been presumed dead,’ Mitch ranted on, unperturbed. ‘I understood that I hadn’t been the lucky one at all. On the contrary! You are Sunday’s child. You’re not mutilated, you look good, you have a beautiful wife, and you have everything in life you could possibly want. Because you were the first to be saved. I could have been you. I could have had your life. But it’s too late for that now. I knew I would never get justice. But I would have revenge and satisfaction. You would suffer like I suffered. I resolved to make it happen.’
‘Why in such a roundabout way?’ Jason asked furiously. ‘You killed Steve Silverstein, Chris and Kayla. Why not stick a knife between my ribs, if you can’t cope with the fact that I have a better life than you?’
Mitch nodded slowly, as if that option had not occurred to him before.
‘I could have. But why? I thought it would be much more interesting to let you find out for yourself who you really are. I gave it quite some thought. Hence my lie about getting disfigured as a teenager, in a house fire. And the photographs, for instance. Years ago, I knew a boy named Michael Glass who tried to cheer me up. He had a Polaroid camera, took my picture and said, ‘I don’t think you’re ugly. Ugliness is not about how you look on the outside, but about what you are on the inside.’ We’ve all heard that sort of drivel before. Still, I took heart from what he said. He gave me his camera, and I have kept it ever since. Michael wanted me to use it to see who I really am. I decided to use it to make you see who you are: Mikey Chawkins, dead and buried according to official documents, died August eighteenth, 1977.’
Mitch chuckled. ‘I was honored that my pictures affected you so much, you even came to me for advice. But it was more than a psychological game for me. I wanted to make you feel what it is like to be alone, when the things you hold most dear are taken away from you. When you called from San Francisco, saying you’d found something, I made my next move. Before I was going to get satisfaction from you, I wanted you to feel Kayla’s death.’
Jason closed his eyes, his strength and resolve ebbing rapidly. A wave of sorrow welled up from his core being.
‘I’m finished with my story,’ Mitch said. ‘When we heard she was still alive, I sent Doug over to the hospital. He brought you over to my place, before you could come to me.’
He shrugged. ‘And that’s about it. That’s all I have to say.’
In his mind’s eye, Jason saw Kayla. She was dressed in white, standing in a green pasture on a sunny day, somewhere near Ralph. And Donna and Chris. But Kayla’s face was not sunny. Her eyes were dark. The same gaze as the last time he had seen her. They had parted with an argument, the distance between them much greater than he could have imagined even in his worst nightmare. That argument had been their goodbye.
The wave crashed over him.
THIRTY-TWO
Final Resting Place
Fiery tongues rolling in from pitch-black darkn
ess. The inferno is quickly spreading. The fire is undulating around him, clenching white-hot fists. He is unable to move. Scorching flames are beside him, beneath him, above him. Then they assume a shape, turn into a figure. The burning creature has a face. It is Donna Evans, née Campbell. She is the fire, and her torch-like arms reach out for him. No, not for him, past him. He stares at her fiery hands, and only then realizes who is sitting beside him. It’s Mitch, and he is no longer mutilated. He is instead the spitting image of Jason.
This time she’ll save me, he hears him cry over the furious raging of the fire. This time you’ll stay behind, Mawkee.
Then Mitch is gone, just like the burning Donna figure.
But why is the fire still burning?
This time there is no escape. He is the flames’ prey, and the fiery fists pound straight into his face, like a sparking hammer. The pain is terrible. His hair is on fire. His nose, burning like a torch, drops from his face. He claps his hands against his head, and then sees that he is holding a blackened ear.
His screams get louder—
And then he awakened to find Mitch, the Frankenstein monster, glaring at him. Jason was still in the back of the Mercedes van, with his wrists and ankles tied. Apparently he had dozed off. How was that possible?
He remembered his last thought being of Kayla, and that had been too much for him. He must have blacked out.
Mitch shook his head and averted his gaze. Jason used the opportunity to try once again to lever his wrists and ankles apart. But the pain flared up, and he was barely able to suppress a cry of agony. He snorted frantically through his nose. He broke out in a cold sweat and gagged, dizzy, as if he was aboard a ship in a storm after being struck on the head by a falling mast.