It’s a silly and childish distraction, but also an effective one.
He drops into his easy chair and allows the fantasy to take shape in his mind. It conjures visions of long-ago Saturday nights in front of the television with Willie and a bowl of popcorn, watching old horror and science fiction movies like Them! and Robinson Crusoe on Mars on a local UHF channel, and a different, far more annoying kind of snow. He allows himself to wander back through those times, and this occupies him for some while. But soon his finger begins to throb beneath the Band-Aid, and other thoughts invade, force him to look elsewhere.
Dignon sips his beer. “Maybe there’s truth in mythology,” he says aloud, glancing over at the cat.
Mr. Tibbs seems unconvinced.
Dignon tries to remember what the specific entries in the book said about both creatures, the Death Maker and the Siren. Preposterous as it may be, could they be the link he’s been searching for, the bridge that could connect and give meaning to the odd events of late?
It’s true, after all, that from the moment he saw Bree Harper’s name and phone number in that book he’s been unable to stop thinking about her. He’d become instantly obsessed with her. And it’s getting worse. She occupies his mind constantly now.
Maybe it’s all chemical, he thinks. The post traumatic stress disorder, the lack of decent sleep, all the pills he’s been taking—even those he took then abruptly stopped, like the antidepressants, which the doctor warned against stopping quickly—and the heavy drinking. Certainly his mind is blurred by these factors, so is it all mere judgment and perception, or more correctly, a lack thereof?
Is Bree Harper to blame for all of it?
She’s not human.
Her beautiful face comes to him. He scratches at himself nervously.
“I don’t believe in coincidences,” she’d said.
Do you? asks a voice in his head. Do you believe in coincidences, Dignon?
He closes his eyes and sees his father’s forlorn face staring back at him through the darkness, an escaped inmate roaming free.
Holding up his beer bottle, he watches the liquid through the dark glass and remembers the little apartment in Manhattan, Lisa sitting nude on the edge of the mussed bed with a fluffy white towel in hand, her hair dangling, limp and still wet from a shower.
“Who called?”
“Willie.”
“What’s wrong?”
“My father…he died.”
“Oh, Dignon, I’m…”
Even she couldn’t get the word sorry out. Because she wasn’t sorry, not really, and neither was anyone else.
He remembers Willie’s voice on the phone that day. “He’s dead.”
Nothing more, and spoken in monotone, recited, reported.
“OK,” Dignon answered.
No tears, no words of comfort, sorrow or regret. Nothing. Perhaps later, once it sunk in, relief, but Dignon can’t be sure the old man afforded them even that much.
I’m paying for my sins, Dignon, don’t think I’m not.
“No you’re not,” he whispers. “I am.”
Wind kicks snow against the windows, brings him back to the other night. It had sounded strange then, almost lyrical in an unsettling way.
Have you heard it yet?
The silence bothers him. It isn’t right that Mrs. Rogo’s apartment is so quiet, that the entire place doesn’t smell of whatever dish she’s preparing for dinner. Even the typical city sounds are absent. Maybe he and Tibbs really are alone on a strange and barren planet. A ribbon of tension curls around him. Early warnings of panic squeeze his abdomen, crawl into the base of his throat and strangle him.
Easy, he tells himself, easy now.
He swallows more alcohol then moves through the apartment to the bathroom. Without turning on the light he puts the toilet lid down, sits in the shadows and watches Nikki’s apartment window. Though the shade is still up, which in itself is strange, the room beyond remains dark. Maybe she’s at work already. Could be she hasn’t even gotten up yet. She works nights so she probably didn’t get in until very late. Still, he tells himself, she’s there. He can’t see her because she’s asleep in her bed, but she’s there. She’s there. She’s there. He continues chanting this mantra in his head, focuses on it rather than the panic.
Perhaps as a defense mechanism, he’s rather abruptly drowsy. Sleep seems as good an escape as any, but here? He leans back against the toilet tank, finishes his beer and sets the bottle in the adjacent sink. A row of plastic prescription bottles sit along the back edge. Anti-depressants, Valium, sleeping tablets, anti-anxiety pills, and another old and expired bottle he now stashes his pot in. Fucking drugstore, he thinks. This realization, that his doctor has given him all these things not because he’s irresponsible or incompetent, but because in his professional and learned opinion Dignon requires these drugs, makes him even more lethargic. His head feels heavy and unbalanced, like if he doesn’t continue to make a concerted effort it will loll to the side and dangle as if his neck has broken.
But then, light.
The sudden intrusion filling Nikki’s apartment window restores him to life. Unnoticed, early evening has arrived at some prior point, as all else is engulfed in darkness. Dignon sits up straight so his back no longer leans against the toilet. He rubs his eyes. His mouth is dry and mucky. He runs his tongue across his front teeth. They feel coarse and in need of a good brushing.
Across the small divide, he sees the same old bureau, the same closet with no door. Why had the light come on if Nikki wasn’t in the room? It remains empty for some time. Dignon waits, watches, breathes…until she finally crosses into the light.
Her normally spiked hair is calmer but mussed, indicating she has rolled out of bed only moments earlier. He’s right then, she must’ve worked last night and slept through the day. She wears only a tiny pair of bikini panties and a white tank top T-shirt that leaves little to the imagination.
Don’t look, he tells himself. It’s not right, what’s wrong with you?
But he does look.
Nikki leans wearily against the bureau, a cigarette dangling from her lips as she opens the top drawer with one hand and rummages around inside it a while. Eventually, her hand returns grasping a pair of socks. She slides the drawer closed and whirls toward the window as if startled by a sudden noise beyond it. With sleepy eyes void of their usual harsh and threatening makeup, Nikki squints and takes a hesitant step closer to the window.
There’s no way she can see me, Dignon reasons. The darkness hides me.
She slowly runs her index finger along the windowpane, the tip clearing away a thin veil of condensation. And then without warning she flattens her palm against the glass and begins wiping at it furiously until the window is completely clear. Her breasts strain against the tight T-shirt, her nipples long and stiff.
Dignon blinks rapidly, clearing a montage of images firing through his mind.
Nikki laughs, butts her cigarette in an ashtray on the bureau then leans closer to the window and licks the pane, her tongue pink and moist and flicking back and forth.
Behind her, a dark shape moves into the room but remains far enough in shadow that Dignon cannot make out any particular features.
He stands to relieve the tightness in his pants and also to get a better look, moving slowly so as not to draw attention to himself. And yet, the way Nikki stares across the way, he’d swear she could see him. Though he feels ridiculous, he has to be sure, so he raises a hand and offers a slight wave.
Rather than respond, Nikki continues licking, and when she’s apparently had her fill, moves back a step and inspects the window with a furtive smile.
Dignon swallows, feels his heart punch against his chest.
The figure behind her moves into the light with a slow, seductive gait. The shadows part and Bree Harper appears wearing only an oversized shirt, the tails hanging just below the tops of her thighs. Her bare legs are taut and muscled, yet still feminine and soft. There is so
mething different about her now, an animalistic quality. Sleek but powerful, she slides up against Nikki and wraps her arms around her waist. Nikki tosses her head back so their cheeks touch, and Bree playfully nuzzles her neck.
The tightness in Dignon’s crotch increases.
Bree cups Nikki’s breasts, and Nikki turns so they’re facing each other.
They kiss passionately, hungrily.
With a quick and violent tug of Nikki’s hair, her head twists at an unnatural angle and her neck appears to snap. Her body goes limp and collapses to the floor, out of sight.
Bree’s mouth opens and twists as if she’s in sudden agony. Her eyes roll to solid black, her face shifts and changes, the bones and structure impossibly stretching and elongated as she morphs into some alternate creature.
Dignon jumps back, away from the window and stares straight ahead a moment, uncertain if he’s seen what he thinks he has.
But Bree is gone.
The room is empty.
The light goes out.
His vision adjusts to the darkness, focuses on the night.
It has stopped snowing.
There is movement behind him, in the bathroom doorway. He looks back, expecting to see Mr. Tibbs.
It is Bree Harper instead.
Something between a groan and a strangled scream of shock and terror escapes him, most of it dying in his throat. He staggers back, loses his balance, his feet slipping on—water? A rush of seawater, beach sand and seaweed floating in it, gushes across his bathroom floor. He reaches for a towel bar to prevent his fall but crashes against the wall before managing to steady himself.
“Don’t be afraid.” Bree’s violet eyes, wide and intense, cut the shadows. Her face has returned to normal. “Do you know how long I’ve searched for you? Years, Dignon, decades. Centuries.”
Pain shoots up through his temple and settles behind his eyes. He brings a trembling hand to his cheek. His flesh is warm and clammy.
“Don’t you know how special you are?” she asks. “Do you have any idea the things you’re capable of, the power you possess?”
“I dreamed of you, a nightmare, I—”
“It wasn’t a dream, Dignon, it wasn’t a nightmare.”
According to legend, they are often sought after, enslaved or destroyed by a myriad of evil beings or practitioners of black magic who seek to draw power by possessing the darkness engulfing a Death Maker’s soul.
A violent tremor throttles him from head to toe. Nausea grips him. He tries to speak but cannot.
Bree slowly unbuttons her shirt. “Come closer.”
A painful tightness clamps across Dignon’s chest like a vise, and his knees buckle. He slides to the floor, barely able to breathe.
She opens her mouth, her lips parting slowly as she lets the shirt slide back over her shoulders and fall to the floor at her bare feet.
What Dignon hears is inhuman; a sound captivating and grotesque, an otherworldly shriek that mesmerizes and shreds his soul at once. What Dignon sees sends him tumbling into unconsciousness, blinded by the brilliance of her beauty, his eyes burned to sightless raw orbs from staring directly into the magnificence of the sun.
* * *
As light flickers through the darkness, his vision returns, and with it, terror.
The world appears at an angle. He realizes he’s lying on his stomach, the bathroom tile dry but cool against his flushed cheek. It’s morning, but at some point during the night he’s fallen from the toilet.
His fear retreats. Confusion steps in.
Lightheaded, Dignon struggles to his feet. He feels like he’s been pummeled from head to toe. In the mirror he discovers a bruise below his left eye, the puffy blotch of purple, yellow and black a testament to the force with which his face hit the floor. He presses on it. Pain pulses across his face. Odd, he thinks, how beauty always appears when he least expects it. He watches the bruise a while, unable to take his eyes from it.
In time, he plucks the empty beer bottle from the sink, puts it aside then runs the water. Cupping a small amount in his hands, he splashes it across his face. The jarring temperature awakens him fully. He cups another handful and this time drinks it, which soothes his dry-mouth but does little to combat his horribly sour breath. Brushing his teeth solves the problem, but once he’s finished he finds himself standing over the sink, bent at the waist and studying the water with great fascination as it swirls and gurgles down the small drain. Dignon wonders what it looks like down there, deep in the pipes amidst the rust and sludge and slime. Were a person trapped somewhere down there, would he know? Would anyone? Could he hear them? Could they hear him?
The Band-Aid on his finger has become worn and soiled. He carefully peels it back, the glue adhering to and pulling his skin. He finds specks of blood staining the small netting in the center of the Band-Aid’s underbelly, so he tosses the bandage into the trash. After retrieving a fresh one from the medicine cabinet, he applies it to his finger, hiding the circular raw area that has turned a bizarre shade of pink since the last time he saw it. This layer of him, this part of his flesh designed to remain hidden, looks like a burst blister, the dead skin torn away. Dignon tightens the Band-Aid. His fingertip throbs in response a few times then falls quiet.
Mr. Tibbs appears in the doorway. Perhaps he’s been there all along.
He gazes deep into the cat’s eyes, searching for something—anything—that might deliver him from this.
With a sigh, Mr. Tibbs saunters off down the hallway.
Dignon moves to the window. The storm has finally ceased but the glass is caked with ice and a swathe of snow that’s been blown across the lower portion of the pane like sand art. With a hand towel, he wipes condensation from the window until the building next door comes into view.
Nikki’s shade is drawn.
ELEVEN
He sits in front of the window overlooking the street and drinks his coffee, waiting and watching, confident that sooner or later Nikki will emerge from her apartment. The snow has stopped and the city has descended into a deep freeze. Even the occasional walker is absent, nothing moves out there, and though Dignon can hear the rumble of nearby snowplows he has yet to actually see one. Dressed in jeans, winter boots and a heavy sweater, a knit hat on his head, he gently strokes the parka in his lap with his free hand. He wants to be ready to spring into action the moment he sees Nikki. She has to be all right, he tells himself, she has to be.
It’s Sunday. She’s probably sleeping late. It’s her day off, isn’t it? Must be.
Sunday. The word repeats over and over in Dignon’s head. Sunday. Church day when he and Willie were children. They never attended, but their father did, or at least that’s where he claimed he went every Sunday morning. And while he was gone, presumably seeking absolution for his sins, his sons suffered for them.
As always, Dignon fights the memories, but they’re stronger than usual, more powerful this time, clinging to him and refusing to let go. He begins to perspire.
He remembers that cellar well, the low ceiling, the cement floor cool and slightly damp beneath his bare feet. But most of all he remembers the section directly under the kitchen, where full basement turned to crawlspace and where cement turned to dirt.
Dignon remembers their cat Homer sitting outside in the grass, looking down at them through the narrow cellar window with such soulful eyes.
I’m sorry, he seems to say, I’d save you if I could.
“Homer was sent to us by God,” Willie says dreamily, drifting in and out of consciousness. “All you have to do is look into his eyes to know that. All the mysteries of the universe are locked away in those eyes, only no one sees, no one understands.”
“How can you still believe in God?”
“How can you not?”
Willie’s face is so very pale, eyes closed but moving rapidly beneath the lids, the only indication of life. “Tell me a story,” Willie says, slurring the words. “Tell me a story Dignon.”
“What k
ind of story?”
“Anything, a—an adventure or a love story or a fantasy, anything at all.”
A slight breeze moves through the crawlspace, seeping through the cracks and spaces in the molding and the aging wood frame, the paint around the tiny window cracked and flaked. Dignon detects the faint aroma of food. Cooking, someone is cooking—grilling—some distance away, the delicious smells carried on the wind only to die in this awful place. Music…can he hear music too?
And then, panic. Eyes opening to the pipes and network of cobwebs just inches from his face, the dirt beneath him somehow loose and hard all at once, the smell of earth mixed with bleach from the washer on the far side of the basement, his body wiggling, trying to move, to escape this confined space, this coffin, this tomb. His body bucks as if in seizure but his attempts at movement are futile. Get me out get me out please get me out I can’t move I can’t breathe I can’t take it please get me out of here I can’t move I can’t move I—
Ironically, movement is what rescues him, returns him to the steaming mug of coffee in his hand, the alleged safety of his apartment, the window before him, the snow and ice and the street below.
The mug in his hand jiggles wildly, nearly spilling his coffee. Carefully, he puts the mug down and clenches his fists until the trembling passes. “Breathe,” he whispers. “Breathe.”
Through the window, he notices a trash bag down by the curb and focuses his attention on it until the memories have left him. This isn’t trash day, why—who would throw a bag of trash there? The bag is in pristine condition and isn’t buried under snow, which means it’s only been placed there recently.
He studies it more closely.
It begins to move. Rather, something inside it begins to move, bowing and violently tenting the plastic in various directions.
Dignon scrambles into his parka and runs for the door.
As he bounds down the front steps toward the curb, his feet slip out from under him and he falls, his body rolling through the snow and sliding along the ice until it finally comes to a stop just shy of the street.
Blood In Electric Blue Page 13