by Lee Thompson
It’s easy for you now, you’ve already lost everything that matters. Sometimes, secrets are all we have to protect us from the world.
Herb sipped his drink. “I’m sorry.”
“You going to tell Pat we had this talk?”
“I don’t know what I’m going to do, other than go back to bed and get some well-deserved sleep.”
“You don’t deserve shit. Just like me. Maybe a long time ago. But things have changed. Repent. That message was meant for one of us, you think?”
“Pat doesn’t care about that. I don’t think he did it.”
“You don’t know him as well as you think then.” Rusty walked through the door and his footsteps echoed in the hall. Herb put his drink down and sighed into his hands.
Pat’s not going to like this.
* * *
Inside the old mill, branches clawing at its worn shell, I had to constantly tell myself: It’s okay, there’s no one else out here.
But the weight of another presence pressed in.
A mouse, eyes lit by the beam of my flashlight, skittered off into the dark. Wind howled through the window I’d used to gain access. I turned in a slow circle, but the light didn’t penetrate as far as I thought it should. Sometimes the darkness ran too deep.
The building had been closed for over a decade and during hard times, a few years back, Wylie had sold the property to the State of Pennsylvania. Wylie didn’t get drunk often, but when he did, he always brought up how much it irritated him that they bought it and left it to rot. I didn’t understand it either.
Shining the beam along the walls, I found tons of graffiti, half of it witty, the other half pathetic. Wrappers and beer cans littered a corner. I pulled Mark’s onyx key from my shirt and rubbed it between my fingers hoping for luck. The walls creaked and the ceiling groaned. Plumes of dust fell from the open rafters in a straight line toward me, as if someone walked above. I cradled the shotgun, hoping it’d give me a little more courage, but my fear ran deeper than facing something human.
I followed the wall to the back of the building, where the bathroom door stood open, a murk of baby blue tile coating the cube, stench pouring out, batting at my face. I crossed the threshold, heart hammering, flashlight gliding back and forth underneath the doors of stalls as I bent over, searching.
Something black and wet caught my eye in the stall farthest in the room. I opened the door. Stuffed behind the moldy toilet, a black trash bag lay half full. I held my breath, knelt down and leaned forward. The bag moved in my hand. I let go and jumped back.
A snake slithered across the tile, into the next stall, its eyes sparkling in the light.
“Jesus. Get out of here.”
Its tongue flicked out. I stomped the floor and the snake sped away. I grabbed the bag again, jerked it free. Carrying it to the main floor I dumped the contents out and ran my hand over my face, almost dropping the shotgun.
The pile of girls’ clothes didn’t have any blood on them.
I touched the fabric as if that alone could bring me closer to them.
I’m going to find out who did this to you, who stripped away your decency and left you as a message.
Far off, I thought I heard the girls crawling through the forest, crying. Closer, a sound like water dripping. In my mind’s eye, I pictured Mark, pale and thin, clothes soaked with river water, the gash in his head open and bleeding, blurring eyes as dark as the amulet that should have been in his grave.
I put the clothes back in the bag.
Hair stood on the back of my neck. I forced myself to take a breath. I turned and out of the corner of my eye saw Mark’s face a foot from my head, my brother’s smile a splash of white teeth grinning in the gloom like the Cheshire Cat.
Chapter 12
I almost tripped over my feet as I ran through the bathroom door, the mill darker than when I’d went in and found the trash bag full of dead girls’ clothes. The shotgun. I’d left it. Run. Get the hell out of here. My throat hurt, sucking in the dust I kicked up. My neck popped as I looked back to see if Mark followed.
He stood in the doorway like the dead girls had outside Ethan’s room.
I sprinted across the mill’s empty expanse. The door. I threw the bag over my shoulder and hit the barrier, expecting to break it open. I bounced off, a chain rattling as I landed on my back. The fucking chain. I turned and pushed myself up, light spilling around the piece of plywood over the window on the west wall. Shimmying through it, I heard Mark say, “Listen. See.”
I fell on my face outside. My jaw went slack and I shook my head. I grabbed a branch and pulled myself to my feet, to the crackle of fire. Making my way along the dark tunnel of wall and woods, the flames around the front of the building threw dancing shadows across the ground. Ashes hung in the air. Stopping at the corner to catch my breath, I dropped the bag. A cross burned, twelve-feet high, against the night sky. A man writhed on it, consumed by flames.
“Mark?”
I wept. The man screamed in agony and twisted his neck so far back it looked like it’d break. Exhausted, I leaned against the side of the mill, fingers clutching for the bag that held the dead girls’ clothes. As I touched it, they appeared around the burning man, sitting, dirty summer dresses pulled up to their knees, eyes on their savior, all whispering, holding hands now, “Johnathan means: Gift of God. Gift of God means: Martyr.”
The burning man met my eyes. I stared at my own tortured face.
“Jesus Christ.”
I ran for the Jeep.
* * *
“Do you ever sleep?”
Mike looked up from the desk in the living room. The laptops’ monitor cast an electric glow over his face. Her silhouette, the hall light behind her, spilled her shadow across the wall beside him.
“No.”
Angela sat on the floor at the edge of the desk. “Are you worried about your mother?”
“What do you care?”
“Just asking.”
“Why are you here?” He leaned back in the chair.
“Do you need a drink?”
Mike sighed. “I need more than a drink.”
“Hold on a second.” She stood and moved off into the dark. Crystal tinkled and liquid poured. She returned, offered him the goblet. “It’ll take the edge off.”
“You know that from personal experience?”
“I doubt you’d think any less of me if I did.”
He nodded. “Sorry.”
Angela sat on the floor again. “What are you working on? Something giving you trouble?”
“The past few years, everything gives me trouble.”
“It can’t be that bad.”
“Why aren’t you in bed? Angela… was it?”
“I don’t sleep.”
“Are you trying to form a bond here? I never sleep well either.”
She giggled. It reminded him of the other redhead, the one from the diner. “Why aren’t you married? Do you have no one to love?”
I see. That’s your angle here. You’re looking to marry into money. He leaned into the high-backed chair. You came to the wrong man, honey.
Angela stroked the desk’s leg, leaned her cheek against it. “Do you want me to go with you?”
“Where?”
“To see her.”
“My mother? I don’t want to see her.”
“Then why did you come back?”
Mike sipped the brandy. Heat spread through his stomach, and the taste lingered on his lips. “Because I had to.”
“To bury her?”
“You ask a lot of questions of strangers. How’d you get the job of caretaking? What have you done so far?”
She ignored him. It brought an odd mixture of disgust and attraction with it. “You were in the military. What was it like?”
Mike rubbed his temples. Angela purred from the floor.
“Why are you interested? None of this has anything to do with you.”
“Everything we do affects someone else. Ma
ybe something you’ve done affects me.”
“I doubt it.” Mike bowed his head. “You’re giving me a migraine.”
“Let’s go see your mother. Do you want me to go with you?”
He stood and closed the MacBook, let shadows fold in around him. “Go to bed. I’ll go down there alone.”
She followed him to the front door, across the black and white tile. She said, “I hate these things.”
Mike stopped, turned, followed her gaze. “The tile? Why?”
“Because, they’re all black and white, no in-between, no grays. No bleeding together. Each is a proclamation of finality, each trapped by what they are.” She pulled his jacket from the coat rack and held it out. Angela said, “You should take it, there’s a chill out tonight and you never know what could happen.”
He snatched it out of her hand and hung it back on the rack. “Clean the house or something if you can’t sleep. Don’t make my mom pay you for doing nothing.”
“Yes, sir.” She leaned forward like she wanted a kiss, and Mike stepped back, struck by something odd. He couldn’t place it, but he felt threatened.
“What?” She stepped forward again and he took another step back. “Do you think I’m pretty?”
“Step back.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m your boss.”
She stepped forward. “Your mother’s my boss.”
He touched her shoulder. Angela’s skin felt cold, lifeless, at odds with the heat of her eyes, her breath. “Who are you? You’re not a caretaker?”
“Not of houses.”
“What?”
“I’m here to help you, Michael. I’m here to help your friend. Both of you need to let me.”
He reached behind him, felt the coolness of the door’s latch, pushed it down. A breeze ruffled the cuffs of his pants.
She smiled. “Take care of your mother. Then hurry back.”
* * *
I had expected Cat to be awake. Looking at the clock on the kitchen wall I saw it was just past two in the morning. I didn’t realize I’d been out for so long. Quietly I eased open the basement door, went downstairs, and set the trash bag under the work bench I sometimes used to make model planes. My arms jittered. I sat and stared at the guitar hanging on the wall, frustrated by how so much had changed since last night.
The steps creaked and Cat wiped the sleep out of her eyes as she put a foot on the floor. “Why didn’t you come to bed?”
“I was about to.”
“Did you find what you were looking for?”
“Yeah.”
“And?”
Don’t lie to her. You’ll regret it.
I rested my elbows on my knees and buried my head in my hands, the image of the burning cross, my body stuck to it, twisting, clawed through my mind. “I think I’m having a breakdown.”
Cat crossed the floor, her hand light on my shoulder. “Talk to me? You look half dead and you’re filthy. What is happening, John? What aren’t you telling me?”
After wiping my eyes, I looked up. The blue in hers looked brighter in the middle of the night. “I feel disjointed.”
“What is that supposed to mean? I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me.”
“I killed Mark.”
“No. You didn’t.” She rubbed my shoulder, knelt next to me, her breath hot against a scrape on my forearm. My skin tingled beneath her touch. “You didn’t kill your brother.”
I sighed. “I hit him with a paddle in the back of the head. He fell out and drowned.”
“I don’t understand why you’re joking about this, but it’s not funny.” Her voice sounded like sludge in pipes, as though it had congealed in her throat. She stood and looked around. “What did you do tonight?”
“I killed him. He drowned. In the river our dad baptized us in. Redeemed and then murdered. It’s driving me crazy. I’m seeing things.”
“You didn’t kill Mark. They would have noticed something when they did an autopsy, right?”
“They wouldn’t because they’re covering things up for each other. This whole fucking town.”
“You want me to call someone?”
It made me feel worthless—her ready to jump up and fix my problem instead of the other way around. “No. I’ve let my family down. I’ve let me down.”
“You didn’t do it. You couldn’t have. Mark loved you and you loved him.”
“But there’s things you don’t know.” I wiped my nose and the muscles in my face ached. “Go back to bed. I want to be alone.”
“No. I want to help you.” She knelt in front of me. “John, look at me. Look.” Her fingers touched my chin, and raised my head. Eyes wide, lips quivering, voice soft, “I think you should talk to someone tomorrow. A professional. New Wave isn’t that far.”
“You think I should go visit the nuthouse.” I pushed her hand away. Her chin dropped and she stared at a space between us, that immeasurable distance. I shook my head. “Maybe it wouldn’t hurt. But I can’t. I have to find out who killed those girls. I need to know if it was Mark.” I smiled a little and Cat frowned. “I got one step closer tonight.” I pointed at the bag beneath the workbench.
“What is it?”
“The girls’ clothes are in there. I don’t know if fingerprints stick to fabric, but they might. Or he might have worn gloves. But it’s something.”
She stroked my cheek. “It is something.”
“But I don’t think it’ll matter.”
“Why not?”
“Because I think the message out there was for me. I think Mark left it. He left his key.” I pulled it from my shirt. “He’s telling me to repent and confess what I did to him or…”
“Or what? His ghost will kill more innocent girls?” She grabbed my knee and squeezed. “I’m sorry. It just sounds like crazy talk. Call the state police.”
“The dead girls follow me.”
“Shut up, John. I don’t want to hear anymore.”
“They do. And I’ve seen Mark and he even told me to repent. Tonight. I saw—”
Cat stood and backed away. “You’re freaking out and you’re scaring me. Call in to work in the morning, or I’ll do it for you. We need to take you to New Wave and—”
“I can’t go there. Do you want me to be trapped in a room with the girls and no way to help them?” Cat flinched. I raised my hand, wanting to reach for her, connect, but she backed towards the stairs. “If they tell me I’m insane?”
I was certain they would.
“Then you’ll have to stay there until you’re better.”
“I just want to find out who did it to them. And find their families.”
“And what about Mark?”
“What about him?”
“If the girls’ ghosts are…I don’t know, appeased or whatever, is that going to make things okay with him? Won’t you still see him? What would make him stop?”
I bowed my head. She was right. A crack ran across the basement floor. I’d never noticed it before. “I don’t know what he’ll do. Maybe he’s trying to frame me.” I tried to get it all straight in my head, but the pressure blackened the edges of my visions, my thoughts whirred and settled on nothing, like snow blown constantly by wind.
“I don’t believe you did anything like you’re saying, John. Why would you?”
“Don’t ask that.” She stared at me a moment and I watched something shift in her expression. From worry and hope to dread.
Chapter 13
Two burly paramedics burst through the doors of Our Lady of Mercy, pushing a dead girl on a gurney. Some kind of device jutted from between her swollen lips. Her pale hands twitched as the pair rushed her down the hall. Mike took his coat off and draped it over his arm as he watched them disappear around a corner.
Not dead. She just looks like it.
He stopped outside room thirteen. Machines beeped and his heart tapped a counter rhythm. Part of him hoped to see the hot brunette who’d been there earlier in the da
y.
Maybe I’m lonely. Wouldn’t that be something?
But he didn’t feel lonely. He shook it off. Glad the military had taught him to deal with facts, objectives, results; while acting in the Soaps had taught him to not take life so serious, that so many other people were only acting as well. Mike pictured himself holding his rifle in the hospital’s hall—a Grim Reaper again. He chuckled, doubting it’d entertain anyone else. His hand hovered over the door.
Angela appeared beside him. Mike jumped. She ran her fingers over the wood. “Your past waits in there. Your childhood. I understand why you don’t want to face it.”
“Are you following me?”
“I was bored. I told you I don’t sleep.”
“Be bored somewhere else.” He looked back at the door, saw his hand was still up. He lowered it.
“I’m here for you. I want to help.”
Why, for Christ’s sake? Don’t you have problems of your own to tend to?
Mike leaned against the wall and rubbed his face. “Do you drink coffee?”
“I might.” She moved and he watched her, intrigued and repulsed. A smile parted her lips and she threw her head back, spun in a circle like she was goddamn Mary Poppins again. Brushing his arm, her hand tugged at his dangling coat. “Come on. We can’t sleep, might as well get to know each other better.”
He nodded. “Where are you from?”
“Far away from here.”
They walked toward the cafeteria. Mike grinned in spite of himself. He liked her presence, her pestering, just like he had the crazy little redheaded bitch in the diner. Both of them had some joy he had a hard time cornering and latching onto for himself.
Angela pointed him to a table, went to the counter, and filled two styrofoam cups with coffee. When she sat down across from him, she put her chin on the back of her hands and let out a long breath. She reminded him of the witch in Cuba, the one who was but wasn’t. A specter wearing flesh. A demon. And how their relationship had almost destroyed him.