The female cop was half-inside the car, trying to shelter herself from the rain as she spoke into her radio. The male on the passenger side came around the front of the cruiser. "Why don't we get you out of the rain, buddy?"
The cadaver's eyes met his. The cop's mouth opened, and his body tensed, but the cadaver was already in motion and then its hands were on his head. The cadaver's own head plunged forward, like that of a spurned lover after one last violent kiss. It missed most of the cop's mouth, though, instead biting into his lip and cheek, tearing away a mouthful of flesh.
Malcolm could only watch.
The female cop stumbled out of the cruiser at the sound of her partner's shrieking. The cadaver clamped its jaws over the man's nose and left eye. Both officers were screaming now, as the cadaver's teeth scissored through muscle and cartilage and slowly pulled free a thick strip of the man's face.
The female drew her sidearm. She babbled incoherence and pointed the weapon at the cadaver, who ignored her. "STOOOP!" she screamed, and fired.
The bullet ripped across the backs of the cadaver's shoulders. Malcolm heard it buzz past him. Run, he urged the cop. Just run!
She didn't. The cadaver released the male cop, who fell against the hood of the cruiser and splashed down in the gutter. The corpse turned to her; she fired again, right through its heart. The cadaver stumbled a bit, the regained its footing. Malcolm tried to focus on the sidewalk ahead. Have to get between them. Have to do something.
The cadaver seized both of the woman's wrists and pulled her into a crushing embrace. She turned her head away, pleading---it bit into her ear. Malcolm heard it grunt as it ripped at her. The gun went off again, then dropped onto the concrete. The cadaver wrestled the cop toward a narrow alleyway between two brownstones. Fuck! Malcolm cast himself after them. Then he heard a sputtering from the street.
The other cop sat up, the left side of his face a yawning crater. Blood pulsed from it and spilled down the front of his uniform in rivers. He seemed to be in shock, staring through Malcolm at the alley, then he was looking at Malcolm. The ghost was certain of it. He didn't know what to do. I'm so sorry. It's not my fault. Ectoplasm formed in air---two reaching hands, Malcolm's hands---and was disintegrated in the rain.
The cop fell back and was still. Their gazes had met in the moment of death, now he was gone.
Malcolm moved into the pitch-dark alley. He tried to pick apart the mess of sounds bouncing off the walls. There, a soft grunting, a whimper. A crunch.
He made out the cadaver, kneeling over the woman. Her jacket and shirt lay open, and the cadaver was methodically peeling sheets of flesh from her chest and belly. It lifted its head to stuff each piece in turn into its maw. The cadaver's face was flushed, eyes bulging, it was starting to not look like Malcolm anymore. It was an animal, crude and ugly. Malcolm moved closer, if only I could take hold of the wretched thing, I'd tear it to pieces. And not in the slow, measured way it was taking apart the cop. No, he would spill its entrails on the asphalt and stomp its skull to dust. He was starting to feel overwhelmed again, but he could hardly calm himself.
The cadaver stood. They were face to face now; he wanted the thing to see him. He wanted it to fear and loathe him as he did it. But its eyes were vacant, its fingers probed at its ruddy cheeks, then brushed away the hair plastered on its brow.
And then its fingers curled, tearing into the flesh. It started to peel back its own scalp. The skin of its face and neck was suffused with blood now, and its head was more bloated than ever. The scalp fell against the back of its head and hung there.
It hooked its fingers beneath its jaw-line and started to remove the face. The dermis separated from the body like the peel of an orange. It was like the cadaver was molting, and what was beneath barely resembled Malcolm at all. It was raw and dark and patches of bone showed through. All the while rain spilled over the unblinking globes of its eyes.
Scant inches from the horror, Malcolm saw something etched in the fibrous tissue over the forehead. It was like a deep, smooth scar, something that didn't belong---in fact, it looked like a design, a symbol---then it began to glow like a fiery brand.
"What are you doing?"
"Lensing your third eye. For sight."
He remembered Jean's finger tracing across his brow, remembered the way it had swirled and darted. He had dipped his finger in Malcolm's scotch, which had tasted strangely sweet, and he had asked Malcolm: "What do you see?"
"I see you."
Jean Haniver, Leo's dearest and oldest friend.
Malcolm shot back from the cadaver, out of the alleyway, and focused through the storm. Jean didn't live far. Malcolm wondered if he was asleep. Wondered if he was alone.
He went to find out.
He thought about Leo, then Ray, then Leo again. Malcolm was forced to stop several times to orient himself, he had to focus on what he knew. Just the facts---there weren't many---he was certain Jean had put something in his drink, he knew Jean had authored the obscene symbol he could see on the cadaver's head, and he had an idea of why.
Surely Leo didn't know, he wouldn't have been complicit in murder. As far as Malcolm was aware, Leo hadn't even known about the dinner... but Jean was the other man, had to be. Once again, Malcolm had overlooked the obvious and given Leo the benefit of the doubt.
So Jean had some semblance of a motive---didn't want Malcolm to find out about them, and interfere---and he was evidently more desperate than Malcolm ever imagined.
But things were still fragmented. Why had he done what he'd done to Malcolm's body? Hadn't it been enough just to destroy Malcolm? Didn't this madness threaten to expose Jean?
Maybe he'd fucked up. Maybe it was just that simple.
Malcolm passed through the door of Jean's townhouse, and stood in a darkened living room decorated with garish charcoal prints from one of Jean's other friends. Intertwined demons glared down at Malcolm from all sides. He crossed the room, glancing at the books on the coffee table---all Jean's, save for a magazine that was open to an article titled "Negative Prophet." Looked like a skeptic's treatise on Jean's "work." Malcolm imagined a smile at that, then went to the stairs.
Going up is probably going to be harder than going down. He cast his focus onto the first step, and was pulled forward. No problem at all. He supposed it was all the same to him, he could probably walk on walls if he wanted to. He wished Jean could see him. He'd love to appear on the ceiling over the bastard's head and give him a goddamn heart attack.
That gave him pause. How had he supposed to communicate with Jean at all? He looked at the ectoplasm evaporating beneath him. If he could cast it in a more controlled manner, then maybe that, too, would prove easier than he thought.
It has to be easy. If Jean is able to speak with spirits, there can't be much heavy lifting involved.
Standing in the upstairs hall, before what he presumed to be the bedroom door, Malcolm steeled himself. What would he do if Leo was here?
I'll tell him.
He went in.
Jean was alone, fast asleep under Egyptian cotton, arms and legs splayed over the width of the bed. Malcolm stood over him and stared for a time, thinking about how he could awaken him. He didn't think he could touch him, nor knock anything over. He focused on Jean's placid expression and drew closer. He thought of Jean's finger dipping into the scotch, and willed his own finger into existence, a green-tinged digit hovering right over Jean's forehead. Casting the finger downward, he touched Jean's flesh. It was an oddly detached sensation, as if his own skin---had he any---were numbed by anesthetic. He drew a clumsy X there, then watched as it faded.
Jean shivered, stirred. His eyelids fluttered. "Mrm." Then his eyes opened. Malcolm stared down into them, watched as they explored the dark room, as Jean tried to recall what had roused him.
Malcolm traced another X on Jean's cheek. The man rolled away, swiping at his face with an irritated grunt. Jean was facing the window now, and Malcolm saw a humidifier on the bureau there, and con
densation on the rain-streaked glass. He thought of the words WASH ME printed on Saul's car, and he moved to it and raised his finger to the glass.
Perhaps Jean couldn't see the ectoplasm, but he'd see the letters being drawn in the moisture.
He'd see H E L L O.
Jean sat up with a scream., his arms shrank to his sides, and he stared, trembling, at the window. The letters were gradually obscured by fresh moisture. Malcolm wrote HELLO again.
"Wha..." Jean shook his head. "What? No!"
He didn't seem at all like the veteran psychic Malcolm had witnessed in the past. Had he only summoned the spirits himself before now? Was Malcolm his first uninvited guest?
HELLO JEAN
"What!" Jean's nude form leapt from the bed and backed toward the door. "What is this---who are you?"
The first letters began to fade before Malcolm finished his name, but Jean understood well enough. "Malcolm... Malcolm Witt?"
YOU KILLED ME
"What?" Jean grabbed the doorknob. Malcolm scribbled a big NO on the glass.
"What do you want?" Jean screamed.
YOU KILLED ME
"I didn't kill anyone! What are you talking about?"
3RD EYE, Malcolm wrote.
Jean frowned. "Malcolm---it's really you? You're dead? How are you dead?"
SCOTCH
POISON
YOU
"I would never---!" Jean was suddenly aware of his nakedness, and his hands flew to his crotch. "Malcolm, I didn't do anything! You have to believe me!"
PUT IN MY DRINK. The words appeared and faded, one after the other.
"Put something in your drink? No! I mean---"
WHAT?
"Jesus Christ Malcolm, all I did was give you a little Yellow Sign! I've done it with people before. It's harmless. It just helps you to see!"
WHAT IS YELLOW SIGN
"It's just a syrup with some herbs. I learned to make it in New Bedlam when I studied with Saul. It's for lensing the third eye, just like I told you."
This Yellow Sign had to be the reason for the cadaver. And it had to be what had killed Malcolm. Jean was lying about its purpose, if not its origin. Malcolm wrote: LIAR
"No! I swear to Christ! Ask Saul!" Jean moved toward the phone on the bedside table.
CALL LEO, Malcolm wrote.
"Why would I call Leo? He doesn't know."
HE SHOULD KNOW WHAT YOU DID
"I didn't do fucking anything!" Jean shouted. "And I don't even know where the fuck Leo is! I told you I don't know who this fucking guy is!"
Malcolm hesitated at the glass. Jean was claiming he wasn't the one?
Jean fell on his knees by the bed. He sobbed, "I've never hurt anyone. Not like that! I know you hate what I do, everyone does! But I---I---I can't even fucking talk to spirits, Malcolm!" His tone was furious. "Yeah, it's all bullshit. Are you fucking happy now?!"
The window didn't respond. "Are you here?" Jean whispered. "Malcolm?"
CALL SAUL
"I will!" Jean practically knocked the phone from the table as he dove for it. "He'll tell you. He can do things. Real things. Maybe even..." He looked up. "Maybe he can even see you."
Jean dialed. Malcolm waited.
"Saul? Saul, it's me. It's after one. Listen, I need to come over. Something's happened. Mal---there's a spirit here. I mean it this time. Please let me come over."
Jean lowered the phone. "I...how will we get there? I mean, how will you get there?" He was talking to Malcolm. "Can you just, like teleport, or---"
WALK
"Walk?" Jean almost laughed.
WE'LL WALK
"All right. Okay. Whatever you want. Saul will straighten this out. He'll know what to do." Jean went to the closet and fumbled through his clothes. "You'll see, Malcolm. You believe me, right?" He turned to the window. "I'm a good person."
Malcolm didn't write anything. Jean quietly got dressed.
They walked together through the rain, Jean constantly glancing around himself, as if he might catch a glimpse of Malcolm's form, constantly asking, "You're there, aren't you? Are you there? Saul needs to see you."
Malcolm knew he was still lying about something, just not what. He stalked Jean through the rain, listening to his coughs and complaints. Like Jean said, Saul would straighten it out.
He thought of the cadaver and saw the glowing symbol in his mind's eye, crawling embers in raw flesh---the cadaver standing in the street, transfixed by the caution light.
A strange thought came to him, one that didn't seem quite his own. Have you seen the yellow sign? He focused on his progress along the plane of the sidewalk.
As they neared Saul's little house, Malcolm saw his outline standing on the enclosed front porch, the light of a cigarette gently pulsing, another yellow sign. It beckoned them closer, and as Jean and Malcolm went up the walk, the screen door suddenly banged open. The cigarette dropped from Saul's lips.
"Malcolm," he said.
Jean clapped his hands in exultation. "You see him? You see him! He's really there! Saul, he came to me!"
"Get in here," Saul said, and held the door for Jean. He stared directly at Malcolm as the ghost approached, and he wondered exactly what Saul did see. A transparent shade with Malcolm's face? Or something else entirely? How he wished he could ask. Maybe Saul knew a way.
Saul continued to hold the door until Malcolm entered the porch, then shut it. The three of them stood there listening to the rain on the roof. Jean prodded Saul. "Where is he?"
"Right beside you."
"Jesus."
Jean made no effort to hide his smile until Saul said, "He's glaring at you."
So Saul could see his face, then. Furthermore, his face, even if he was unaware of it, was expressive. Could he move his phantom lips? He stared at Saul and did the only thing he could do---as he had with his hands, he imagined speaking from his mouth, and thought: How do you see me?
Saul smiled gently. "There'll be time for that later. What I want to know is what happened to you."
"He said---" Jean began, then stopped. "Is he telling you? Am I interrupting?"
"Come inside."
Saul led them into his kitchen, opened a cabinet over the fridge and pulled out two small jars. One had a thick, amber-colored fluid. The other was purple and almost looked like cough syrup. Malcolm looked over Saul's shoulder and saw other jars of other colors stacked within.
Jean pointed to the amber jar. "Malcolm, that's Yellow Sign. That's what I gave you," he blurted, as if it were a perfectly normal thing to say.
Saul didn't blink. "Was it homemade?" he asked, as he unscrewed the two jars he'd brought down.
"Yeah. I made it the way I always do." Jean looked around the room. "I couldn't have fucked it up that bad. It's not possible to fuck it up that bad, right?"
"No, that mixture couldn't have harmed him, even if it wasn't correctly proportioned. If that's what you're saying." Saul poured a bit of the purple fluid into a saucer. He swirled the tip of his pinky in the Yellow Sign, then dipped it in the saucer. "Jean."
Jean turned to face him. Saul wiped his pinky across his brow. "This ought to last until sunup. Look around."
Jean's eyes lit upon Malcolm. "Oh my God."
"The sight comes naturally to very few," Saul said as he put the jars away. He turned to Malcolm. "Jean is intuitive, but he lacks natural ability. If he had it, he wouldn't talk about it so much."
Jean's face fell. "We've been through this..."
"I'm just explaining why I had to lens your eye," Saul said. "And maybe giving you a little shit for it."
Malcolm wanted to know exactly what he looked like to them. He thought the question. "His mouth's moving," Jean said.
"He wants to know what we see," Saul told him. "Malcolm, you're wearing the clothes you were wearing last night. You look tired. You're a bit hazy... it's like a double exposure on our plane, but your face is clear. You're doing a good job of keeping your focus." Saul stepped closer, as if he wanted to put
his arm around the ghost. "Many spirits never shake off the disorientation. You're doing well. There's nothing to be upset about. No more sadness." For a second, Malcolm almost believed him.
"He's angry. He thought I'd put poison in his drink," Jean said.
"He looks as if he died in his sleep," Saul said. Then, apologetically, "I'm sorry Malcolm, we're speaking of you like you aren't here."
Ray is dead, Malcolm told them.
Jean read his lips this time. "Ray too?" he exclaimed. "I didn't give him anything! See?"
My body---the body I died in---it's alive, somehow. It's not alive, but it is---it's walking around. It's killing people. Three so far that I know of.
"Killing...?" Saul muttered.
"You mean like a zombie?" Jean crossed his arms. "Now, I've never heard of that."
Saul shushed him and leaned against the counter, chin in hand. "Go on," he told Malcolm.
When all had been told, Jean said, "I can't believe any of this." He pulled a chair away from the little table across from the counter. Slumped there, he looked at Malcolm. "Listen... I was trying to help, like I said. Because I did fuck up. But not last night. I gave Leo a reading---"
"Now might not be the time," Saul said.
Jean shook his head. "I told Leo someone new was coming into his life. I didn't say the guy was going to take your place, Malcolm. I didn't tell Leo it was over between the two of you. Just that there was going to be someone new. It was a lie when I said it!"
"Jean." Saul pointed to the doorway. "Go make yourself a drink."
Malcolm glared at Jean as he slunk out of the room. Saul sighed. "One has nothing to do with the other. Now, it isn't uncommon for the spirit and body to become separated by some psychic trauma, and it sounds as if you and your body may still be tethered to one another, which isn't uncommon either. As far as what your body has done---I have to admit, I've never heard of anything like what you've described. However, I'm sure we can complete the separation." Turning, he started taking jars from the cabinet again. He held out the Yellow Sign and said, "Truth." Setting down the purple jar, he said, "Spirit." Besides that, he placed a jar of crimson-tinged ichor. "Nature."
Orpheus and the Pearl & Nevermore Page 7