Unmasked

by R. Saint Claire

  His sleepy eyes tilted up and down her face, and then closed on a private, drunken thought. When he opened them again he appeared almost sober and said, “Karla is sick, Anne…you and me, we might be drunks…”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. I’m not as bad as you, Mitch.

  “…but,” he continued, “we’re not fucked up in the head like her. And let me tell you something, she was always like that, from day one.” He looked at Anne, tears forming in his hooded eyes. “Not like you, Anne.” He stroked her cheek with a surprisingly gentle touch. “You’re a good person, a sweet person. We’re twins, right? We have that special bond.” He kissed the top of her head and whispered through tears, “No one ever understood me like you do.”

  “Ah Mitch,” Anne said, starting to cry too. She put her arms around him, remembering when he was a handsome young man with so much potential.

  “Let’s get back to the lodge, okay?” Anne said, pulling away from him gently just as a flash of lightning revealed they were standing precipitously close to the bluff that jutted out over the lake.

  Anne jumped back, frightened. “Christ! We missed the path. We’ll have to cut around.”

  “Let’s swim!” Mitch gave her a playful shove with a bit too much force, nearly sending her over the twenty foot drop into the lake.

  “Are you fucking nuts? What are you doing?” She punched him in the arm, and he stumbled backwards falling into a bank of tall weeds. He lay on his back for a moment then whispered, “Look at that beautiful sky.”

  Anne decided she was leaving immediately, with or without him. She turned from the bluff and headed back to the path with determined strides.

  Mitch uttered a few groans as he got to his feet, and lumbering behind her said, “Let me ask you something. What's up with that fucking doctor? What was he talking about tonight? I didn’t understand a word of it. And you mean to tell me we have to go through therapy with that cocksucker for a month—30 fucking days!”

  Anne wheeled around and hissed through clenched teeth. “Twenty-nine days now. And we can do it. You want a million bucks, don’t you?”

  She heard him whispering a few paces behind her. “I want a million bucks, I want a million bucks.”

  The light mist that began when they left the bar had now changed to a steady drizzle, and Anne’s marabou-trimmed mules proved worthless on the dirt path that had turned to mud beneath their feet. She stopped to keep from slipping, and was about to kick them off and go barefoot when she heard a sound. Mitch heard it too, and reached out his hand protectively towards her.

  The moon emerged from behind a cloud. It revealed a dark shape near the bluff. Anne thought it was just a shadow until it began to move in their direction.

  “Is it one of them German bastards? Hey, are you fucking following us?” Mitch said, moving with drunken courage back up the hill.

  “Mitch no!” She made a grab to stop him, but his hand slipped through her fingers just as the sky blackened again. For a moment she heard nothing but the whoosh of Mitch’s legs through the tall grass, then a series of grunts followed by a loud thud.

  After a pause where she heard only the rain softly hissing through the tree branches, a small, animalistic groan echoed from the darkness. The moon reappeared, bathing the path in violet light and Mitch lumbered towards her, his eyes rolling in his head like the balls in a lottery machine.

  He stood before her for a moment as if trying to balance himself; his head fell forward in a cumbrous nod, then shot back. Something wet slapped into the weeds behind him.

  “Mitch,” Anne whispered, placing her hands on either side of his head. Warm liquid squished between her fingers.

  A confused moan from his thick lips blubbered and sputtered then became a growl as he pushed her away. He moved back up the hill on rubbery legs, his arms pummeling the humid air at some invisible adversary: his ex-wives, his children who turned their backs on him, Karla and everything she represented--his failure.

  As he stood near the edge of the bluff, Anne ran to him, circling her slim arms around his waist. “Mitch, please,” she begged.

  The gesture calmed him and he stopped struggling. He looked into her eyes, focusing for a moment. “Ah Anne,” he said, lifting a wet finger to her lips. “You were my first crush…you know that? You were always so sweet to me.”

  The world flashed white and in that split-second Anne saw the dent in the side of Mitch’s head, and the slick spill of maroon blood pouring down the side of his face.

  The ground shook and Mitch fell backwards, arms akimbo as he teetered like a top at the edge of the jutting ground, before stepping into the empty sky and disappearing altogether. A loud splash followed. Anne ran to the edge and looked down, careful not to get too close. She saw nothing but a black space below; a sound made her turn and she felt the blood drain from her head. The dark figure partially illuminated by the moon and crouched like a jungle cat, moved towards her, beating back the tall grass with a canoe paddle.

  A scream lodged in her throat, and before her mind could register a conscious thought, she was tearing down the path towards the yellow lights of Wolf House. She lost one slipper, then the other, but she kept going, ignoring the pain from the thistles and sticker bushes slicing into her tender skin.

  Just as she was about to clear the woods, an errant branch caught the sleeve of her nightgown. She ripped the robe from her back, leaving the sheer silk fluttering in the wind, and ran towards the lodge in just the thin gown. She cleared the manicured lawn and jumped onto the porch, falling on the front door with all her weight. It was bolted shut.

  She screamed above the storm’s din, banging her fists into the solid oak. She turned to look back. The lodge’s yellow exterior lights revealed the figure creeping across the lawn.

  She froze in terror, watching helplessly as it approached. As the figure stepped onto the porch she found the strength to react and picked up a rocking chair and hurled it in the direction of the dark shape. The sound of wood shattering accompanied her vault over the porch railing. She felt the breath escape from her lungs as she landed hard on her hands and knees. Then righting herself quickly she sprinted to the rear of the lodge.

  Wincing in pain as she ran barefoot across the gravel path, she reached the veranda. She tried the glass-pained, double door that led to the lodge’s old formal dining room. It too was locked, and all the lights were off inside, making the lodge’s interior blacker than the night. Afraid she’d be discovered if she made too much noise, she moved to the back lawn. Pirouetting on the wet grass, she tried to think clearly, despite the panic that gripped her throat, making it difficult to breathe.

  For a second she considered just running into the woods and hiding there till dawn when she noticed on the back face of the lodge the shape of the Gothic peaked window, bright yellow carved into the wall of cold stone. Hope rose in her chest as she ran towards it, but she stopped suddenly, dropping to her knees when she saw the silhouette of the figure pass the window, stop, and peer in.

  She clamped her hands over her mouth to keep from screaming. Frantic, she looked around and noticed the boat-shed at the edge of the lawn. Half crawling to it, she entered the building, latched the door behind her, and slid down the rough-hewn wall to the dirt floor.

  The smell of mold enveloped her. The drumming in her ears beat in time with her heaving breathing. Near hysterics, her eyes panned the room for a weapon, but saw nothing but long boat oars, too heavy for her to lift.

  She then stood as slowly as she dared to take a peek out the window. A shadow passed in front, and she ducked down, nearly fainting from fear. Then Anne heard it coming and she began to pray, silently but with moving lips—-a rapid Hail Mary. Between gulps of air, she heard her mother voicing a familiar complaint. Catholics only in a crisis.

  She knew what was next. The shake of the latch confirmed it. She ran to the corner and noisily collided with a stack of moldy lifejackets. She thought for a mad second about hiding beneath them when the door fle
w open and the figure stood in the threshold, silhouetted by a flash of lightning that rendered white the lawn and great house behind it.

  Trapped now, she no longer suppressed her screams as the dark figure raised the canoe paddle over its head and came towards her.

  7

  At dawn the storm had rolled away to a neighboring county, and by mid-morning the camp was washed in golden sunlight. A fresh breeze skipped over the lake and across the dewy lawn as treetops swayed beneath a cloudless sky, bidding a verdant good morning to a perfect summer’s day.

  Karla and Jorgé, dressed in designer athletic wear, jogged around the perimeter of the lake while Jenna, a second cup of coffee in her hand, watched them from the lounge window. As they neared the lodge, Karla picked up a towel from a lawn chair and playfully swatted Jorgé with it. Jenna turned away from the window and absently picked up a magazine from the side table just as they burst through the door laughing.

  Karla, towel casually draped around her neck, entered the lounge and flopped on one of the low sofas. In the morning light and wearing little make-up, her blond hair tied back and under a baseball cap, she appeared even more youthful than she had the night before.

  “Good morning darlings! Isn’t it a gorgeous day?”

  Jenna nodded and pretended to be absorbed in an article about fishing lures.

  “Some coffee Karla?” Chrissie jumped up from the sofa and headed for the breakfast buffet.

  Jenna inwardly smirked. Already kissing Karla’s ass, Chrissie?

  “No caffeine for me,” Karla said, wiping her face. “I’ll have my special morning health shake, Jan.”

  Jan, who seemed to appear out of nowhere, nodded at Karla’s request and proceeded to the kitchen.

  Karla stretched her arms over her head. “Six miles this morning. Nothing like an early morning run to get the juices flowing, right Jorgé? Looks like we were the only ones to show up for our exercise class this morning. We won’t go easy on them tomorrow, will we?”

  Jenna’s eyes panned to Jorgé who stood at the breakfast buffet, slowly slicing a banana into a bowl of granola. His dark eyes found hers, and his lips pursed into a question: a very suggestive one.

  Jenna looked away, flushed, yet secretly savoring the idea that Karla's lover was flirting with her. She wondered where they had met. New York? L.A.? Europe? And what exactly was his background, other than professional gigolo? Jenna set down her magazine and joined the others, feeling Jorgé’s eyes boring into her ass cheeks with each step she took.

  Jan entered with Karla’s shake on a silver salver next to a folded linen napkin. “I used fresh kiwi this morning, Madam,” he said in his clipped accent.

  “Fabulous!” Karla picked up the glass and took a delicate sip.

  Jorgé sat down with his bowl of cereal directly across from Jenna. His muscular legs were open slightly, exposing the huge bulge between his legs straining against his spandex shorts. Jenna diverted her attention to her cup of coffee, blowing on it though it was ice cold.

  Jorgé’s spicy scent combined with masculine sweat wafted across the cold embers of the center fireplace, reminding her that it had been a long time since she had had sex. As if reading her mind, he locked eyes with her and smiled, soy milk smeared around the edge of his full lips. He seemed to thrust his groin upward slightly, looking down at it proudly and then back to her with a question mark in his raised eyebrow.

  Jenna looked away, incredulous. Now I know I’m not imagining this.

  She cast a glance at Karla who appeared happily lost in her own thoughts, sipping on her shake as Jan comically held his attentive pose beside her.

  Chrissie, munching on a bagel while scanning a Woman's Day article, was completely oblivious to the licentious pantomime playing out before her.

  “As soon as the rest of those lazy asses show up we’ll start the therapy session. Dr. Weiss has some wonderful exercises planned for us today.” Karla said with a glance at her Cartier sports watch.

  Chrissie set down her magazine and nodded at Karla like she couldn’t wait to participate. Jenna was less than thrilled.

  “Excuse me, Madam…” Jan cleared thought.

  “Yes?” Karla asked.

  “I checked your brother Mitchell’s and your sister Anne’s rooms this morning, and they are both gone.”

  “Are you sure?” Karla appeared genuinely surprised.

  “I don't believe it!” Jenna set down her coffee cup.

  “I’m positive,” he continued, maintaining his stiff pose. “The items they brought with them are gone as well.”

  Chrissie looked at Jenna with a worried pout.

  “Well, how did they get out of here? We’re completely secluded,” Jenna said.

  Karla shrugged. “Whoever wants to leave, can leave. That’s two million dollars I won’t have to spend.”

  She placed her empty glass on Jan’s tray. “I’m going to change. I’ll see you here shortly for therapy…” She cast a disparaging look at Chrissie and Jenna. “…what’s left of you.”

  Jorgé got to his feet reluctantly and, casting a parting glance back at Jenna, obediently followed Karla in the direction of the west wing just as Warren, a book tucked under his arm and an empty coffee cup in his hand, entered from the front porch.

  * * *

  Warren had also skipped the scheduled exercise session and instead spent the morning reading. He hadn't found a phone the night before, but while he was poaching around the west wing he did find his favorite room in all of Wolf House: the library.

  Other than it having been thoroughly cleaned: the old mahogany wood shelves and reading tables given a good wax, the dark Persian rug shampooed, and the broken panes of stained glass in the large Gothic peaked window repaired, it was virtually unchanged since the days of his boyhood expeditions when the mansion was boarded-up and he’d sneak in through the garage which the groundskeeper never locked.

  Like a child rediscovering a lost treasure, he had scanned the old books that had once been his only refuge from the gales of familial storms and taunting bullies. He had spent most of his days at camp in that shrine, his bare feet dangling from the big leather armchair, safe in a world of fantasy and adventure, until that life-altering moment when he heard the sound of Anne screaming from the pier, her voice cutting through the storm like a razor-sharp knife into flesh. It was thirty years ago (almost to the very day) when he had run into the pelting rain to find Anne hysterical, and Karla collapsed on the rough planks, struggling to breathe. Following the pointing fingers of the alarmed adults and curious camp kids, he saw in the distance his parent’s sailboat upside down in the black, choppy water. He’d been searching for a new safe haven ever since.

  His fingers had traced along the spines of his favorite books: first edition Hardy Boys and Nancy Drew’s in their original dust jackets, and well-worn copies of H.G. Wells and Jules Verne classics. He pulled out a few of the books he remembered, smiling at them like old friends, opening one to the illustrations he loved and fanning the pages of another, letting the arid scent transport him to bittersweet memories.

  He spotted the old rolling library ladder, now restored with freshly oiled wheels so it travelled easily along the lengths of the stacks. In the upper regions where he never dared venture as a child, he found a collection of leather bound books in two thick volumes: Occult Practices in Europe and America, by Charles Wyckland, published in London, 1949. For the next several hours, he poured over the onion skinned pages, reading voraciously the exploits of Aleister Crowley and his arcane sex magick rituals and how Madame Blavatsky brought the ancient wisdom of her Theosophy tradition to America.

  The rain that pattered lightly on the library window most of the night slammed against it at the height of the storm; Warren was certain a branch would crash through it at any moment. The green shaded library lamp by which he read flickered and buzzed, and at one point, the howl of wind sounded so much like a scream he nearly ducked beneath the heavy mahogany table to escape the din.


  When the chimes from the library clock struck five and a sliver of pink light appeared above the lake, Warren forced himself to close the book and go to bed. He didn’t sleep long, and by the time Karla and Jorgé had begun their jog around the lake, he was fully absorbed in the book once again, sitting on a striped chaise on the veranda, a cup of coffee by his side.

  It wasn’t until he looked at his watch and saw that is was nearly ten that he reluctantly marked his place, and headed back inside.

  * * *

  “Did I miss something?” Warren asked, sensing some drama as he entered the lounge.

  “Mitch and Anne took off during the night,” Chrissie said, nervously biting the inside of her cheek.

  Warren set his book down on the side table. “I don’t believe it.”

  “Me neither,” Jenna said. “Anne told me yesterday she was going to stick it out, no matter what.”

  “She told me the same thing,” said Warren. “And with two ex-wives, no job, and child support, you really think Mitch is going to walk away from that windfall?”

  “No,” Jenna said, unconsciously rubbing the crease between her brows. “Something’s not right.”

  “Well, what are we going to do about it?” Chrissie asked.

  Jenna looked around to make sure Jan wasn’t hovering nearby, and turned to Warren. “Did you have any luck finding a phone last night?”

  “No, but I found the old camp office in the east wing. It was locked, but there might be a phone in there.”

  “Wouldn’t it be disconnected?” Chrissie asked, her worry dimple deepening.

  Jenna sighed. “Probably. But it’s worth a shot.”

  Warren lowered his voice. “What we need to find is Karla central. Does anyone know where she and her Latin pool boy rest their pretty heads at night?”

  “I assume it’s another part of the lodge,” suggested Jenna. Pool boy or not, he’s pretty damn sexy, Jenna thought but wisely did not voice. Warren would be all over her for that one, and she needed to focus now, find Anne and Mitch or at least discover how and why they left.