Rhodes felt nausea roll through him as he looked at Tina in a new light. What he had mistaken for innocence was nothing more than a complete and utter lack of remorse. Unlike him, she would sleep soundly tonight. She was insane, of course. Of that there was no longer any doubt.
“So what happens now?” Tina asked.
“We check your story. But you need to give me Monde. Where is he?”
“Gone.”
“Tina, come on. Gone where?”
She flicked her eyes to the floor.
“He said he would come back for me once the baby was ready to be born.”
Rhodes leaned forwards, looking her in the eye.
“Can I tell you what I think, Tina?”
“I’m hardly in a position to stop you.”
“I don’t think there is or ever was a Monde. I think you invented him.”
Even as he said it, he glanced at the bruises on her neck. The ones that looked exactly like hand prints.
“I think you found out that Lexi was sleeping with Paul and you killed them both, plain and simple.”
He had expected this to rattle her, but she simply smiled at him. He was growing to hate that smile.
“Tina, you’re going to be put away for this. You know that, don’t you?”
“I suppose I will, but only for a while. He’ll come back for me. He promised.”
He realised there was no helping her. Even though he would push for a criminal conviction, he was sure she would be institutionalised. Taking his notes, he stood. He wanted to say something profound, something thought provoking. He felt as if something should be said, and Tina seemed to be expecting something too as she watched him with her icy gaze. But try as he might, he couldn’t think of anything. Without a word, he walked out of the interview room and closed the door.
Eight
The subsequent trial of Tina Rose Delatros was a whirlwind of media attention and speculation. As Rhodes had feared, Tina was deemed unfit to stand trial for the murder of Alexis Greene, whose remains were only identifiable by dental records. (Although Rhodes had speculated that Tina was involved with Paul’s death as well, further investigation confirmed it as a true suicide.) Those who attended the trial had commented on the way the girl carried herself during the proceedings, showing neither remorse nor shame. Despite an extensive search, no evidence of Monde’s existence was ever found. His apartment was never located, and when pressed, Tina claimed she couldn’t remember where it was.
Some argued that it would have been impossible for Tina to inflict such damage on Lexi by herself—that the savagery was more akin to an animal attack than anything a human being was capable of.
Three months after her interview with Rhodes, Tina stood for sentencing, the bump of her stomach now confirming her pregnancy. Tina accepted the guilty verdict with the same indifference she had displayed since her arrest. Rhodes had met with her several times following her incarceration at the Wren State Mental Health Institute, and in collaboration with the psychologists and staff, he ascertained that Tina’s story never once changed, never once altered throughout her numerous retellings. She was either telling the truth, or was so deeply invested in her story that she believed it to be true.
In late September, with the baby’s arrival only weeks away, Rhodes came to visit Tina, wanting to follow up on some potential sightings of Monde by patrons of Quint’s bar the night before it burned down. (The case was now closed, but he soldiered on, driven by his own maddening curiosity.) What he saw when he arrived at Tina’s quarters would haunt him forever. No alarms had been triggered, there had been no breach of security, nor had there been any breaks in the twenty-minute hall patrol rotation.
Here were the white walls and wire-covered windows, the bunk style beds—but no Tina. Rhodes could see the wet patch where her water had broke, and a thin trail of liquid leading to the wall, where she had come to rest. Her cellmate, a young schizophrenic named Melissa, had tried to help deliver the baby, and now had four deep gouges across her face. Rhodes spoke to her only once in the days following Tina’s disappearance, but her words were ones he would never forget.
Her bottom lip trembling, she looked him in the eye—her gaze clear and unclouded by her illness—and said:
“He took her. He came out of the floor and took her.”
She went on to explain how a tall man in crème suit, with black eyes and pointed teeth, had climbed out of a fiery hole in the floor to take Tina and their newborn child away.
Rhodes simply shook his head, and suddenly felt the need to light up a cigarette, though he had quit more than ten years before.
THAT GNAWING FEELING
Danny was dead. At least that was his first thought as the bomb in his chest exploded and sent him tumbling to the floor. He thought he knew pain—the double leg break he suffered as a student back in ‘94 was bad—but this was something else entirely. He was grateful that he wasn’t alone. Sarah and Jim were with him in the apartment the three of them shared. He hoped they had heard the commotion as he fell, as he couldn’t speak to call to them, nor could he move. It felt like a pickup truck was parked on his chest.
Sarah was a nurse, and Jim—like Danny—was a doctor, fresh out of medical school. He figured his chances of survival were decent as long as they acted swiftly. Sarah came first, a blonde vision. She crouched and grabbed the phone, which was still clutched in Danny’s hand. He remembered that he had been about to call out for pizza when it happened. She held it to her ear, then turned to Jim, nodded, and placed the phone back in its cradle. There were a few tense seconds of silence as he watched them, and they watched him.
What are you doing? Call a damn ambulance!
His eyes met Sarah’s, and despite the agony, her expression scared him even more. She was smiling.
Why is she smiling? Why aren’t they doing anything?
He’d heard stories of people’s lives flashing before them as they died, but for Danny this was not the case. The last coherent thought he had was a simple question.
Why?....
White light. As awareness crept back to him, he realized firstly, and with some relief, that he was no longer in pain.
Was this it? Was this death?
He thought not. His instincts told him he was still alive. He wanted to close his eyes against the harsh intensity of the light, which seemed so incredibly bright, but couldn’t. As feeling came back, he became more convinced that he was still a living, breathing being. He felt gingerly outward with his senses, gently probing into the unknown, and yes—he was definitely alive. He could feel the floor beneath him. He wondered for a brief moment if he had been saved after all, and was now in the hospital recovering. But no. As he became more aware of his surroundings, he realized that the bright great-ever-after light was actually just the ceiling lamp in the lounge. They must have brought him here to wait for the ambulance. Relief overcame him, but as true as it was that he was no longer in pain, the artificial light burning into his eyes was maddening. He tried to lift his head or at least turn it to the side, but found that he couldn’t move. He tried to close his eyes, to blink away the discomfort, but even that small gesture, which takes only a tenth of a second to go from brain to eyelid, was beyond his ability.
Terror bubbled in the pit of his stomach as he systematically tried to move any part of his body. To his horror, he found that he couldn’t even manage a tic, a flick of a finger, a curl of a toe. He forced himself to consider the possibility that he might actually be dead after all.
Could this be it? Could this be what death is? Trapped in a body that no longer functions.
No, it couldn’t be. He could still think. He could sense the world around him. He could feel the plush carpet below his body, its fibers tickling his neck and arms. He could feel the dull ache in his left knee where it hit the kitchen cabinet as he fell to the ground. He could even feel the light breeze coming in from the open lounge window, which caressed and whispered against his skin. He could feel himself br
eathing…couldn’t he?
Ok, if not death, then what? Paralysis? Some incredibly vivid dream situation?
Whatever it was, he knew for certain that he wasn’t ready to die yet, not at just twenty-seven and with a promising life ahead of him. The next question was one that had been bothering him since he regained consciousness, and one he had perhaps been putting off because he feared the answer.
Where are Jim and Sarah?
It was a good question. They should have been here waiting with him, making sure he remained stable until help arrived.
Jim was Jim Cole, and Danny had known him for four years. They had been paired up together in medical school, and found that even though they were fundamentally different as people, they had a similar work ethic, and quickly became friends. Jim always looked more suited for sports than medicine. He was tall with broad shoulders, and because he chose to unwind from the pressures of study by working out, he was built like a Sherman tank. He was one of those friends it was easy to be jealous of—naturally good looking and always sickeningly popular with the opposite sex. Danny had met Sarah through a mutual friend of Jim’s a couple of years before, and although she wasn’t the type of girl he usually went for (he preferred brunettes), their conversation wasn’t as awkward or as forced as Danny was used to, and they started to see more and more of each other. Jim used to tease Danny about moving so slow.
“Why don’t you make your move Danny? It’s obvious that the two of you are into each other.”
Danny would always shrug and say that he was waiting for the right opportunity, but inside he didn’t know when that would ever be. He was absolutely terrified. He desperately wanted to take things to the next level, but was afraid he might ruin the relationship they already had. He eventually plucked up the courage to broach the subject at Jim’s twenty-fifth birthday party, and had approached her as she sat outside on the short wall at the edge of the driveway. It was a cool night in October, and as he looked at her in the soft glow of the houselights, he almost didn’t go through with it. The silence was awkward, which was rare and Sarah eyed him curiously, her face difficult to read. He had taken her hands and told her he thought of her as more than a friend, and wanted to take things further. It was clumsy and cheesy and all the things he didn’t want it to be, his cheeks growing red with embarrassment. Sarah didn’t answer him at first. She only looked at him, searching his eyes with her own. He was about to play it off as a joke, when she kissed him. It was hard and passionate, and when they pulled back, she simply pulled herself closer and rested her head on his chest.
“What took you so long?” she asked softly as she wrapped her arms around him. He held her, relieved and happy. As happy as he thought he could ever be. He realized now, as he lay paralyzed on the floor, that he had so much to live for and was determined to survive.
He sat up—or at least in his mind he did. In reality, his body remained as motionless as when he awoke, and he felt a hopeless frustration that made him want to scream.
But even in this general state of panic, a singular concern seemed to rise above all else. It was the reaction of his friends. The look on their faces when they found him… as if they had expected to find him like that. There was no look of surprise. No shock. Sarah had even smiled as she took the phone from him, putting it back in its cradle.
Why would she smile? Why did she check the phone? Was she checking to see if he had managed to call an ambulance or…
His stomach churned as considered the alternative.
Or was she checking to make sure that he hadn’t?
And Jim. Why would Jim just stand there and watch as his best friend had a heart attack, or whatever it was? He knew what to do, what he should have done, but he didn’t react at all; all he did was stand there with his hands in his pockets, looking on indifferently. None of it made sense unless…
Unless they knew it was going to happen?
He balked at the idea as soon as it processed. It was preposterous. It couldn’t be…
The front door swung open and Danny turned his head towards the sound, or at least in his mind he did, his unblinking eyes still fixed on the sickening light. He heard voices as they came into the apartment from outside. It was them! Jim and Sarah! Of course! They had gone downstairs to let the ambulance crew in! He chastised himself for letting his imagination get the better of him. Surely they were just—he froze mid-thought. The door closed and he heard the lock slide into place. No paramedics. No hurried conversations. No racing footsteps. He could hear hushed voices outside the adjoining door to the hallway, but there was no rescue. No attempt to help. Again he felt an awful churning in his stomach, a horrible, gnawing feeling. He couldn’t hear what they were saying, the closed door muffling the words, but he could tell they were in intense conversation. He tried desperately to move, to turn his head or roll his eyeballs towards the door. To do anything. But his body, stubbornly uncooperative, ignored his commands. The door to the sitting room opened, and he could see shadowy figures on the edge of his peripheral vision. Sarah spoke, and with the seven words that drifted unseen towards him, his world and everything that he knew to be normal imploded.
“My God. He really does look dead.”
There was such coldness in her voice, and suddenly she came into view, leaning over him with a neutral, unconcerned expression on her face. Her blonde hair hung over her narrow face as her blue eyes scanned his features. Her lips curled into a cruel smile.
“It really is remarkable, Jim. Are you sure he isn’t actually dead? You didn’t give him too much, did you?”
Too much? What did they do? What have they done to me?
Then Jim came into view, his black hair slicked back as he always wore it, his small eyes peering expressionlessly down his hooked nose. He was standing behind Sarah, massaging her shoulders. He bent forward and kissed her neck.
“Don’t worry, he’s still alive. Plenty of time to get everything done.”
“But what if he dies before then?”
“What does it matter? You got what you wanted. You win Sarah.”
“I don’t want him to get off so easy, Jimmy. I want him to suffer.”
“You really are a cold bitch.”
“But you still love me, don’t you?” she asked with a hint of desperation. Without waiting for him to respond, she turned and kissed him passionately, watching Danny out of the corner of her eye. The show was obviously for his benefit, and although abject terror still held the forefront of his mind, he found himself sickly jealous as he watched them, literally unable to avert his gaze. She broke away and turned towards Danny, looking at him with a smug smile. There was no love, no sorrow, no remorse in her face—just hate. Hate for him. And he couldn’t begin to fathom why.
“Do you think he can hear us, or see us?” she asked without looking away.
“You know perfectly well that he can… Quit playing around, Sarah. He was my best friend… I can’t be as cold as you can.”
Jim walked away, leaving Sarah and Danny alone.
Ah, the happy couple.
She knelt beside him, filling his field of vision. He could smell her perfume mingled with a slight undercurrent of perspiration. He didn’t want to look at her, but under the circumstances he had no choice. She whispered in his ear, her hot breath reviving memories of passionate night spent entwined together.
“I suppose you at least deserve and explanation,” she began as she pushed her hair back and tucked it behind her ears. He could see as she leaned back that she was still smiling that spiteful, self-amused smile.
I’m sorry it had to come to this, Danny, but let’s be honest—you and I have been growing apart for some time now… This is actually your own fault, you know. I was going to leave you. I even had a suitcase packed on that day you called and told me about your damn inheritance.
The money. Of course.
“We could have had a great life, Danny. We could have lived overseas or travelled the world, but no—you wanted to
bank it. Who the hell banks two million and keeps going to work every day?”
She shook her head, the smile melting away from her face as her eyes darted restlessly around the room.
“Maybe it’s ok for you. You’re a doctor, you’re shown some respect. But what about me? Did you ever think about me? I was out there day and night running myself into the ground, taking shit from this way and that. It’s hard on the wards, Danny… You could have taken care of me. You could have taken care of us, but you didn’t. So I had to take matters into my own hands.”
He wanted to tell her, to explain he had put the money away with only the best intentions; so they could have a fine wedding someday, so he could buy her the house that she deserved, so they could focus on raising a family instead of worrying about money. But of course, he couldn’t.
Her hand came into view and his first thought was that she was going to hit him, but then he realized she was merely holding something out to him. A small vial containing a yellow liquid.
“I got the idea from the Discovery Channel. There was a documentary on about zombies, about how in Haiti they believe in all that stuff. Not like TV zombies, not like Dawn of the Dead shit. I’m talking about the real deal. The Haitian Sorcerers, or Bokors as their tribes know them, claim that their resurrection powers come from their ability to capture a fragment of their intended victim’s Ti bon ange, or soul. But they don’t actually have supernatural powers, of course.”
She smiled at him with a dreamy glow that made him wonder exactly when she had lost her mind. She continued—
“Instead they use this.” She shook the vial in front of his eyes, the liquid swishing around inside.
“You have no idea what lengths we had to go to in order to get this stuff. But if you know the right people, you can get just about anything. We gave you the liquid form, but the traditional method of the Bokors used a powder. They would combine it with a mixture of ground plants and animals… It comes down to neurotoxins, Danny. The powdered version was created to break and irritate the skin, allowing the neurotoxin to enter the bloodstream. But for our purpose, you got the more direct, more potent liquid version. I’m sure you’ve realized by now that you are in a state of total paralysis. In Haitian folklore the victim would then be buried, and later, when the effects wore off, they would rise and believe themselves to be reincarnated from the dead.”
Dark Corners - Twelve Tales of Terror Page 11