by Jason Parent
Sleep, Clive, Chester said. All will be okay. You did it. I told you I’d take care of you if you let me. Your wounds are minor. You’ll be fine. And what a result! Our problem is solved. Since you let me take care of things, we can continue together. I’m so proud of you, Clive. You’ve come so far. But we have more in store for us. We have to work together. No more mistakes. No more fuck-ups. We’re a team, you and me. Don’t ever forget that.
CHAPTER 42
C live was out cold when Detective Reilly arrived. Two paramedics wheeled his bloodied but bandaged body by her on a gurney as she pulled up beside the ambulance. Although Clive looked like he’d been through hell, Reilly could tell he was still alive by the handcuffs that bound him. No point in handcuffing the dead.
Beyond the ambulance, Reilly noted two Somerset Police cruisers, scratched and singed from the explosion of their fallen comrades. She could only assume they were the same two she had seen from the bridge.
She walked to the back of the ambulance and flashed her badge to the paramedic inside. He nodded without more than a glance in her direction. She would have been just as well off had she flashed her tits. He didn’t seem to care. He went back to the care of his patient.
Clive lay motionless, slightly elevated, with an intravenous tube stuck in the crook of his arm. His eyes were shut. Reilly knew she wouldn’t be getting any information from him. She’d have to go inside the apartment to piece things together.
“How’s he doing?” she called to the paramedic above.
“He’s breathing. He’s lost a lot of blood, but he’s stable. He should pull through, no problem.”
“No thanks to you,” a voice reprimanded from inside the ambulance.
Reilly hadn’t noticed Morgan slumping quietly against the far wall of the cab. When Morgan’s eyes met hers, Reilly could feel the accusations behind them. Where were you? they screamed. This is your fault.
The detective dodged the blame. After all, the criminal actions of another were not within her control. Still, had she arrested Kevin sooner, perhaps this might not have happened, whatever “this” was.
She couldn’t delude herself for long. Kevin was certainly a part of the circumstances surrounding her. The responsibility for his actions had been officially assumed by the United States government. Unofficially, Reilly could never relinquish that responsibility. Her strict sense of duty forbade her such release. Kevin was her suspect, and by the look of things, her criminal.
Yet Reilly knew better than to burden her mind with what-ifs. She walked away from the ambulance, leaving Clive to Morgan’s suffocating supervision. As she parted, she felt the woman’s cold stare upon her every step.
Reilly marched across the driveway with the confidence of a killer whale chasing a seal. She projected to all onlookers a sense of entitlement, as though she had every right to be there. Most of the officers present were undoubtedly fooled by it. She reached the staircase to Clive’s apartment without so much as the raise of an eyebrow.
To her misfortune, Officer David Gillespie clambered down the stairway just as Reilly began her climb up. He had worked with her a short time at her precinct before transferring to Somerset, but she doubted he’d remember her. His steroid-induced frame blockaded any reasonable means of passage. Dressed like a civilian, Reilly prepared herself for an inquisition.
“Miss, you’d better have a damn good reason for crossing that yellow tape,” Gillespie said, taking ownership of the crime scene.
“I do,” Reilly responded, flashing her credentials. “I’m Detective Samantha Reilly of the Fall River Police Department. I was hoping to speak to the man in charge here. I assume that’s you?”
Reilly played up to the officer’s ego. She assumed Officer Gillespie was nothing but an over-muscled grunt, easily placated by submission. She’d pegged him all wrong.
“I am,” the officer said without a hint of arrogance. He seemed cordial but firm, efficient. He escorted her gently away from the stairs.
“What business brings you here, Detective?”
“I was on my way to see Mr. Menard, the man in the ambulance—”
“We know who he is.”
“He had information regarding Kevin Ventura, the other occupant of this apartment. Ventura is wanted for questioning in a number of investigations.”
“Not anymore, he ain’t. Your buddy in the ambulance over there killed him. Stabbed him right in the chest, just barely missing the heart. It got the job done, though. Ventura’s still up there, dead as dirt.”
“Murder?” Reilly asked.
“We’re not sure. They were both pretty fucked-up. Menard’s girlfriend, Morgan…”
“Donnelly.”
“Right. She claims they were attacked by Mr. Ventura. She called 9-1-1. Also, judging by the mess inside and the condition of Mr. Menard, it’s obvious a struggle took place. If I had to guess, this looks like self-defense.”
“So why the handcuffs?”
“A precaution,” the officer said. “The Feds want to talk to him.”
“They already know about this? How?”
“Who knows? Anyway, if you were hoping to take a look around, it’s not going to happen. The whole apartment’s off-limits, courtesy of the FBI. I can’t even go back inside. I had to post Officer Pitt at the entrance to make sure nobody goes in there besides medical personnel.”
Medical personnel, huh?
Reilly’s wheels were spinning feverishly. But her thoughts were quashed before a plan could come into fruition as she glanced over Gillespie’s shoulder toward Clive’s apartment door and noticed an equally juiced policeman standing with arms crossed like some high-paid security guard. Disguised or not, sneaking in wouldn’t be an option.
Fresh lights flashed behind her, and she wondered if the FBI had arrived. Screening the street, she was relieved to see their source: a second ambulance, this time with quiet sirens, sent in for the dead.
With her most pitiful of faces, Reilly begged her adversary for leniency. “Surely you can make an exception?”
“Sorry, Detective, but the bureau’s orders were very specific.” Then, as if he sensed the strength of her desires, Gillespie gave way just a little. “I’ll tell you what I can do, though, if you promise to keep it quiet.”
“I’m listening.”
“Before the FBI contacted our chief, we did our own investigation. Standard procedure requires me to write up a report. How detailed I make that report is within my discretion. Even a cursory investigation into the apartment turned up some pretty damning results, so damning that I know exactly why the Feds are interested in this guy.”
“Explosives? Bomb components?”
“Ah! You’re more in the know than I thought.”
“In whose room were they found?”
“In whose room? They’re everywhere! The place looks like a goddamn Taliban storage unit. It’s all the same shit used in each of the explosions, including the one that got our own. We wanted to personally hang this fuck. Death by stabbing is far better than he deserved. Officer Bell was a good friend of mine and a fine policeman. If Ventura’s our guy, then that injured boy down there is a hero as far as my department’s concerned. But if Menard knows something, or worse, had something to do with the explosions, we want to know about it. With that said, I’ll send you a detailed report of our investigation if you promise to keep me in the loop with this Menard fellow.”
“Done. Fax it to my attention with a cover sheet. No one else will read it.”
“If you say so. Forgive me if I don’t sign my name to it.”
Reilly didn’t like having to rely on this stranger, but she felt some relief in the possibility of getting answers. Cops didn’t like cop killers and would often bend, or break, some rules to nail them.
Still, Reilly was not satisfied. She had another victim to consider. What about Valerie Page?
“Is it too much to ask if I requested a list of the makes and sizes of sneakers in Ventura’s closet?”
Reilly turned to leave, potential answers to the Page murder a fax transmission away. Her satisfaction grew until she remembered the most damning piece of evidence could now be embedded in Kevin’s carcass. How could she have forgotten the knife?
“Officer…” she called, turning back around.
“Gillespie.”
“Thanks for all of your help. One more thing, though. You said Mr. Menard stabbed Ventura. With what?”
“Some kind of cheap, gaudy knife. It looked like a crappy imitation of something you might see ancient cults using in the movies to sacrifice people. I’ll include a description and its dimensions in my report if possible. For now, though, take a quick look at it yourself.”
Officer Gillespie pointed to the second unit of paramedics as they exited the apartment. In their grips, they carried a stretcher. On top of the stretcher was a black bag long enough to fit Wilt Chamberlain or two Kevin Venturas. A body bag.
“Here it comes now, your knife. Right where Menard left it.”
“I suppose you’re feeling pretty good about yourself?”
“Huh?” Clive sat up in darkness. “What? Who’s there?”
His eyes had difficulty adjusting. He didn’t know where he was. Someone had awakened him, but he couldn’t see a damn thing. In a moment, his fogginess would clear. Clive couldn’t wait a moment.
“Chester? Is that you?”
“This was one of my favorite shirts, Clive. You had to go and soil it. To be fair, I’ve been wearing it for days, so it was already kind of dirty. But you made it a lot worse. Blood doesn’t come out that easily.”
Clive stiffened, his every muscle tensing. The handcuffs joining his wrist to the bedrail rattled at his side. Everything came back to him at once. Even the voice was horridly recognizable. Could it be possible? Could he still be alive?
The pale outline of a man came into clarity. His details followed. Thick blood stained his shirt, still noticeable despite the dark shirt color and unlit room. A massive portion of his chest had been filleted open where the blade had penetrated his skin. Kevin’s wounds were far greater than those inflicted by Clive. They looked as though someone had dug out the knife with a shovel. The cavity itself appeared old, with swarms of maggots and worms crawling and squirming their way about it.
The rest of Kevin came in distorted, eerily hazy and malnourished. His form resonated with a nebulous glow, like the image of an actor on an old black-and-white television with a broken antenna.
Clive slid back in his bed as far as the handcuffs would permit him. He couldn’t shake the feeling that he was staring at a dead man. Kevin certainly looked dead, aside from the fact that he was standing and speaking.
“Sh-Shouldn’t you be having that wound looked at?” Clive whispered, his voice choked up in terror.
“Someone’s taking care of me downstairs. My room is much, much colder than yours, though. So I figured I’d come up and say hello, see how you’re doing. You had quite the ordeal today. How are you doing, Clive?”
The bite in Kevin’s words pushed Clive to the edge. Something was horribly wrong. With a pumpkin-sized hole in his chest, Kevin shouldn’t have been breathing, never mind walking around without a care. His smile didn’t conceal the scorn residing in his empty and hateful soul. He seemed to will malevolence upon Clive with his very existence. Clive couldn’t blind himself to it no matter how hard he tried.
“Oh, I’m… good. You know, just chilling here until someone comes to get me.”
Clive faked calmness, but his guise was transparent. Something inside compelled him to get to the bottom of the apparition before him. Who, or what, stood at the end of his bed? Watching him. Waiting. Clive needed resolution. He had to ask the questions.
“Y-You haven’t come to get me, have you, Kevin?” Clive stammered. “What do you want from me?”
“Well, a new shirt would be a nice start.” Kevin laughed, and small black specks fell from his mouth, some landing on Clive’s bed. Clive couldn’t make out what they were. When they started to move, Clive dragged his feet underneath his butt, retreating to the wall behind him as far as his restraints would permit.
“I mean, look at this thing!” Kevin tugged on his shirt and laughed harder. Bits of rotten flesh flaked off the fabric as he aired it out. More and more, the black specks fell from his mouth. They chirped like grasshoppers, except the sound was quieter and not nearly as pleasant.
Over the chirping, Clive could hear a new sound: tiny nails scratching against the wooden floor. He looked down at a horde of rats scurrying from unknown hiding places. They circled Kevin’s feet to eat at his detached flesh. Kevin didn’t seem to mind. He was still bellowing as the rodents converged around him.
Clive listened to their hungry squeals, the sound of their grinding teeth upsetting his stomach and his mind. They ate the remains of Kevin, all the while staring at Clive. Rotten meat was okay, but they seemed to yearn for something fresher.
Clive pulled his sheets up to his mouth. He shook the blankets, sending a violent wave soaring toward the end of his bed. But the black specks held on and kept their position. They stood like a regiment of soldiers in the days before guerilla warfare. A few rats joined them, climbing up Kevin’s legs and hopping onto the bed. Their evil red eyes gleamed at Clive like rubies set against ebony. In them, Clive saw a desire to hurt and maim and maybe even to kill. But the rats sat motionless near his feet as if awaiting some unknown master’s command. Kevin’s command?
Clive was terrified, yet there was no escape. His handcuffs kept him bound to the bed. He was at Kevin’s mercy. His terror grew as the black walls around him bubbled as if their paint were boiling. The bubbles moved in all directions, behind and over paintings, shelves, air vents, and other wall coverings. They emitted a strange hum, mimicking the resonation from power lines, and a crackling sound like milk poured into Rice Krispies.
When the first of the bubbles fell onto his stomach, Clive could see they were cockroaches. He closed his eyes, praying that when he opened them again, Kevin and all his wicked pets would be gone. He silently counted to ten.
“Pay attention to me, Clive!” Kevin shouted in a voice not his own. His sarcasm transformed into something lower, angrier, and outright demonic. Clive opened his eyes only to see Kevin’s hideously contorted face inches from his. His body tensed in fear. His bowels let go. Was this the end?
Clive tried to speak, but his words were scared too. They chose to remain hidden in his throat. Kevin’s face stirred as the maggots and worms burrowed tunnels into their new home. But his eyes… Where have they gone? All that remained were sockets, empty save for the maggots. Yet those sockets still gaped at him with all the hate they could muster.
“What do you want?” Clive muttered.
“Divulgence.”
“Divulgence? What does that mean?”
“Divulgence. It’s the three-syllable noun form of the verb divulge, which means, ‘to make known.’”
“What do you want to make known?”
“The truth, Clive. But I already know it. It’s you who keeps denying yourself the truth.”
“Then tell me whatever you want me to know. I’ll listen, then you can make this go away.”
“I can’t tell you. That’s something you have to figure out for yourself.”
“How am I supposed to do that? I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about.”
“Just think, Clive. Have you ever stopped to think about what’s truly going on inside you? Have you ever wondered why there’s so much of your life you can’t remember? Aren’t you the least bit curious why the FBI was looking through your shit too?”
“Nice try, Kevin. I’m not going down for your fucked-up hobbies. You’ll do whatever you’ve come here to do, but you’re not going to pin the explosions on me. I’m not a killer!”
“What makes you so sure? Remember, Clive. What’s blinding you?”
“Bullshit! You did them. You did them all. That detective was on to you months ago. They found your sick-ass playthings all over the apartment. Not to mention you tried to blow me up the other day! So according to you, not only am I a homicidal maniac, but I’m suicidal too. Do you know how ridiculous that sounds? Don’t you think I would know if I did that crap? After the mall, you tried to stab me. That’s some pretty convincing proof of your guilt, if you ask me.”
“How do you know what the police found at the apartment? You’ve been in this hospital, unconscious, since you collapsed beside me on our now-ruined carpet. Even the Salvation Army won’t want it now. You’re never getting that blood out.”
“Because…” Clive stumbled for an answer. He didn’t have one. How did he know what the police had found at the apartment? If the FBI had found anything the first go-around, they didn’t let him know about it. He couldn’t even remember how he got to the hospital. He filled in the missing data with rational assumption. Somebody must have called the cops. Maybe Morgan called them. And he must have been semiconscious when the cops were rummaging through the apartment. His brain must have processed some of what they were saying. That had to be how he knew what was found. There was no other logical explanation, except for Chester. Maybe she told him.
But Clive couldn’t remember any police or ambulance. In fact, he couldn’t remember a single thing between stabbing Kevin and waking up to Kevin’s voice in the hospital, if he was even in the hospital. He couldn’t be sure. It made him uneasy. He couldn’t even be sure if he was still alive.
I’ve never been stabbed before, he thought. Could it have affected my mind? I also lost a lot of blood. This will all go away as I heal.
“I must have overheard somebody,” Clive muttered softly.
“You keep denying yourself the truth, and more people are going to die because of it. Eventually, it will all catch up to you, Clive. For the sake of others, if not your own, come to your senses.”