What Hides Within

by Jason Parent

  “Hang up that goddamn phone now!” she demanded. “We need to talk.”

  “Connie, I have to go.”

  “Connie? Connie!” Morgan wrestled Clive for the phone. He shook her off.

  Clive placed his hand over the phone’s mouthpiece. He held the phone away from his ear. A faint “Is everything okay?” was transmitted through the receiver.

  “Not that whore again,” Morgan said.

  Clive put the phone back to his mouth. “I’ll call you back,” he said, hanging up.

  “Morgan,” he said, defeated. “She’s just a concerned friend. She called to check up on me. I can’t sleep. I can’t eat. I can’t even think straight. She was trying to help.”

  “Let me help you, Clive. That’s why I’m here. I even called in sick so I could stay home and look after you.” Morgan sat beside Clive on the bed. Wrapping an arm around him, she pulled him close.

  He rested his head on her bosom, letting her run her fingers through his hair. “Morgan, I think my dreams aren’t just dreams. I think I blew up all those buildings, killed all those people.”

  “Shhh! Don’t you say that. Don’t you ever say that.”

  “But—”

  “No buts. You’re not making sense. You were with me when those horrible crimes occurred. So you see, you couldn’t have done those things.”

  “Then why won’t Chester give me any time to think it over? What’s she trying to hide from me? She won’t shut up, Morgan. It’s driving me crazy.”

  “Chester? What are you talking about, Clive? Who’s Chester?”

  “Remember when I told you I was hearing voices? Well, the voice never left. Instead, it came around more often. And now it won’t stop. God! Listen to how crazy I sound! I must be losing my mind.”

  “You’re not losing your mind. We’ll get through this. Please be patient. Things are tough now, but it’ll pass. It will all work out. I promise. Someone is watching over us.”

  “I know, and the bitch won’t leave!” Clive said.

  “Stay here. I’ll be right back.”

  Morgan left the bedroom. When she returned, she carried a glass of water and an orange cylindrical container with a white lid. She opened the container and removed two small, circular yellow tablets. With the pills lying on her open palm, she shoved them under Clive’s nose.

  “These should help take off some of the edge.”

  Clive looked at the pills skeptically. “What are they?”

  “Paxil. It helps to control anxiety.”

  “Isn’t that what women use when they have PMS?”

  “Sometimes, but it’s also used for—”

  “I don’t want your period drugs. Get that crap out of my face!” With a flick of his wrist, Clive swatted Morgan’s hand aside. The Paxil tablets fell to the floor. Clive crashed back into the bed. His head felt as though it would burst open at any moment. Still, Chester kept up her hideous song. It felt as though she were tearing him apart from the inside out. More blood streamed from his nose.

  “Fine, Clive. Be a jerk. It’s not like I’m trying to help you or anything.”

  “You want to help me? Get this fucking spider out of my head!”

  “I’ll leave you alone, since that seems to be what you want. I’ll come back when you start making more sense. In the meantime, I’ll make some soup. You’ve got to eat something. I’ll be back to check on you when it’s ready.”

  Morgan turned to leave. At the doorway, she left Clive with a parting, “I love you.” She exited the room, closing the door shut behind her.

  In that room, Clive felt confined. Was Morgan nursing him or guarding him? He couldn’t tell.

  He stared through the panes of the bedroom window. Second floor. Only a one-story drop. I need to get out of here. I need to get you out of my head.

  All at once, the humming stopped. You still think you can get rid of me, huh, Clive? Your stubbornness never ceases to amaze me.

  “I can, and I will, Chester. I can, and I will.”

  Ha! And that’s the only misconception you’re actually acting upon.

  “Let’s settle this, Chester, once and for all.”

  If that’s what you truly want, then sure. I can see there’s no dissuading you.

  “First, let’s go someplace a little more private.”

  CHAPTER 49

  W here are we going?

  Clive sniggered. “You don’t know? I thought you could read my mind.”

  I’ve been preoccupied with other concerns. Besides, your mind is an erratic mess. Maybe you should slow down and relax for a minute.

  “I’m not so sure I want to relax.”

  You’re being stupid. Calm down. Let’s talk about this for a second.

  “There’s nothing left to talk about. My mind’s made up.”

  Clive didn’t feel the harsh weather on his skin as he jogged nearly two miles from Morgan’s home to his former residence. Lost in thought, his mind ignored his legs’ entreaties to stop, his lungs’ pleas for oxygen, and his stomach’s threats of vomiting. It ignored the fact that he hadn’t run since high school. His body was no longer conditioned for the strain. His mind didn’t care. Manic compulsion propelled him toward home. There, Clive knew he’d find the resolution he needed.

  I could stop you if I so choose.

  Clive took Chester’s words as a threat. He paid it no heed. “Then why don’t you?” he managed between gasps. The cold air burned inside his chest. Still, he kept on running.

  You’ve got to learn your own lessons, I suppose. I tire of this, Clive. Where’s your faith? You refuse to listen to me. So you’ll find out things the hard way.

  Chester went quiet for a minute. Clive assumed she’d finished her lecture. But Chester wasn’t quite done. Admittedly, I’m curious to see what you’re going to do. I’m afraid to walk around up here with all the land mines your brain keeps planting within itself. If you’re going to self-destruct, then you certainly don’t need me to help you with that. Still, I’m not leaving. This is my home now. It suits me. If I left, I would have to start everything over again. And it’s so hard to find someone with your proclivities.

  Chester blabbed on and on. Clive heard her words, but he zoned them out. Too much action was already playing out in his head. He had too many heartrending emotions swirling around inside him. Too many self-destructive inclinations, probably enough to worry even the most psychotic of spiders.

  He broke the yellow caution tape at the base of the stairwell with his waist like a runner breaking through a finish line. Quickly, he ascended the steps to his apartment. At the top, he stopped to catch his breath in the doorway before trying the door. It was unlocked, and a good thing too. His keys weren’t on him, probably already inside.

  Upon entering, he saw his keys on the kitchen counter. He ran to them, not bothering to close the door behind him. Funny, he didn’t remember returning to the apartment. How had they gotten there?

  He shrugged, deciding he had more pressing matters to attend to. He hurried to the kitchen sink.

  Reilly pulled up to the quiet suburban duplex with arrest warrant in hand. Sanchez sat beside her in full uniform, reclining in the passenger seat of her Gran Torino. Behind them, two Somerset patrolmen followed in their cruiser.

  Outside, everything was as frozen as the weather that framed it. Not a sound, save an occasional howl of the wind, pierced the day-lit air. Reilly checked the driveway. Morgan’s car was missing. She prayed her suspect was still inside.

  As she approached Morgan’s door, Reilly was as relaxed as a sleeping kitten. Sanchez followed, twirling his handcuffs around his finger. Their guns remained holstered.

  “Are we expecting any trouble with this one?”

  “Tough to say. Menard’s been somewhat unpredictable. I’ve been watching him closely whenever I can. Every time I think I’ve got him figured out, he does something to undermine or raise my suspicions. It’s almost as though he’s two different people. The only question is, which Cl
ive Menard are we going to get?”

  “Then,” Sanchez said, unholstering his weapon, “just in case…”

  Reilly nodded. She appreciated the backup and knew she could rely on Sanchez. With her warrant held out in front of her as though it were a tail she aimed to pin on some invisible donkey, Reilly approached Morgan’s door and knocked.

  When no one answered, she knocked again. “Fall River PD. We’d like to speak to Clive Menard.”

  Still no answer. Reilly checked the doorknob. The door was unlocked. She slowly pushed it open.

  “Samantha, we can’t go in there without a search warrant. We don’t even know if Menard’s here.”

  “Where’s your sense of adventure, Horatio?” She drew her pistol.

  Reilly planned on going in. Sanchez sighed and shrugged, then stepped up beside the door. Reilly leaned against the wall on the other side. She signaled the other two officers to go around back then crossed the threshold. “You take the ground floor. I’ll head upstairs.”

  Sanchez followed her orders. He disappeared into another room. Reilly headed to the second floor.

  With her service pistol in front of her, she swung into the room at the right of the stairway’s peak. She listened for movement, breathing, signs of life, but heard nothing. She checked the closet and under the bed as if she were playing hide-and-seek with guns. The room was empty.

  She moved across the hall into Morgan’s bedroom. The bed was unmade. It was still warm to the touch. Someone had lain there recently. Did he leave in a hurry? She backed away and peeked underneath. This time, she was nervous. The unfriendly eyes of Morgan’s Siamese cat glared back at Reilly. The animal hissed its disapproval.

  Reilly moved toward the open window and stuck her head out of it. As she thought might be the case, footprints marked the snow below. They began beneath the window and headed across the yard.

  “Clear!” she heard Sanchez yell from the first floor.

  “Fuck!” Reilly shouted.

  She called to the two patrolmen below. “Did you guys see anybody?”

  “No,” one officer answered. Reilly could have sworn he was picking his nose.

  “Of course you didn’t,” she muttered underneath her breath.

  “The backyard was clear when we got here,” the officer said.

  “He probably saw us pull in and took off,” Reilly said. “I’m going after him with Captain Sanchez. You two stay here in case he comes back.”

  Reilly retreated into the house. “Horatio,” she called. “He’s not here. But I bet I have a pretty good idea where he’s heading. Let’s go.”

  CHAPTER 50

  M organ noticed the open door as soon as she pulled into the driveway. She sprang from her car and ran up the staircase. Not knowing what she’d find when she reached the top, she prepared herself for the worst. She barreled into the apartment. The door swung shut behind her.

  “Clive!”

  “I can’t get her out!” he said.

  Morgan froze, momentarily stunned by what she saw. Clive stood cockeyed over his kitchen sink. His head hung over the drain. A small aluminum funnel protruded from his right ear. Water dripped down the side of his face. It formed small puddles on the counter and floor. In his hand, Clive held a bottle of Drano.

  Morgan shook off her shock. “What the fuck?” She watched as Clive slowly raised the caustic chemical toward the funnel. His hand trembled, spilling the foamy blue liquid all over it.

  Morgan hurried to his side. She grabbed his arm before he could pour a single drop. The Drano bottle fell into the sink, landing on its side. Its contents vanished into the drain abyss.

  Clive stood upright. The funnel clung to his ear despite gravity’s contrary intent. Something, perhaps earwax, held it firmly in place. He ripped the funnel from his ear and threw it against the wall. Then he smeared his palms down his face as though he were trying to wipe off his stress. He buried his face in the crook of his arm and rested on the countertop. Morgan wondered if he was crying.

  “Water didn’t work.” Clive’s voice quivered like a sparrow’s song. “I had to try something else. I diluted it first.”

  “Clive.” Morgan engulfed him in her arms, curving her nose up his cheek until her lips touched skin. She kissed him and held her lips in place as if her mere proximity could take away all his pain. At the least, she hoped she could settle his restless soul. “You need some sleep. The lack of it is making you act all crazy. Please, come home with me, babe. We can rest together, and you can fall asleep in my arms. I’ll watch over you, make sure everything’s okay. Let me take care of you.”

  Clive seemed lost in his own sordid thoughts. “Why won’t she come out?”

  Morgan barely heard the question, but she caught its tone and recognized the trouble in it. She tried to pull Clive from the countertop.

  “Get off of me!” Clive yelled. Simultaneously, his elbow shot out. It connected with Morgan’s chest and sent her stumbling backward. The contact wasn’t hard enough to cause any damage, but it was hard enough to piss her off.

  “I need to deal with this alone.” Clive sounded like a child sulking. He reburied his face in his arm.

  “I’m not leaving you alone, Clive. You can’t be trusted. Who knows what you’ll do to yourself. You’re acting crazy, and now you’re taking it out on me.”

  Clive slid his chest across the width of the counter. He raised his head from his arm-pillow just enough to see the wall in front of him. It was less than two feet away. Against the wall was a knife rack. In it was a full range of kitchen cutlery, from the smallest paring knife to the square, flat iron of the butcher’s blade. Their welcoming black grips jutted from the rack as though daring Clive to take hold. Their handles mis-represented each instrument’s true quality. The wicked silver-metal sharpness of each blade hid within a serene polished-wood resting place.

  Despite all the knives that filled the rack, Clive’s fingers danced upon the sole tool not used for slicing and dicing, though it still could cut as well as the rest—the pair of kitchen scissors protruding from the rack’s upper-right corner.

  Kitchen scissors. The concept seemed strange to Morgan. She had never used them. Who used scissors to cut food? Wasn’t that what all the knives in that rack were for?

  A car pulled up outside. Clive didn’t seem to care about it or anything else. Morgan took notice, but she didn’t react. She watched Clive, keeping her distance, albeit a short one.

  The creak on the stairwell brought a chill to her spine. She crept toward the door and latched the dead bolt. Then she peered through the eyehole. A man and a woman climbed the staircase. Both were holding guns.

  “Clive Menard,” Detective Reilly shouted. “We know you’re in there. This is the police. Open up.”

  Morgan turned to Clive. He looked like the lemming at the end of the pack that had just enough time to wonder if jumping off the cliff was a good idea but not enough time to prevent its tumble. His worn features lacked hope, and she wondered if he’d given up on life entirely. Morgan, however, refused to give up.

  “Go into your bedroom. Lock the door. Don’t come out until I say so. You got that? I’ll take care of this.”

  Morgan uttered her words as quietly as she could. The distance between her and Clive required something more than a whisper, and she hoped she hadn’t alerted the officers outside to their presence.

  Clive nodded. Morgan took control of his life for him. It was a complete reversal from the last time they’d stood in his apartment, when Clive had control, Morgan fled, and Kevin fell apart. So much had changed in such a short time. How fragile Clive’s mind seemed. He plodded along, disappearing behind a closed door.

  Morgan assessed the apartment. She scrutinized every inch of the living room, then the kitchen, with fretful haste. She had made a promise. She would be strong for Clive. It was time to follow through on it.

  If the officers insisted on coming into the apartment, she needed something to protect herself and Clive. Pic
kings were slim. Most of the tools owned by Kevin or Clive had been confiscated as potential evidence by the FBI during its last inspection.

  Morgan ran to the knife rack. The scissors were missing, but she hadn’t the time to find out why. Instead, she grabbed the butcher’s knife. Too small. Plus, it would stick into the first one. There’s no way I’d get both of them with this.

  In a half-open drawer, she found a rolling pin. She smacked its thick, wooden, cylindrical shaft against her palm. Both handles jiggled. Not the sturdiest of equipment. Too much give. It’ll have to do.

  Morgan stood, pensive. She huffed and left the kitchen. Then she thought of Kevin or, more accurately, his bedroom and what she knew was inside it. Her knowledge excited her in spite of the fact that two officers were camping right outside the apartment door. Maybe guns weren’t the only weapons around that blasted. Maybe she could obtain the upper hand after all. How could she have forgotten about them?

  Hannah Montana! She laughed. Kevin’s collection! The entire first season on videocassette! Clive’s little joke.

  She rushed into the room and grabbed the box full of VHS tapes, all neatly organized in chronological order by episode. She paused only for a moment, marveling in the irony of the glitter-glam box and its sappy-goodness appearance.

  No one buys cassettes anymore. That alone should have tipped them off. Oh well. It seems fitting. Clive never liked this bitch anyway. It’s too bad he never got the chance to use these himself.

  Morgan removed one of the tapes from its Disney-fied casing. Flipping it over, she examined the two white, circular reels where the videotape would normally roll. They looked like insets for gears and worked much like them. With her fingernail, Morgan rotated the right reel clockwise. It turned slowly, clicking at each half-centimeter interval. Then it began to tick.

  Forty-five seconds. That should be long enough. She delicately slid the cassette back into its box then threw it onto the carpet near the front door.

  What else? Morgan scanned Kevin’s room. Her gaze fixated on one notable possession: a baseball bat encased in glass. Thank you, Kevin!