He was floating again, slipping into the gray cloud when a loud moaning noise, like a rusty iron gate closing slowly, snapped him back to consciousness.
The oven door was moving. With a screech, it dropped an inch, making the witch's legs shudder. A second later, the door let out a loud, iron shriek and slammed closed, chopping the witch's charred body in two and shutting in the flames and most of the smoke. The witch's cooked buttocks and seared legs remained lying on the conveyor belt, streams of black smoke spiralling gracefully upward from her melted flesh.
Suddenly Jackie couldn't breathe.
The witch's legs moved!
Suddenly, Jackie was sure he would never breathe again; if he did, it wouldn't be a sane breath. He wanted to scream, but knew if he started he wouldn't stop until he had screamed himself crazy.
The witch's cracked, burnt, and crispy legs, were moving! The knees slid forward, the kneecaps sticking to the table's melted rubber rollers and pulling off, remaining there. The witch's shriveled, charred ass rose into the air. Smoking, bubbling blood and grease ran from it, down her torched and splitting thighs.
She's coming backfor me! Jackie screamed silently.
The witch's charcoaled legs and ass began to sway as the gray cloud returned for Jackie. The right leg lifted, leaving half its shin on the table to keep its kneecap company and, off balance, the rest of her toppled. Her cooked remains fell off the conveyor belt onto the stone floor, trailing smoke like a shot-down airplane and spattering hot, sizzling grease and bloody fat in a wide arch on the stone floor.
When she fell, so did Jackie, toppling over into oblivion.
CHAPTER 44
And now my story is done.
"It's all right," a voice said.
Jackie groped toward it. Suddenly, the gray fog he lived in grew dark.
"You're safe now."
Who was speaking to him? It seemed very important that he should know. Why it was important, he couldn't grasp. But the cloud grew darker.
"I'm just going to take a little of your blood."
The witch!
Jackie opened his eyes.
She was back.
Standing by the bedside.
Needle in her hand.
Leaning over him.
"Just a little of your blood."
He tried to pull away but nothing worked. His arms, legshis entire body was disconnected from his brain.
The witch changed. She became a nurse, smiling kindly and looking at him with genuine pity in her eyes. She changed again. The charbroiled remains of her burnt body from the waist down stood by the bed. Behind her on the floor, the horrid, fire-blasted upper torso walked in on its arms, her huge, fried-egg eyes with their lids burned off searching for the rest of her body.
Jackie woke to the sound of a television and the dull throb of pain that was like a giant hand squeezing his body tightly every few seconds. The news was on. He opened his eyes but could see nothing. After several minutes of blinking his eyes-that still being the only part of his body that he could move he began to notice a light, dim and flickering; the sort of light cast by a TV screen. Either it was a small set, or he was too far away from it, but it didn't illuminate his surroundings very well. All Jackie could make out was a ceiling and a pipe with a curtain on it going around where he lay.
He was concentrating on trying to move his head when he heard his name on the television. Straining to hear, he listened to the news commentator tell how men from the county sheriff's department had discovered him, Jennifer, and their mother at Grimm Memorials, after answering Jennifer's phone call for help. Though they gave some of the grisly details, police were still discovering bodies and did not yet know the whole story of what had gone on there. Jackie wanted to speak to get someone's attention to tell them what happened, but something else the commentator said recaptured his attention.
"The most bizzare aspect of this horrifying discovery is that in her will, Eleanor Grimm, the woman who committed these atrocities, left her entire estate, worth half a million dollars, to the unborn son of the woman she kidnapped, and whose husband she murdered Diane Nailer. Police are baffled as to Eleanor Grimm 's motives other than that she was involved in some kind of occult worship that involved human sacrifice and cannibalism. There has been some speculation by authorities that she may have belonged to the coven of drug-running satanists responsible for similar atrocities in Mexico and Texas last year ..."
Jackie couldn't believe it. Why would the witch do that?
Diane Nailer put the car in neutral as she sat at the red light. She glanced in the rearview mirror at the baby, little Steve, sitting in his car seat cooing at his fingertips. Jennifer sat next to him, watching him, but not playing with him. She did that a lot, Diane realized. Jennifer would sit and watch the baby, but not play with him or talk to him. She'd have to ask her psychiatrist about that; he had warned her that Jen and Jackie would probably need counseling, too.
The light turned green and she put the car in gear again after a few prodding horns from the cars behind her. She smiled wearily to herself at the thought of seeing a psychiatrist. Before Grimm Memorials she had thought having a shrink was a luxury of the rich. Now she knew that if you really needed one, it was a luxury that you paid for with more than money; you paid for it with your well-being, your spirit, your very soul.
At first, Diane hadn't needed any help. When the police and ambulance finally got to Grimm Memorials, after Jennifer called them, she was well into labor. She delivered little Steve in the ambulance on the way to the hospital at 12:33 A.M., November 1.
All her attention that night, and in the days that followed, was focused on the baby. It wasn't until nearly a week later, when she was strong enough that her doctors allowed first the police, then the media to interview her, that anything else could occupy her mind. That was when she finally learned what had happened at Grimm Memorials, and felt her sanity trying to slip away.
Her last coherent memory, before giving birth in the ambulance, had been of going out to lunch with Steve, back in September, the first day of school. She was, not surprisingly, shocked to learn what had happened in the two months since then to her husband and the children that the old lady the papers were calling a witch (using her son Jackie's description of her) had killed.
She was so shocked, in fact, that after a week of questionings and interviews, as she sat in her hospital bed with a copy of the Boston Herald in her lap with three-inch headlines blaring the length of the front page: MODERN-DAY HANSEL AND GRETEL THWART DEVIL WORSHIPPING WITCH, she shrieked and blacked out for three days. That was when her doctors transferred her to the psychiatric ward.
She would have remained there for years, at least, maybe more, if her doctors had not allowed her to see little Steve. When she held him, felt his need for her, she strengthened and knew she had to get out of there. She dealt with all that she had been told and had remembered in the only way her mind could: she forgot.
Except in her sleep.
She'd been out of the hospital only a week when the nightmares had started, memory returning in dreams livid and horrifying. That was when she'd started seeing the psychiatrist. Now, two months since the Hansel and Gretel murders, as the papers labeled them, she felt like she was finally making some progress in dealing with all that had happened.
Sometimes she felt guilty about the seventy-five dollars an hour she paid the shrink, but then remembered that she didn't have to worry about money, would probably never have to worry about it again. Thanks to Steve's life insurance and (she didn't like to think about it) the money and property the old Grimm woman had left little Steve, she and her children looked like they were set for life.
As she steered the Saab into the parking lot of the hospital where Jackie was still laid up, she told herself that it didn't matter where the money came from or even how much there was. Money was unimportant; it was only useful. It would help her get her children away from the media limelight so that they could salvage somethin
g of their lives and live like normal people again; at least as normal as money could buy.
That was what gave her hope. That, and little Steve were what kept her going.
Jennifer sat in the back seat of the Saab, next to the car seat holding little Steve. She and her mother and the baby were going to the hospital. Today was the day Jackie got part of his upper-body cast cut off.
It had been a little over two months since Halloween at Grimm Memorials, but the media hoopla was already dying down and it wasn't even mentioned on TV anymore. Jennifer was glad. Every time she heard the story Jackie had told the news people, she felt sick. Though she didn't remember much, Jennifer knew she had done, or helped do, some terrible things. Jackie had never once mentioned that fact to anyone. He told the police and reporters that she had been a captive just like him, and had even made her out to be the hero because she had pushed the old woman into the crematorium oven. Now she owed him.
She patted the small lump in her pocket and thought about what Jackie had told her, about what he wanted to do. She looked thoughtfully at little Steve and frowned.
"Did you bring it?" Jackie asked his sister after he got rid of their mother by telling her the doctor wanted to speak to her before they removed the cast.
"Yeah, I brought it. But this is stupid. This isn't going to prove anything," Jennifer argued.
"I don't care," Jackie replied, jutting his jaw out over the top of the body cast that he was dying to get out of. "What did you bring?"
"A piece of liver."
"Good. Do it."
As Jackie watched intently, Jennifer took out a quartersize piece of aluminum foil and unwrapped it, revealing a glob of dark red, bloody meat. Taking a deep breath, she went to the baby, still in his basketlike car seat, which their mother had placed on the other bed in the room while she went to find the doctor.
"It's no good. He's sleeping," Jen said, leaning over the baby. There was relief in her voice. Before she could straighten, little Steve opened his eyes and looked at her.
"Do it!" Jackie urged.
Trembling, Jennifer held out the raw meat to the baby.
My tale is done, there runs a mouse, whosoever catches it, may make himself a big fur cap out of it.
-the Brothers Grimm
Please turn the page for a sneak peek of R. Patrick Gates' new novel GRIMM REAPINGS coming soon from Pinnacle Books!
Thirteen years later ...
"Hey! Hurry! It's coming on!"
Jackie Nailer brushed the unevenly chopped, green-tinted blond bags out of his eyes enough to take measure of himself in the bathroom mirror. In the community room, his girlfriend, Chalice, continued to urge him to hurry up. Jackie ignored her and looked deeply into his eyes. What was that look he saw there, far within his dilated pupils? It was something, something different. And when had he first noticed that odd something deep within the black holes of his pupils?
Why right after meeting the witch, yes, thank you very much.
Even after thirteen years just the thought of her brought a cold clammy liquid feeling to his bowels and he felt the urge to vacate them. Which brought him right back to the problem at hand, staring into his eyes and trying to figure out how crazy he was, was just another method of procrastination. What it really came down to was: Did he really want to do this?
You should have thought of that before you signed the contract and took the network's money, his hindsight voice told him. Jackie shook his head and watched his hair flop back and forth.
It's over and done with, he mentally told himself. Why shouldn't I profit from what happened? Jen has! But then Jen didn't remember anything that had happened at Grimm Memorials thirteen years ago, while Jackie couldn't forget it. It had been tough enough when the cameras from CBC had shown up and he had actually sat down with the Barbra Waters and looked at photographs and video from the police and trial files on the Grimm Memorials case. Looking at his six-year-old face, peering out at him so frightened, looking from the past, had brought it all rushing back at him. All that he thought he'd managed to deal with, after thirteen years of counseling, came rumbling back on great big painful emotional wheels.
Like every other sappy guest of Barbra Waters, Jackie had cried.
He pushed the embarrassing memory from his mind and thought again of those photos of his childhood self. He looked much different now, and not just because of the punk haircut with its green tint and the rings piercing his left nostril and both ears. Thirteen years had passed after all and he had grown up. He had matured physically over the last two years and now nearly resembled the adult man he would become. His eyes, which had diminished a little in their blueness, made up for it in their largeness, which gave him a puppydog look girls could not resist. Add to that his straight, small nose, full lips, and square jaw and he was one of the best looking boys on campus. If he didn't do his best to always hide it, that is.
"Jackie! Come on! It's starting!"
Do I really want to watch this? he mentally asked his mirror image. Chalice certainly did, as did her crew, several other Goth types she'd brought along with her. Jackie regretted now telling Chalice about the TV special; she'd spread it all over campus. Not that it wouldn't have happened anyway but it would have (should have) happened after the fact, not before, which ensured that a lot more people on campus would be watching the special than normally would have. Chalice and her crew would have certainly seen it; it was right up their alley: a Barbra Waters Halloween special about the gruesome mass murders that had taken place thirteen years ago at the now infamous funeral home known as Grimm Memorials.
Sighing, Jackie resigned himself to the fact that he was going to have to watch the program with his girlfriend and her friends. He slouched into the living room and slid over the back of the decrepit couch, landing slumped against Chalice. He tried to do it unnoticed, but it didn't work. Every eye in the room, all of Chalice's friends, were on him, every expression the same frozen half-smile, the same unsure look in every eye bespeaking of each person's discomfort laced with anticipation. Of course, when he looked directly at any of them, their expressions changed, their smiles broadened, became full, but remained phony.
There was a commercial on for feminine hygiene spray that showed a mother and daughter at the beach sharing quality time over the subject of battling pussy odor. One of Chalice's friend's made a comment: "Now if they were selling canned sweat I might be interested!" To which the others laughed. Jackie half-heartedly joined in, though he didn't get it. He was too nervous to think about anything beyond the tv program that was about to reveal his bizarre past.
The commercial ended and the scene changed to a long shot of Barbra Waters, host of "It Was ? Years Ago Today!" the CBC news program that reveled in revisiting natural disasters, strange crimes, and bloody mass murders. Waters sat, shuffling papers, at a desk on a tastefully decorated set, the background of which was an aerial shot of a peaceful New England town, complete with a white steepled church spire nestled between the gently sloping, breast-shaped, treecovered hills flamboyant with autumn colors. A title, "Season of the Witch," appeared in large, Gothic-style letters in the upper right corner of the picture. The Donovan song of the same name, with the title and chorus line reaching a crescendo before fading, played in the background. As the camera drew closer, focusing in on Waters, she put her papers down, looked directly into the camera and the living rooms of millions of Americans, smiled her trademark slightly buck-toothed smile, which was also the cause of her trademark and much-ridiculed-lisp, and began speaking.
The same joker as before (for the life of him Jackie couldn't remember her name) said, "She sounds like Elmer Fudd," and got another big laugh. Jackie didn't join in this time, nor did he bother trying to fake it. His mouth had gone dry and his right leg was jiggling madly. When the laughter died, he heard Barbra Waters warning parents that the show's content might not be suitable for children.
"Well I guess that leaves me out!" Joker-girl commented and got up to leave. Su
rprisingly, few people laughed. Chalice and several others shushed her. Chalice grabbed Jackie's hand, squeezing it reassuringly and giving him a smile and wink, before turning her attention back to the screen. The gesture had the opposite effect, making Jackie more uncomfortable than he already was, and he didn't know why. He liked Chalice a lot. He hoped she still liked him two hours from now.
The program went on, but he found it hard to focus. The faces and reactions of the others in the room, especially Chalice, were too distracting. She was watching the screen intently, shaking her head every now and then and clucking her tongue in disbelief. Suddenly, Jackie heard Barbra Waters speak his name, and he became aware that every other eye in the room was on him. The screen was showing his first communion picture-him dressed in blue shorts with a white shirt and blue, clip-on bow tie, his white socks pulled smartly up to his knees over his brilliantly shining black patent leather wingtips.
Jackie glanced at the others and all eyes avoided his, returning immediately to the screen. Blushing so hotly that he knew his pale complexion was glowing bright red, he mumbled, "I need a drink," rose, and stumbled from the room into the kitchen as quickly as possible. There, he slumped against the refrigerator and banged his forehead slowly on the freezer door.
Why did I agree to be on that show? he wondered. If he hadn't agreed, maybe Jen wouldn't have done it either. Without either of them, or his mom, they couldn't have done the show.
Yeah, right!
After having met the producers of "It Was ? Years Ago Today," Jackie had known they were going to do their story with or without his and Jen's input. He had had the choice of staying out of it or helping and getting some money out of it. At the time, $1200 had seemed like a lot.
"I've sold my privacy, my anonymity, for twelve-hundred bucks," he muttered to the refrigerator between head butts. For a lousy twelve hundred dollars I've made myself into a walking freak show
Grimm Memorials Page 39