City Infernal

by Edward Lee

  A hundred, she thought. Babies.

  She still didn’t believe it. If any of it were true, Jervis—in his own propensity for hokey stories—would’ve mentioned it.

  “Screamin’ Baby Hill’s what they call it.”

  Cassie rolled her eyes as Roy pulled the truck to a stop. His one hand gestured out the window, toward the vast wooded hill before them. “That’s it. Right there.”

  “I don’t hear any babies screaming,” Cassie pointed out.

  “A’course not. Not now. Only at night.”

  “Of course.”

  “You’ll hear ‘em out here, but you’ll hear ’em best up the house. At night. Midnight,‘cos that’s when Blackwell killed ’em.”

  “Of course,” she repeated.

  He shot her a sly smile over his next sip of beer. “I know. You think I’m just some nutty cracker with a belly full of beer’n bullshit. But I ain’t lyin’. It’s all true.”

  “Then how come I haven’t heard any babies at night?”

  “ ’Cos you ain’t listened hard enough, or—” Roy shugged. “Or maybe them babies don’t mind ya bein’ there.”

  “Have you ever heard them?” she asked next.

  The sly smile fell apart. He looked serious, even bothered. “Yeah. Once.”

  It was the quick change in his expression that bothered her.

  Roy continued without having to be asked. He finished his beer in a long slug, as if to steel himself. “Just before I went into the Army,” he said. “Week before basic training. I took a gal up to Blackwell Hall—Hal—loween Night as a matter of fact. Her name was Carrie Ann Wells, a real beaut, and I don’t have to tell ya just what I was takin’ her up there for.”

  “Checkers, right?”

  The levity passed right over him. “She goes in before me on account she wants to light up some weed. I’m in the truck gettin’ the beer cooler out, but a second later Carrie Ann comes runnin’ out that big-ass ugly front door, and she’s screamin’ at the top of her lungs. Doesn’t even get back in the truck, she just ran on down the hill, screamin’. I’m thinkin’ it’s a joke, so then I walk into the house.... Fetch me another beer, will ya please?”

  Jesus. Cassie did so, cracked it open and handed it to him. “You were saying?”

  Roy seemed to tremble slightly. “I don’t want you to think I’m some kind of coward now.”

  “Why would I think that?”

  “Durin’ Desert Storm—well, here, let me show ya.”

  Cassie pressed herself against the springy bench seat as Roy awkwardly reached across her. He opened the glove box, fumbled through papers. She tried not to shirk when he accidently nudged her with the bald nub where his arm used to be. “I know it’s in here somewhere, damn it.” The pose left him bent over, and she saw him steal a quick glance at her crotch and thighs. “Ah, here it is. I got this for blowin’ up a T-64 tank with a slap-charge.” He recovered his position, looking at something small in his hand. “See, we were layin’ portable bridges over the trenches Saddam dug. One‘a his tanks was takin’ pot-shots at us from about a thousand meters, and really fuckin’ us up—er, pardon the language. Really pissed me off ’cos they put a HEP round right into the open door of our M88, and two of my buddies bought it. All of a sudden, the whole company is pinned down by one tank full‘a rag-heads. So I jump in a Hummer and flank the bastards; they don’t see me, and I got my green-eyes on. Parked behind a dune, and rushed the tank. But by then the TC spots me so he cranks around his co-ax and starts spraying bullets at me. I slap an RDX charge on his back deck, see, and start runnin’ back. Then the charge goes off, and the whole tank blows up, ’cos, see, it’s a dumbass Russian-built tank and they got the fuel cells exposed, and—”

  Risking being rude, Cassie cut him off. “Look, I don’t know anything about tanks or slap-charges. Just tell me about Blackwell Hall.”

  “Well I’se gettin’ to that, hon. Lemme tell the story. I blow up an enemy tank by myself, so Uncle Sam gives me this. Keeps my arm, but gives me this.” He showed her what was in his hand: a small star with a ribbon.

  Cassie peered at it. “That’s a Medal of Honor!”

  “Sure.” He threw it back in the glove box, closed the door. “And that’s my point. I ain’t braggin’ but they wouldn’t have given me that medal if I was a wussy, now would they?”

  “No, I’m sure they wouldn’t,” she answered, aggravated.

  “When I rushed that T-64, I knew I could die but I didn’t care. I did my job. Wasn’t scared one bit.”

  Cassie sighed. “Yeah? And?”

  He stared out the windshield when he said, “I was scared shitless when I stepped into Blackwell Hall that night.”

  Either he’s a good actor or—She leaned closer to him. “What did you see?”

  Now he looked right at her. “I saw a tall man in a black suit walkin’ slow up the stairs. Heard a sound like a bunch’a cats on fire, but it weren’t cats, it were babies. You know how when you’re fishin’ and you have a good day? You come home with a hook-line full of fish?”

  “Yeah,” Cassie stretched the word.

  “That’s what this tall guy had ... only it was a hook-line full of babies, and he was draggin’ ’em up the stairs.”

  Then Roy let out a long breath.

  A hook-line. Full of babies. Cassie shivered as if someone had scraped nails across a chalkboard. She still didn’t believe it, but the image gave her the creeps. “That’s some story,” she eventually said.

  Roy shook off whatever distress he might be feigning. “I can tell you don’t believe it, but that’s all right. I ain’t lyin’. Never went near that house again and never will.”

  Something about the long silence that followed made the story even more effective. A moment later, though, she caught his eyes wandering over her top and bare midriff.

  “If you don’t mind my sayin’ so, you’re one fine sight. Best-lookin’ gal I seen around her in years.”

  “I’m flattered,” Cassie said, though the comment unnerved her. “The people in the store thought I was a man.”

  “Shee-it. Old man Hull and his sister? Those crackers are nuts. Yes, sir, you’re one beautiful girl, that’s for sure.”

  Cassie slumped in the seat. “Roy, you’re about the only decent person I’ve met since I moved her. Please don’t disappoint me by putting the make on me.”

  “Aw, no, it’s nothin’ like that, and I’m sorry if that’s what ya thunk.”

  Thunk?

  “It’s just that when a gal as beautiful as you shows up in a place like this, it’s kind of a shock. Girls around here are mostly just trailer cows.”

  Cassie laughed in spite of herself. “Well, thanks for the story, Roy. But I better get back now. The house is right up on the other side of this hill.”

  “Screaming Baby Hill,” he reminded her. “Let me drive ya the rest of the way up.”

  “But didn’t you just say you’d never go to that house again?”

  “At night, I meant.” He smiled, winked at her.

  “I’d like to walk. Maybe I’ll trip over some baby bones.”

  “You just might. Take care now. It was nice meeting you. Hope to see you again sometime.”

  “You will.” She opened the truck door and got out.

  “Stop by the bar some night,” he said after her. “I’ll buy you a coffee. Show ya how a one-armed man plays pool.”

  “I’ll do that, Roy. Bye.” She crossed the narrow road, waved to him, and then proceeded up. Whew! That poor guy is baked in the head. Her flipflops crunched over twigs as she marched further up the incline. Shadows from the dense trees dropped the temperature; through high branches she could see the sun beginning to set. The hot day was fading behind her.

  Screaming Baby Hill, she thought, looking around. Well, here I am.

  The hill was silent, which seemed odd. No mosquitoes here, no signs of squirrels or other wildlife in the woods. It was peaceful, nearly cool. She wasn’t quite certain of h
er bearings but she knew that Blackwell Hall was up the hill somewhere. I’ll get back to the house eventually. But then a mental note caused her to stop. She was thinking about the story that Roy had told: Blackwell, the apparent satanist who’d made the eccentric additions to the house. She still doubted that she believed a word of it. Usually such things were grossly amended after a not-too-spectacular fact. Sure, there probably was a Blackwell, and maybe some women had really disappeared. Consider the times, then mix that into the local grapevine, and suddenly you’ve got a devil-worshiping psychopath sacrificing babies, she thought. The women probably just left town without telling anyone, and Blackwell probably looked sinister. But now that she thought of it, when Roy finished the story, he never did mention Blackwell’s fate.

  Her curiosity scratched at her. She hadn’t gotten far, and when she glanced back down the hill, she could see Roy’s pickup truck still parked at the side of the road. I’ll just go back down and ask him what became of Blackwell.

  Her footsteps crunched back down the hill until she was about to emerge on the passenger side of the truck. She stopped abruptly, though, and ducked behind a tree when she heard his voice.

  “Aw, jeeze,” he was saying to himself. “Aw, man....”

  One squint verified her suspicion.

  Oh my God!

  Roy was masturbating. She pulled herself away from the visual evidence. I really don’t need to see this. At first she was grossed out but then she regarded the reality. A war hero maimed while serving his country? Spat back into poverty when the Army had no further use for him? What else could he do?

  So much for that bright idea....

  Continuing now would only embarrass him. Quietly as she could, she turned and tip-toed back up the hill. What did you do today, Cassie? she comically asked herself. Well, let’s see. I went into town and got mistaken for a male transvestite, I learned all about a satanic baby-killer, and I saw a one-armed redneck jerking off. Sounds like a pretty full day to me.

  When she’d turned around, she immediately noticed a footpath of flat stones leading up the hill, and as she stepped onto it and began to walk, she felt a bit embarrassed herself. She could still hear some of Roy’s fervent utterings as he neared his moment of crisis.

  Gee. I wonder who he’s thinking about right now?

  She smiled the incident off and headed back up the footpath. After about fifty yards, though, she stopped again.

  She heard footsteps—someone else’s footsteps—coming down.

  It wouldn’t be her father; he’d be done fishing now but he’d have no reason to stray this far from the house.

  In the woods?

  No way.

  A mild panic rose up; the unseen footfalls were getting louder. Should she run back to Roy?

  A glance over her shoulder showed her the beaten pickup truck driving away from the hill. By now the sun had sunk so low, the woods had darkened to a maze of shadows. Cassie nervously looked back up the path.

  A figure was standing there perfectly still. Staring back at her.

  (IV)

  Bill Heydon placed the string of catfish in the refrigerator. Not a bad haul for an amateur, he assessed. He’d have to dress them later—Cassie was a good sport and a good cook, but one thing she wouldn’t do was handle fish guts. First, though ...

  He walked around the downstairs.

  “Cassie?”

  Then he marched his 200 pounds halfway up the banistered steps and called out louder, “Cassie? You home?”

  No answer.

  For the briefest moment, he thought he heard music. A couple of distant blares. One thing he’d never understand was this Goth music. Maryland Mansion, my ass. It all just sounded like discordant noise to him. When he looked in Cassie’s room, though, she wasn’t there. Besides, the music had sounded more distant.

  Maybe you’re hearing things, you old pud.

  He stood still, listened harder, and heard nothing. It was probably Mrs. Conner’s kid working outside.

  Sometimes he brought a radio with him.

  But where was Cassie?

  Guess she’s still out wandering around.

  At least that meant the coast was clear. He went back down the stairs and walked out onto the stone-fenced back patio of the older section of the house. He lit a cigarette at once. She’d scream if she could see me, he realized. But he couldn’t stop.

  I’ll quit some day—just not today.

  The sun was a blistering dark-orange blot as it was dragged behind the mountains by the turning of the earth. This is absolutely beautiful. No sunsets like this in D.C. The remoteness of the estate only made the surroundings that much more fascinating. The city was an addiction, and he knew that it was not just killing Cassie, it was killing him too. They both needed to get away from everything; it was the only way. He’d been oblivious back in the city, as though the world’s survival depended upon his next landmark lawsuit. He couldn’t see. It had cost him his wife, and when he finally realized that, one daughter was dead and the other was trying to kill herself in between therapy and mental wards.

  One day the truth arrived in a flash: Get out or die.

  His eyes roved the pristine house, then the vast woodland beyond. He’d never felt so relaxed nor together in his life. Please, God, just let this fuckin’ work.

  So far, it was.

  Cassie had her good days and bad, but over the past few weeks, she actually seemed at home with the drastic change. Bill blamed himself for Lissa’s death; if he’d been at home nights, being a father to the kids he’d brought into the world, then none of that would’ve happened. He’d still have a wife, he’d still have a family, not just pieces of one. It was too late for any of that, but he felt bound to help repair the damage to Cassie, damage that his own neglect had caused.

  He stubbed out the half-smoked cigarette against the smooth stone fence-top. Behind him a bleached white statue of some naked Greek goddess burbled arcs of water. The statue’s physical features were a bit too explicit to remain classic and tasteful. Nippled breasts jutted like an x-rated cartoon. The legs weren’t quite crossed enough to leave the genitalic details to the imagination. It only projected an aboriginal reminder of sex, something he hadn’t had in a long while.

  Christ, I’m eye-balling statues.

  After the divorce, he’d discovered that his wife had been cheating on him for over a year but in truth he’d been doing the same for longer, and much more aggressively. Ritzy high-priced hookers and party girls. He sometimes even did it with associates and interns, girls his daughters’ age. Got what I deserved, he thought, despondent. One had gotten pregnant, and he knew that the $50,000 she’d demanded was for far more than the abortion.

  Jesus....

  But Bill was fifty now. His oat-sowing days were over, and they needed to be. It was time to be responsible for a change. What success seemed to equate to these days were fancy private cocktail parties full of millionaires and escort girls, in posh brownstones rented through corporate accounts. It was not the way people were supposed to live their lives.

  Through the glass-paned French doors he could see Mrs. Conner vacuuming one of the dens.

  She’s older than I am but—Christ—what a body. And there he went again. Now I’m lusting after the help. The notion was even more pitiful. Here was an honest hard-working woman who’d never had anything and had been walked on by poverty and misfortune, and here was Bill, if only in his mind, exploiting her all ithe more. You’re a real piece of work, Heydon, he told himself. What made it worse was that Mrs. Conner—widowed for years—had clearly taken a fancy to him. But somehow I doubt that it’s because of my good looks.

  “Howdy, Mr. Heydon.” It was Jervis, Mrs. Conner’s son, coming around the patio. A bit of a dim bulb, Bill thought, but he works hard.

  “I finished up trimmin’ the garden,” the young man said, scratching his belly. “Got the front-walk edged, the rest of your lawyer books down in the basement, and them leaky pipes sealed up on the seco
nd floor.”

  “That’s great, Jervis,” Bill said. He’d been just about to pull another cigarette out but then he thought better of it. Instead, he pulled out his wallet. “What is it, twenty an hour right?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Bill gave him two hundred-dollar bills. “Keep the change.”

  The boy gave a big pumpkin grin. “Thanks much, sir!”

  “Come back day after tomorrow. I think the lawn’ll need mowing by then. And I’ll have plenty more work for you to do if you want it.”

  “Sure will, Mr. Heydon. You’se the best boss I ever had.”

  “Oh, and Jervis—”

  “Don’t worry, sir. I won’t tell Cassie I seen ya smokin’.”

  Bill nodded, embarrassed. “Thank you, Jervis.”

  “Have a good evenin’, sir! I’ll be waitin’ out front. My ma’s should be finishin’ up soon.”

  Bill watched the boy lope off. He wondered what it must be like for him and his mother. No industry, no decent jobs, just a trailer to call home and a thirty-year-old hunk of junk for a car. He doubted if they’d ever seen a real city at all, or had any idea what the rest of the world was like. It was during times like these that Bill realized how much he had to be grateful for.

  He walked back into the house as Mrs. Conner made a few last swipes with the vacuum. She turned the loud machine off when she noticed him.

  Her eyes beamed. “I’m about done fer today, Mr. Heydon.”

  “That’s fine,” Bill said. “The place looks great.” He handed her an over-estimation of her pay for the day and listened to a gush of drawled thanks. He struggled with himself not to look at her in that way again, was succeeding, but then she bent over to unplug the vacuum.

  Bill’s teeth ground.

  The collar of the woman’s simple white blouse hung down, and Bill’s unconscious tunnel-vision shot right down. It was plain that no form of brassiere encompassed Mrs. Conner’s abundant breasts, and just as clear now that the forces of gravity had treated her with kindness. Bill couldn’t help himself—he stared down. The image seemed like a vibrant luxury and it only spurred him further to take closer note of the rest of her body when she stood back up. Age-lines were obvious on her face but—