by Amy Fecteau
“And the baby?”
“He’s fine.” Alistair’s voice held a note of cheer a bit too hearty for the truth.
“Really?”
A sigh filled the long pause.
“They don’t know. He seems fine, but they’re keeping her for observation. Just in case. But most likely, he’s fine.”
“It would kill her,” Matheus said. “Her father, then her son.”
“I would have thought she’d be glad to be rid of that bastard.”
“She loved him.”
Alistair made a non-committal noise in the back of his throat. “Do you want me to keep going?”
Matheus nodded without raising his head.
“These are all things Milo and Joan have told me over the last five days. He―”
“Five days?”
“And several hours, to be precise. He left you a thingy—flash something, by the way.”
“Milo’s gone?”
“Took off right after we moved in. This is our new home. Eleven bedrooms, fourteen baths, eighteen-point-two million dollars. We took a vote, and everyone agreed. There’s a reflecting pool out back.”
“What?” Matheus stared. “How? Doesn’t buying a house take ages?”
“Not when you offer the asking price in cash. Not literal cash, of course. A tidy bank transfer.” Alistair tilted his head, catching Matheus in a conspiratorial smile. “The neighbors think we’re a high-end brothel.”
“But…”
“We thought you wouldn’t mind if we accessed your bank account. The house is in your name, but we all pay a portion of the upkeep and taxes and insurance, so you don’t have to worry about that.”
“I don’t…”
Alistair frowned. “Oh, lord, you’re not going to say you don’t like it. You haven’t even seen it yet.”
“No, I’m just surprised.”
“Well, with everything settled, there didn’t seem to be any need to hide anymore. And in your position—”
“Oh, God.” Matheus flopped backward. “Bugger my position.”
“I’d love too, darling, but I don’t think you’re in the mood right now.”
“You seem back to normal.”
“It comes and goes,” Alistair said lightly. “I’ve had a few more days to process events than you have. Plus―” He coughed, his gaze slanting away. “Anyway, on with the story. Joan’s the one who found you. She dove in after Quin the second time, while Milo tried to run down a guard for me to eat. She saw your foot burning ‘like a fucking candle’ and dragged you out.”
“Someone piled snow on me.”
“Joan, probably. You drained two men and still looked like a charred pot roast. But it kept your limbs from falling off while they got us back to the theater. A couple of donors, and I woke up the next night. Everything happened quickly from there. Drew found the house; we moved in. No one had anything to pack, so that didn’t take long. The furnishings were included, so people have been replenishing personal goods, and a couple of the younger ones have started a game room. They’ve got a TV the size of a small car in there.”
“So everything is fine.”
“Sort of. It will be better if you are seen in public soon. The rumor mill never stops, and people are getting anxious.”
Matheus closed his eyes. “Not today.”
“All right. When you’re ready.”
The bed shook as he rose. “If you need anything, I’ll be in the next room.” The carpet swallowed his footsteps. A soft sweep of wood over fabric signaled the opening of the door.
“I felt him burn,” Matheus said, unable to keep the words in any longer. “He’s dead, isn’t he?”
The door closed. A light touch brushed over his shoulder. He opened his eyes. Alistair stood over him, an unreadable expression on his face.
“You should come with me.”
Matheus peered down into the black liquid. Tiny ripples reflected flickering white lights. The sides of the tub were stained red; pools dried on the tarp where the bath had overflowed. He swallowed, the smell of stale blood smothering.
“He’s in there?”
“Yes,” said Alistair. “Milo found him. He went back, the next night.”
“Why?”
“He didn’t say. Maybe it’s on the thing he gave you.”
“Maybe.” Matheus poked the liquid with his index finger. He gave an experimental lick, then grimaced.
“I know.” Alistair sighed. “We didn’t know what else to do. We weren’t even sure there was enough of him left.”
“So this might be futile.”
“I thought so at first.”
“But?”
“The level keeps dropping. Perhaps it’s just evaporation, but it seems like too much for that. We’re had to replenish it twice already.”
A wild sprig, a bush, a whole forest of hope burst into life, despite the throbbing ache. Matheus shook his head, wiping his eyes. His breath hitched, pushing soggy bubbles up his throat. He clenched his fists, but the waterfall never crawled back up the cliff. His knees wavered, gave out, and he collapsed onto the tarp. Curling around himself, he sobbed.
Sunset jolted Matheus out of a nightmare, the fifth time in seven days. During the night, he approached normality, but the day released the locks on his memories, letting them scamper across his mind. Squeezing his eyes shut, he shoved away the lingering images, waiting for the shivers racing along his nerves to subside. Alistair didn’t wake; he never did.
Matheus slipped through the still house to the basement where Quin lay in his macabre bath. He’d fallen into the habit of visiting right after waking, sitting in the quiet dark, sometimes speaking, sometimes not. The level of the liquid had dipped, but not low enough for a refill.
The sounds of stirring life drew him upstairs.
Joan knelt by the front door, sorting the pile of packages.
“It’s got to be here. Where the fuck is it?”
A box flew past his head, smashing against the banister. He tensed as glass shattered. Jaw tight, nails digging into his palms, he strode over to Joan’s one-woman rampage.
“What are you doing?”
“What the fuck does it look like I’m doing?” Joan squinted at a label. “Six to ten business days, my ass.”
“Can you stop? You’re breaking things.”
“It’s cool. They’re for Blanche.” The package joined the first.
“I’m serious.”
“I’m almost done. Aw, man, what the fuck is this? Fucking Omaha steaks? What kind of dumb fu―”
“Joan!” The shout echoed around the foyer. Matheus shook, his throat raw.
“Yeah, boss?” She blinked up at him, unfazed.
“I―be more careful.”
“Sure thing.” She dove into the pile of boxes. “Yes! Motherfucking yes!” She rose, tearing at the tape on a long, narrow package. A polished wood case tumbled to the floor, the spring-lock popping open.
“Oh, Holy Mary, Mother of God,” Matheus said.
Joan let out a whoop, brandishing the samurai sword over her head. She leapt around the foyer, the dim lights flickering off the swinging blade.
“I’m a motherfucking ninja, bitch!”
Matheus decided to spend the rest of the day in bed.
“What are you doing?”
“Reading.” Matheus scrunched down, using the paperback as a shield.
“I meant, what are you doing in here? I thought we agreed that you’d start meeting delegations today.” Alistair stood at the foot of the bed, his hands on his hips.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?”
“I just… can’t.”
Alistair sighed. “Okay, tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow.”
“Your laptop came in. I grabbed the box before Joan claimed it as a prize of war.”
“We should probably take away the sword.”
“Let’s wait until she maims someone. Having the loyalty of a person that batshit crazy rea
lly helps win over the undecided.”
“She’s the stick, and I’m the carrot?” Matheus asked.
“No.” Alistair laughed. “You’re the stick, I’m the carrot, and Joan is the homemade pipe bomb.”
After he departed, Matheus retrieved his new laptop. He zipped through the setup with only minor snags. The computer beeped, screen flashing as it restarted. Milo’s flash drive waited in the nightstand drawer. When the generic blue background appeared, Matheus plugged the drive into the USB port. A window popped up, with a single folder titled “click here.” The possibility that Milo had left a virus occurred to him, but the chances seemed remote.
On the laptop, a video expanded to fill the screen, Milo’s face in the center. Lights reflected off his lenses. He leaned forward, image shaking as he adjusted the camera.
“Hello. I’ve removed my fees from your bank account. Find a more secure bank. I included additional payment for the altering of autopsy and police reports.” Milo pushed up his glasses with his pinky finger.
Matheus frowned. Did everyone have access to his account?
“The official police report states that two bodies were found after the fire at 1256 Turkey Road, Carsten Schneider and his son, Mattias. Dental records confirmed the identities. The police won’t look for you. They believe Mattias to be responsible for the unsolved murders. Don’t draw attention, and they will leave you alone.”
Milo paused, looking at something out of frame. A few seconds ticked past.
“I’ve made arrangements for your sister and brother-in-law. The folder is in locker 2352 at Brookside YMCA. Pick the lock.” He faced forward once more. His gaze locked onto Matheus with unnerving accuracy, as though the physical Milo sat there, staring through a pane of glass. “Don’t try to find me.”
The video closed. Matheus clicked on the folder again, but only an empty window popped up, no trace of the file.
“Well, shit.” He wondered if he’d ever know the reason Milo went back for Quin. Had he tacked on another charge for the service? There’s been no mention of it with the other fees. Matheus drummed his fingers on the coffee table. Maybe the explanation came from Milo’s past. He’d lost his wife, had to abandon his daughter. Perhaps he’d wanted to spare Matheus that feeling.
He snorted. Or maybe Milo had his own obscure reason that he’d never learn. If Quin survived, what difference did why make?
The hospital room reeked of disinfectant. A triangle of light fell over the floor by the open door. In one corner, a lanky black man with short twists in his hair dozed in the armchair. Soft snores filled the room. On the bed, Fletcher slept, her dark hair spread over the pillow, one arm curled around her stomach.
Matheus hesitated. He hadn’t spoken to her in the two weeks since the fire, unsure of what he planned to say. He crept toward the bed, fighting the urge to leave.
Fletcher stirred as he approached. She blinked, her eyes heavy with sleep.
“Who’s there?”
“Hey, Fletch.”
“Mattias!” She jerked upright as much as her swollen stomach allowed. “Bugger, where are those controls?”
He passed her the remote hanging from the side of the bed. Gears whirred, the mattress raising her into a sitting position.
“Where have you been? The news said―”
“I know,” said Matheus. “I’m sorry, I couldn’t… God, you’re huge.”
“Thanks ever so much.” She fiddled with the edge of the blanket, avoiding his gaze.
“So that’s Bill, huh?”
Fletcher smiled. “That’s Bill. Poor thing, he’s exhausted. He spent most of the afternoon trying to convince his mum not to fly out here. She’s quite lovely, just a bit overwhelming.”
“Is she coming?”
“At the moment, no, but Bill won’t be able to stop her once little Lee is born.”
“What happened to Leander?”
“Bill nixed it.”
“Clever Bill.” Matheus glanced down, shuffling his weight from foot to foot. He pulled the folder out from beneath his arm, and set it on the bed. “I’m not sure if you still need it, but I had some new identities set up for you both. You’re legal residents of Canada now. But, I guess, if you’re going back to England…”
“No, we talked about it, and agreed that we should emigrate,” said Fletcher. “There’s too much… Father did have associates, other like-minded individuals. I’m not sure I’d be welcomed home if we did return. And with the baby―” She stroked her stomach. “I’d rather have an ocean between us and them.”
“Yeah.”
Bill snorted. His head fell to the side as he slumped down farther, snoring into the upholstery.
“What happened that night, Mat―Matheus?” Fletcher’s eyes were shadowed in the dim lighting, her irises deep and dark.
“I―I killed him.”
Fletcher didn’t look surprised, but a haunted expression crept onto her face. She raised her hand, covering her eyes.
“He’d done―terrible things. He―” The words refused to leave his throat. Some things Fletcher didn’t need to know, and the man in the gray flannel suit was one of them. “He planned to take your baby. He’d gone mad, really mad.”
Fletcher curled forward, her shoulders shaking.
“I didn’t―the house was on fire. The floor collapsed, and we fell. I tried to get out, but then―then I found him, and he was burning, Fletcher. And he asked me―he asked me to―I couldn’t let him burn like that. So, I killed him. I killed my father.” Matheus exhaled. “He’d done horrible things, Fletcher. Horrible things, but I had to, I had to.”
“I don’t care!” Fletcher sobbed. “He’s my father.” She flinched away from his hand. “Don’t, don’t touch me. I can’t―not now. Please, you need to go.”
In the armchair, Bill started. He blinked and yawned, stretching out his arms and legs. “Fletch?” He jumped to his feet. “What’s wrong? Is it the baby? Should I call a nurse?” He rushed past Matheus, wrapping his arms around his wife. “Shh, love, tell me what’s wrong.”
Fletcher only cried harder, her face pressed against Bill’s chest. He looked at Matheus, his eyes widening for a second before narrowing.
“You’re Mattias,” he said. “Fletcher showed me your picture.
“Yes,” said Matheus.
“I think you need to leave.”
“I―yes, all right, okay.” He stumbled for the door. The hospital passed by in a haze of industrial greens and beige. Standing on the sidewalk, he inhaled, the cold air sinking deep into his lungs. Sirens whirled, red lights bouncing off the tall buildings as an ambulance pulled in. He’d dropped off two girls here once, ages ago now. A man with dark circles around his eyes carried out a sleeping child, the boy’s head cradled against his shoulder. Matheus stepped aside to let them pass. Overhead, a layer of clouds draped across the sky. With a heavy sigh, he turned up his collar and trudged back to the house.
The fire spoke to him. The flames whispered their secrets, the embers hummed in flickering rhythms. Spirits in red and orange pirouetted around him, caressing him. He drowned in heat, flesh melting, flowing away, bones cracked and charred. Wind captured his ashes, whipping higher and higher, above the glowing coals, the city lights, the world. All drifting away. He floated in darkness, alone in silence.
Matheus opened his eyes. He stared at the coffered ceiling with its pressed metal decorations. Next to him, Alistair lay on his stomach, face pressed into the over-stuffed pillow. The clock on the nightstand cast a circle of soft green light, still fifteen minutes to sunlight. One of the numbers flicked over. Fourteen minutes. The sheets slid like silk over his skin as he slipped out of bed. He threw on a robe and crept out, closing the door with a faint click. The glow of his laptop screen lit the attached room that served as his parlor. He closed the lid as he skirted around the coffee table to the hallway.
A waiting quiet suspended over the mansion. Matheus ran his fingers along the Victorian-style wallpaper as he made hi
s way down the hall. He paused on the landing that overlooked the main entrance. Someone had left his or her coat in a heap by the front door. A stack of unread magazines and junk mail teetered on a table. The door to the library hung open, revealing a shelf-lined wall. Over the past six weeks, they had all settled in, giving a lived-in feel to the formality of the mansion. Even if the inhabitants all happened to be dead.
Matheus shuffled down the curving staircase to the far corner of the foyer. The door to the basement had been decorated to blend into the wall, with matching wallpaper and trim. A light push near the edge, and the door swung free. Not a secret passage, but a way to conceal the less attractive parts of the building.
The steps to the basement were bare but well maintained. No spiders or mold to be found here. Matheus shivered as his soles hit the concrete floor. He bypassed the unused wine cellar to the larger storage room. An old-fashioned bathtub sat in one corner, a tarp stretched out underneath. On the other side, another door led to a short tunnel, with stairs up to the garage. Between them, on an army-style cot, lay a charred and twisted frame. The shape was humanoid, two arms, two legs, a head, but all other features had been burned beyond identification. Matheus sank into the armchair next to the cot. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the mattress, careful not to touch the body.
“I had the dream again.” He sighed. “It’s the third time this week, but the nightmares have stopped. Mostly.”
Last week, he’d screamed at Drew for using an electric drill to hang some pictures. The nightmare had come that night. Trapped in a room with no door, paralyzed as the man in the gray suit towered over him, a fond smile on his face. Sometimes, his father stood there, a burnt husk, the wound in his throat gaping as he tried to speak. Other nights, Gwen, Eamon, and Salvatore circled around him, asking why he’d abandoned them, why he’d failed. He’d woken up with a soggy pillow, his cheeks cold and wet.
“I called Fletcher. She and Bill found a house just outside Montreal. The doctor says the baby looks fine, but she’s on bed rest for a while.”
A thump came from overhead. The others had started to rise.