Personal Effects

by J. C. Hutchins

  “God bless wireless networks, Wikipedia and Google,” Rachael said. “‘Night on Bald Mountain.’ Composed by Modest Mussorgsky. Song’s best known for, yep, Fantasia. Lemme cross-ref with Fantasia.”

  On my page, new lines slipped down from the top endpoints of the curves. These, too, arced toward the center of the page. Ah.

  These weren’t animal wings. They were horns. I kept going.

  So did Rachael.

  “Looks like Disney called this character ‘Chernabog.’ But the critter’s better known as Chernobog, with an o … as in, ‘oh what a difference a vowel makes to the copyright office.’ Here’s the skinny. Comes from pre-Christian Slavic mythology. Nocturnal demon, tormentor of souls, a ‘dark and cursed creature.’”

  “Putting the poke on layaway,” Eye announced. “I give up.”

  I barely heard them. My pencil was screaming across the page.

  Rachael, from faraway: … also a bringer of grief, darkness, evil and death. Now here’s a job title for you: ‘Chernobog, Servant of the Black’ … .

  The pencil lead snapped in my hand. Still staring past my sketch, I dropped the pencil, groped for another.

  … brought forth by black magic …

  Found it. Continued.

  … curse lifted when the karmic scales are re-balanced …

  “Z,” Eye said, grimacing, “beloved, I got no love for whatever you’re drawing.”

  I blinked, and gazed, a bit repulsed, at what I’d sketched so far. It resembled the head of an emaciated bear, with black swirling holes where its eyes should be. Instead of ears, hideously long horns sprouted from its skull. Spit—or blood, it was unclear—oozed from its snarling fangs.

  It was a gut-churning sight, but I wasn’t embarrassed of the image, as I’d been with Annie Jackson under Primorus Maximus. My tribe was initiated. I shrugged.

  “This is how it is,” I said. They exchanged a look and nodded. “So, Rache. Cherno—”

  I cut myself off, still staring at the black bear-monster. Something flickered in its eyes, in my mind.

  “Chernobog,” I said. “I know that.”

  And I did, I was certain of it. Had Lucas said the demon’s name last night, as he’d listened to Drake’s song? No. This detail, this hook in my brain, felt a bit older than that. I hit my rewind in my mind, eager to remember.

  “Night On Bald Mountain.” Chernobog, Black God of Death. Obviously, it was an allusion to Drake’s monster, much like this new sketch. The Black, aka the Dark Man, aka The Inkstain, aka …

  “He’s called it Chernobog before,” I told them. “It was in his admittance report, from a past psyche evaluation.”

  They looked at me, their eyes anticipating.

  “And?” Eye asked.

  And …

  I dropped the pencil onto the table, exasperated. “Fuck if I know.”

  I sighed, cupping my hands over my eyebrows, conjuring tunnel-vision on the sketch. The beast’s eyes howled. Madness defied the microscope.

  “It’s more Sisyphean bullshit,” I snapped. “Questions, answers, more goddamned questions, and here I am, waving from the bottom of the hill again. Pisses me off, man. Why? Why did Peterson pick me?”

  “Oh hell,” Rachael said. “You know why.”

  I rubbed my eyes. “I honestly don’t, not anymore.”

  Eye raised her beer. “The aforementioned world-rocking,” she said, and drank.

  I coaxed a feeble smile for her.

  “Z, if you really want to ask ‘why,’ I’ve got a better one for you,” Rachael said. “Why is NYPD going all out for this guy? They’re rooting through homicide cases that are ten years old. Those are cold cases, babe. Why the arctic excavation? Why now?”

  “Oh, that’s easy,” Eye said. Her brown eyes met mine. “Your dad, and mine.”

  “My … huh?”

  “Well sure,” she replied. “It’s all because of your dad’s ex. The lady who died, your patient’s psychiatrist.”

  Rachael took a sip of her Klass’ Bitterest. “Sophronia Poole.”

  Eye peered at me. “I’m a little surprised you didn’t know about this, Z. My dad’s been working on it for, what, two years now? All done during his off-time, once it went cold. It was a personal favor for an old friend—your dad. Heh. You know a little about that, pinging someone in the NYPD for help.”

  I nodded. It was handy, having a contact on the inside—and William V. Taylor, Manhattan District Attorney, had asked his friend Eustacio Jean-Phillipe to keep the case on life support. And the Homicide Division’s deputy chief had done just that. I imagined how meticulous Papa-Jean must’ve been to discover Richard Drake—and then piece together the horrors my patient had fled.

  How many hours of personal time? Dozens? Hundreds?

  What’s dead’s buried, I heard Daniel Drake say. You’d be right to leave it alone.

  “I never knew about her,” I said.

  “You’re kidding,” Eye said. “There was an entire room in my father’s house dedicated to her. Well her, at first. By the end, it was mostly about your blind man. Did you know he had a crush on her?”

  I thought of the appointment card in Drake’s wallet and nodded. He’d “made” Sophronia Poole during their sessions, had taken notes on what things she liked: sunflowers, Jeffrey Deaver novels, spider rolls, my father. He’d planned to woo her.

  And then her heart had been carved out her chest, taking my father’s heart with it. That final murder had crushed Drake’s heart, too—and his mind. He’d fallen for Sophronia, in the way patients experiencing transference sometimes do. She was his savior, an angel, an object of affection and desire. Love? Had he fallen in a kind of love with her?

  Perhaps. She’d been someone he cared about. He’d gone blind after that.

  My eyes fell back to the page. Chernobog glared back with its sightless eyes. The Black. Whirling circles, spirals, hypnotizing, look into my eyes.

  Eyes.

  Eye

  I groped for my pencil. Yes, something. Something finally.

  Eye for eye.

  I leaned into the page … and the pencil was a living thing in my hand again, sending a transmission and I was listening, tune in, Zach, can you read me, read between my lines, yank words from my curves, from my scratches? there’s something scratching at your door

  I was nodding now, my nose an inch from the table. I drew, drew from inside.

  something important, yes, almost there, draw the beast, finish the piece, complete it—eye-for-eye—draw the letters-not-letters, shade it, make it real—killer of loved ones—a test of your mettle, make it metal— haunted for all your days—now meddle, meddler, welder, weld it, put it together—

  I yanked my sweaty face away from the sketch pad, gasping. Rachael and Eye watched me, speechless. Despite their familiarity with this part of me, their expressions were both distracted, worried. I grabbed my glass of beer and gulped a mouthful. It was gloriously cold.

  I looked at my art.

  The bear-beast’s head hadn’t changed … but something had grown from its neck. The remainder of the page was filled by two large, shimmering metal rectangles. Rune-like letters glinted from their centers.

  “Dog tags,” Rachael whispered, understanding.

  I nodded. Yes. Oh, yes.

  Oh, no.

  “What if Alexandrov is still alive?” I asked. “What if he’s been killing them all along?”

  20

  I barely remembered showering and dressing the next morning. Every element of the morning ritual—pedaling my Cannondale to the subway station, the rumbling ride on the LIRR train, chaining my bike outside The Brink, morning coffee, coworker conversation, elevator ride—it all streaked by like a traffic time-lapse video, all forgettably anonymous and unimportant. I did not visit my other patients this morning. I had a single purpose. Richard Drake.

  I strode down the hallway of Level 5, taking a heartbeat to appreciate the steady lights above. I spotted Emilio Wallace, back at his p
ost by Room 507, and waved. He raised a hand and made a half-hearted motion in return. The gesture reminded me of the ubiquitous robotic wave of a pageant contestant. He wasn’t smiling.

  I repressed a shiver as I slowed my pace and drew closer. The hallway’s strobing mania may have disappeared, but Emilio appeared to have inherited it. His eyes blinked and twitched like a paranoiac’s. Black Samsonite bags hung above his cheeks. He hadn’t shaved. His lips trembled; he alternately pressed them together and blew air from them, sputtering nonsense.

  I stared up at him. It was incomprehensible, whatever had happened to my friend. Emilio’s massive shoulders were unnaturally tight, kicking well past his collarbone. The man’s meaty hands seemed electrified, grasping at nothing, fingers playing invisible notes on a piano.

  “Emilio,” I whispered. “Oh my God, man. Are you … feeling okay?”

  His chisled face crumpled, then twisted into a spasmodic smile. The flesh around his bloodshot blue eyes crinkled. His capped teeth chittered. I wanted to hug the man. I wanted turn and run.

  “Fffff. Fuh-fuh-fuh.” He squeezed his eyes shut, concentrating. It was heartbreaking. “Fuh-fine. Juh. Juh.”

  “Just?” Just?”

  He barked a laugh, nodding enthusiastically. The sound echoed in the empty hall. “Just. Just chillin’.” His crazed smile eked even wider.

  “Dude, come on. It’s me. Zach. You know, ‘Yo, Z.’ We’re buds. What happened”

  “Ffffollowed me,” he said. “Huh-huh-home. Huh-haunted. Haunted … housssse.”

  I felt the blood leave my face.

  “What followed you”

  Emilio glanced past us—right, left, down the hallway—and leaned down, as if to tell me a secret. His wild eyes widened. He tittered.

  “Thh.” His voice was a conspiratorial whisper. “The vuh-vampire.”

  He was sick. No question. Absolutely none.

  “You should go home,” I said.

  “Home is where the sssstart is,” Emilio said. His face devolved into a bitter, saddened sneer. His voice was a low rumble. “Sssstarts there. Whi-whispers. Ink on the wuh-walls. Sluh-sliding across the walls.”

  I took a step backward, and immediately hated myself for doing it. Emilio didn’t notice.

  “Vacation,” I heard myself say. “Get away from this place, man. Take a week, damn, take two. Far away.”

  “Need the muh, muh—”

  “No you don’t, not this bad,” I said. “You should really go. Like, now. Think of your boys, man. You gotta be right—um—ah, fuck it. You gotta be right in your head for them. You gotta be their dad.”

  He brightened … as much as his ticking muscles would allow. He nodded again, more slowly this time. More controlled.

  I nodded back. “Okay, game plan, buddy. Let me in. I’ll be there for a bit, but when I come out, we’re going to the infirmary, getting you once-overed. After that, your ass is taking a holiday.”

  “‘okay.”

  “Katabatic,” I said. I gave him an encouraging smile. “Let’s do this.”

  Keys jittered in trembling hands. Tumblers fell. Hinges shrieked.

  I entered Room 507, for what I hoped would be the last time.

  The room blazed white as I flipped the light switch. Richard Drake sat in his chair—I wondered, fleetingly, if he ever stood, or slept—and his eyes were open, blankly staring at the thing before him. The second chair. My patient had been busy, planned for company.

  My gaze shifted to the wall on my right. Holy shit.

  He’d been very busy.

  It was another full-wall mural, drawn from the pastels I’d left, etched in the same incomprehensible, scratch-swirl style as its twin across the room. I pulled the cell phone from my pocket once more. The phone pinged, a new photo stored inside.

  “It’s another amazing piece, Richard. It really is.”

  “Don’t call me that,” Drake said. His voice had the inflectionless tone of an insomniac. “Go to hell. Go away.”

  “I can’t,” I said.

  “You won’t.”

  “No. I can’t. Not built for it. But you’ve known that feeling.”

  Drake’s eyes blinked slowly. “Yes.”

  I sat down, watching him. His face was expressionless, inscrutable.

  “I’m heading to my office soon, Richard. I’m going to fill out a form ahead of schedule—and for me, that’s something just short of miraculous—and I’m going to sign it. My boss will smile his peculiar elfish smile and say, ‘Very good, Zachary.’ My father will be furious. And your lawyer will do the Snoopy dance.

  “You’ve sensed me spin and hustle these past four days, dribbling through my legs, trying to squeak past your defense. But you’re impervious. You’re a pro. And while I scrambled and fumbled and dug in, dug into your past, dug straight to Hell like you told me to, your tactic remained the same, Richard. You clutched to your sins and your guilt, convicting yourself, wrapping that black blanket tight.”

  I sighed. The ancient chair beneath me sighed, too.

  “You are not mentally competent to stand trial.”

  Drake stiffened. His eyes widened slightly.

  “I didn’t hear you,” he said.

  “Yes, you did,” I replied. “I don’t know if that’s what you were gunning for—I don’t think so, but I’ll be damned if I’ll ever know. You’ve made sure of that. You’re a Gordian knot, Richard, and I just can’t find a sword sharp enough to cut through. The well’s dry. I’m out of gas. You’re so certain that your delusion is real, you’ve half-convinced me. You’re mentally ill. The key to freedom is in your hand—in your mind—but you’ve either forgotten about it, or you’ve chosen not to use it.

  “And that forces my hand, because this is the last stop. There are no other doctors to stymie, no other mindbender tricks to pull. It’s just The Brink … and me. And you did it. You’ve broken me.”

  Drake shook his head.

  “No.”

  “Yes,” I said. “There’s no other conclusion I can make.”

  Fire glimmered in his eyes. His lean jaw tensed.

  “No.”

  I placed my hands on my knees. My voice was sympathetic. I was sympathetic. It tore at me to say this, to admit this. He’s cruel, Annie Jackson had said, and he was … but he had a reason to be, he was tormented by a life-changing error, a thing my heart knew I couldn’t live with were I in his shoes, and he deserved a fate better than the one he’d now endure. The one my signature would help sentence him to.

  “Richard, the endgame isn’t next Monday. It’s now. Your view of the past is so resolute, so brazen, so inflexible, that there’s no reason to waste our time anymore.”

  “I said no, damn you.” There was a tremor now, on the edge of his icy voice. “I’m sane. I know what I’ve seen, and it’s real. You know it’s—”

  I spoke over him, insistent, my voice still low and sincere.

  “Have you ever considered, just for a moment, that the past didn’t happen the way you think it did—or prayed it did” I asked. “I’m not talking about rewriting history. What’s dead’s buried; that’s what your son said. But what if there was never a burial … because there was nothing to bury”

  Drake’s head cocked to one side in an agonizingly slow arc. His ear nearly kissed his shoulder now. He shook his head, as if trying to shake away a dream.

  “I … don’t …”

  “No, I don’t think you ever have,” I said, “and I don’t know if it’s true, but can you loosen your grip on the past to consider—for only a moment—that Alexandrov is still alive”

  His green eyes were the size of half-dollars now. His voice was a whispered hiss.

  “What? How did—”

  “They never found a body, Richard.”

  “How could you possibly know that?”

  I leaned forward now, leaned in close. “This is it. The end of the line, the bottom of the ninth. If you’re going to convince me that you’re the crosshairs for Death—that y
ou’re really the cause of all this misery despite your alibis—then you’d better do it now. So here’s the pitch. What happened in Russia? What is the Dark Man? Why ‘Night On Bald Mountain?’”

  Richard Drake’s voice pitched low as he spoke. It was unsettling, unbalanced, like a warped LP record. This side of my patient was new. I watched him closely.

  “In all my years—all those jobs—I never spilled a drop, never bruised a knuckle,” he said. “It’s classless, inhuman. No way to treat a living thing.” He sighed. “Until …”

  “Until ‘the cowboys,’ the gun runners,” I said.

  “Until him. Every game, every trick, every con, every incentive, even drugs. Nothing. The Ivan was bedrock, unflappable.”

  He looked up at me now, and for a heartbeat, I thought he could see again. But his pine-green eyes still stared past me, vacant.

  “We needed to know who ran the operation,” he said. “We needed it. I had to, you understand. I had to. Desperate measures.”

  “You beat him,” I said.

  Drake shook his head quickly, squinting, terrified by whatever he was seeing inside his mind.

  “No, no, so much worse than that,” he said. “The things … Jesus … that was me … his face, his thumbs, his teeth, the saw, oh Christ, the saw and the blood and the sutures and the screams and laughing, always laughing at me, ‘pig-fuck-American,’ ‘fuck-your-mother-American.’ Trained. Better. Better than me. And through it all, I played that fucking song on the boombox, over and over and over again. Was it the music? Was it the broken bones and blood he’d lost? Seeing what was left of his face in that mirror? I don’t know … but I broke him.”

  He dragged the back of his hand against his lips.

  “He gave me an address, said it was the boss’ safe house. It was my job, my call. I didn’t order recon, didn’t think there was time. The house was a heap of ash when the goons were done. But.”

  “Was it a double cross” I asked. “Did he …”

  “Did he willfully sentence his wife and daughter to death? I doubt it,” Drake said. “He’d been in Red Show custody for four days by then. That’s enough time for a paranoid mob boss to split and whip up a double cross of his own, should the right hand try to stab him. These people trust no one. Evil. There’s a special place in Hell for people like them. People like me.”