A reunion, of sorts.
There was someone we went to school with. Tracey something-or-other, I couldn’t remember her name, but even in its mummified state I recognized the face. Then one of Jack’s many conquests from the parties we used to have in Montreal. And a guy we used to play hockey with. From a rival school.
And then there was Anastasia Ramazotti. Christ, I could never forget her face. Even then, while her eyes popped garishly out of her head, they still beckoned. Pale, emaciated skin and the rigors of death and time made her hideous, but I recalled her face the day that she said “I do” to Jack. A momentary memory and she was actually beautiful. But I broke out of my trance and looked at her lifeless face with distaste. She wasn’t beautiful anymore.
I walked through the narrow hallway and looked at the faces, once full of life but now devoid of any. Nothing was left. Just frozen masks. What was most disturbing though, were the expressions on their faces. Not the way a loved one would want to remember these people. As I proceeded, I was forced to remember faces from the past. Many of people that I’d forgotten about. In Jack’s final artistic tour-de-force, it seems that time too, had forgotten about them.
I neared the end, with icy terror that gripped my heart. Several faces I didn’t recognize. But others I knew well. Too well.
I saw the faces of Helen and Heidi, the women Jack bought for me in Manhattan. There were the deadly and lifeless visages of the three C’s: Candi, Cindi, and Coral. At least I thought it was them. They looked familiar but I was so drunk that night. And in my defense, a swollen, lifeless face doesn’t do justice to the head that bore it when it was joined with the body and full of life. I saw other faces which seemed familiar, but I couldn’t make them out. They were far too swollen, too decayed, or simply too badly beaten to be recognizable.
Ugly. All of them.
Near the end of the hall, one face replaced my disgust with a flood of regret and sadness. Even after all that time and the distortion that a decapitated head adopts, I had no problem looking into her tragically horrified face as I recognized the once-beautiful, once-dreamer, Lexi.
I came to grips with it a long time ago. She was dead. But I had no idea that it was Jack who had killed her. Even though I hadn’t known the circumstances of her all-too-untimely demise, part of me always hoped that she had quietly slipped away. Realized her dream of teaching English in Japan. I clenched my jaw and peered at her with sadness and frustration.
I forced myself to move on. One painfully slow step after another. I should have been relieved that I was nearing the end of Jack’s horrifying menagerie, but I wasn’t. As I reached the end of the hallway I clenched my fists and gritted my teeth. I thought about turning back, for I knew what I’d find.
It was to be Jack’s ultimate trophy, the very testament to his life. The one person who was so deeply intertwined with me that he couldn’t shake her. She was a part of me and he couldn’t stand the thought that she owned me. I stopped and sighed before I raised my flashlight.
There she was, her face frozen in a scream of mock agony. ‘Mock’ because she didn’t feel the pain anymore. The chronic pain that still haunts me today.
She was at rest.
But she had felt pain, judging from the expression on her face. Excruciating, terrifying, horrendous, sorrowful pain. That moment of agony was captured forever and preserved, in a God-forsaken crypt. I only stared at her for a second or two, but the image will be imprinted forever, just behind my eyes. Tears welled and agony that’s too painful to describe filled my chest.
I wondered if there was anything that I could have done differently. I looked up again, just long enough to look at once beautiful eyes. Once so filled with life and hope, now they bulged at me. As if they begged me to explain. Why didn’t you protect me from him?
They were filled with the terror and agony that she experienced in the last moments before her death. Blackened lips were curled back in a scream, and a swollen purple tongue jutted between them. Lips that I once kissed so passionately…
I fell to my knees and threw up repeatedly. I retched and puked before there was nothing left in my stomach. I didn’t even bother getting up, but instead crawled to the end of the hall.
Without looking at Elizabeth again, I left the Hall of Trophies, more terrified – if that was possible – by what was to come next.
Chapter 67
O all things fair to sate my various eyes!
O shapes and hues that please me well!
O silent faces of the Great and Wise,
My Gods, with whom I dwell!
- Tennyson
I sighed and steeled myself for what was to come.
While I had experienced a horror that would seal my fate forever, the Hall of Trophies was just an appetizer that Jack had set out for me. He made sure that more waited. I hadn’t experienced all that I was destined to experience that night.
I wound my way to the end of the hallway. Diminished to the point of collapse. Physically drained from my incessant puking. And emotionally crushed by the gruesome visual record of Elizabeth’s final demise and Jack’s ultimate sins. It made my progression eminently more difficult, but I had to know what horror had gripped Jack in the teeth of a demon.
I turned right and found myself staring at shelves. They weren’t adorned with human heads. Instead, they contained a large library of tapes, several VCRs, DVD Players and TV monitors. Filing cabinets lined either wall and I shuddered. Even under the shock and duress that was setting in, my mind was conscious enough to anticipate the next ordeal.
I have electricity in the kitchen, the Media Room, and one or two other strategic locations. Only where necessary.
It was the Media Room. I peered around the antechamber and fixed on a chair that was planted squarely in front of VCRs, DVD Players and a grid of monitors. I sat down and looked at the rows of video tapes. They were alphabetically indexed and obvious in their meaning. I looked at the crisp type on each label and experienced a new realization.
As much as he repulsed me, Jack was reaching out to me.
Everything started to make sense. But it was the most abhorrent, obscene and distorted kind of sense.
A chill spread through my brain. They were imprinted with names – all-too-familiar names, and all-too-familiar in their purpose: ‘Jack and Maureen’ (a.k.a. ‘Tiger Lady’ from WSU); ‘Jack and Anastasia;’ ‘Jack, Helen and Heidi;’ ‘Jack and Kathryn’ (I had no idea who that was), and so-on. But I stopped scanning and fixated on one label.
‘Jack and Elizabeth.’
I stared at it. My head began to sink as I tried to comprehend the implications of those three words. Is it Jack and Elizabeth from many years ago? Or is it more recent? I had to stop. I pushed it away like an unwanted sexual advance.
I didn’t want to know.
I scanned the labels and wondered how any man could fuck so many women, when I discovered that the tapes weren’t all of Jack. The last row sent shockwaves through my spine. As real as all the horror that I had experienced because of him, was my name.
‘Mal and Elizabeth.’ ‘Mal and Anastasia.’ ‘Mal and Holli.’ ‘Mal, Heidi and Helen.’ ‘Mal, Candi, Cindi and Coral.’
Ohmigod. He had taped me with these people. How did he even have the opportunity to do that?
Jack had keys to the townhouse and at my request came by infrequently to sort the mail for me, leaving only the important stuff on the table. At least he managed to fulfill that obligation.
“God! I am such an idiot!” He was filthy rich. He could afford the best electronics, Private Eyes and anything else that he needed, to set up his productions. I attacked my eyebrows with my fingertips and rubbed furiously. The shock that ran through my brain pierced me repeatedly.
Humbly, I picked the ‘Mal and Elizabeth’ tape and placed it in the VCR. I pressed ‘play’ and shuddered when the video began, for what I saw were scenes that I remembered too well. Far too well.
They included the first night that w
e made love at her parent’s cabin. He had it all on tape. The conversation, the lovemaking, everything. I watched a bit before I realized what I was doing. I scanned through several minutes of it but then stopped. I couldn’t watch anymore. The memories were too painful. Even then, I remembered the joy and excitement that coursed through my boyhood soul. But seeing her alive and hearing her voice only reminded me of the more recent memory I had. Her dead face.
I ejected the tape and hurled it at the floor. Stomped on it repeatedly until it was tiny shards of plastic and tape.
I wanted to leave this horrible place. I couldn’t go on. It had been his plan all along, his game. I played right into it. Even now I was playing into it. And he was winning.
I could hear him laughing at me from Hell. For I knew that Hell was where he was, and Hell was exactly where he needed to be. After minutes of trying to control my breathing and collecting my thoughts, I realized that he was never going to let go of me, until I finished his unholy game.
I sighed and watched ‘Mal, Candi, Cindi and Coral.’ Briefly, it brought back fond memories. But I was shocked and affronted. Not only did he set up the whole thing, he actually had the gall to tape us. I wondered whether he jerked off when he looked at these tapes.
But I hoped that there was a more satisfying answer for his voyeurism. I mean, if he had collected them the same way that he collected his artwork, then I might be able to live with that.
But if he had used them for his own personal gratification…I don’t think I could live with that knowledge.
I pondered and watched those three bombshells fighting for control of my erection. But then I remembered the three heads which adorned the Hall of Trophies. My taste wasn’t in their mouths anymore, and the taste in my mouth was a powerful reminder. I ejected the tape and bit my lip. I couldn’t watch anymore. I remembered the file cabinets and decided to tackle them. At least I wouldn’t have to look at audio or video.
With trepidation, I opened a drawer and began to examine the contents. As far as I could tell, there were files on everyone he had known. I peered at my watch. It was 9:00.
It’ll be dark soon. Hurry up!
“DAMN!”
I pulled my file, then Elizabeth’s and Anastasia’s.
I started with mine. It was the smallest, and for good reason. I faced a single page. After looking at it for several minutes, I couldn’t stop wondering what it meant.
It was a drawing, apparently taken from the page of a textbook. A black-and-white artist’s rendering. It looked very old and depicted a bleak sky, as best as sky could be depicted in charcoal. A dark sky that was fraught with clouds. The only object that gave a sense of warmth was a blazing sun that erupted with flames. Squiggly lines radiated from it, an archaic two-dimensional expression of intense heat.
But the subject of the drawing was centered amongst the clouds and directly below the sun. It was Icarus. A pre-Renaissance sketch, the character was illustrated with disproportionate body characteristics. Shoulders and arms that appeared more slender but longer, than the lower torso, and a disproportionately large head. The facial features were simple and almost cartoonish, but the pain and anguish on his face was accurately captured by the artist. Arms spread akimbo were adorned with feathered wings that melted and disintegrated as the flaming body of Icarus plunged to his death.
One thing had been added to the page. Scrawled in blue ink that contrasted with black. I didn’t recognize it, but it was suspiciously like the symbols that adorned the walls, fixtures and façade of the house. I had no idea what it meant, but it assaulted my senses with unsettled perturbation.
It was in my file. I didn’t understand what it meant, but I held the page and stared at it for several minutes. Gilded wings. Confused, I frowned and replaced the document. This wasn’t what I was looking for.
I turned to Anastasia’s file, opened it and peered at the contents. There were several pictures in it, mostly shadowy shots of two people in intimate encounters. Apparently, Jack had her followed. Or maybe he followed her himself.
As I flipped through the pictures, they became more graphic and I realized that these ones were not secretive photos taken without her knowledge. She had assented to them. I felt a stir in my pants as I leered at them, and for a brief moment I remembered her musky scent on my fingers.
But then I was jarred into reality by the very real image of her lifeless head, sitting like some perverted trophy a few feet away. That’s when I came across the newspaper clipping.
It was cut-out from the London Mirror. Just before we met in New York. Although I already knew the outcome, a chill ran through my body as I read. This page from the past answered many questions, but it made me wonder why I hadn’t seen the answers earlier. They had been so obvious. Just like Jack.
Florence (Reuters – Heiress and fashion designer Anastasia Ramazotti was reported missing Sunday morning, in what Police call ‘possible foul play.’ Ramazotti, widely renowned for her sexual exploits and affairs with eligible bachelors, gained acclaim when her winter fashion line was chosen as the best new line at the Paris Fashion Expo last November.
Ms. Ramazotti was last seen on Thursday evening at a local nightclub, but was reported missing by her family when she failed to show for several meetings and social functions.
Police Officials reported that they have no suspects. The subject of two failed marriages, Ms. Ramazotti was purported to have become a recluse who kept to herself, friends told the Mirror. A memorial service will be held for close friends and family only.
Something struck me as odd. It wasn’t surprising that the circumstances of her disappearance weren’t disclosed. She came from a powerful family that would ensure such details were suppressed. Even though they weren’t able to suppress her sexual exploits. But the statement about Police not having any suspects…that was odd. It seemed to me that her ex-husbands would be the first suspects the Police would consider. They would have investigated Jack’s background and once they discovered what and who he was…it didn’t take a trained Policeman to draw the line. I sighed. Clenching my jaw, I closed her file and turned to Elizabeth’s. I didn’t want to open it, but I had to know.
Fortunately, it was unremarkable. There were photographs of her, from the looks of them taken clandestinely. They were innocent shots: her having lunch at a café, or strolling down the street. The last item however, was the clipping from the Montreal Gazette. The one I’d memorized.
Montreal (CP) – The naked, headless body of an American woman visiting Montreal was discovered near the banks of the St. Lawrence River yesterday, and the grisly discovery has Police baffled.
The body of Elizabeth Mackenzie, a Detroit lawyer who was visiting Montreal for reasons unknown, was found at 6:15 Saturday night by a jogger. According to one Police official who spoke to this newspaper on condition of anonymity, “the body was cleanly decapitated and not very well hidden, as if someone wanted it to be found.”
As if someone wanted it to be found. I gnawed on my lower lip replaced the files where I found them. I bit so hard that I tasted salty blood in my mouth.
The taste was a welcome change from puke and it jarred me slightly. Everything I’d seen, it was too much for any human being to endure. Even today, I don’t know how it was that I managed to think or even stand that night. But I do remember thinking that it was time to stop.
I could close my eyes and stumble back through the Hall of Trophies. Leave the room as I found it, lock the door and throw away the key. It was mine now. The house. I could have it destroyed. Bulldoze it into the ground and put something up as a monument to the final resting place of those poor souls.
But there was still one room left. For beyond the Media Room, there was one last door. It was simple. No adornments, no special symbols. Just a door that beckoned.
Even though every ounce of my being told me to leave now, I knew that there was no turning back.
Chapter 68
After precious seconds of careful delib
eration, I walked to the door and turned the knob.
It opened with an ease that belied what was behind it. I pushed it open and entered a small room.
There was a thick film of dust on the floor. A snowfall which told me that no one had been there for a long time. It was dimly-lit and barren, save for a small table, patiently vigilant in the middle of the room.
Cautiously, I walked around the table, disturbing dust which hadn’t been disturbed since the room’s creation. The coating which layered the floor threatened to reveal me for the fraud that I was. A lone excavator on a cursed expedition. One which hadn’t been made since the house was built.
Three items sat on the table. The dust was my only friend, but not much of a friend, for it scurried away from me as I approached the objects that greeted me unceremoniously. I instantly recognized them as resignation seeped into my soul.
The first was a book. Even though I’d never seen it, I knew exactly what it was. I peered down at it and brushed a thick beard of dust off the cover. The fragile leather binding had words in Italian scrawled across it and while I couldn’t read Italian, I remembered what Jack told me.
The authentic and unequivocal sole copy of a book entitled La mia vita di persecuzione personale. Or in English, My Life of Personal Persecution. It’s been verified as the only existing copy, written by the Master himself, Leonardo da Vinci.
Gingerly, I lifted the cover and looked at worn yellow pages. Scrawls and hand-drawn images that filled pages upon pages. Perhaps 500 of them. I slowly closed it, as if one slip of my hand would cause the entire book to crumble to dust. Then I turned to the second item.
I would have smiled, if I wasn’t so repulsed by what I had seen in the previous rooms. It was the statuette that Jack had shown me in Varadero.
He knew that I admired it. I felt like a Peeping Tom as I softly stroked the jade exterior and spied on the couple who were entwined in a delicious act of passion. The surface felt cold, but seeing it stirred warm memories. As I stared at the detailed bodies, writhing forms and entwined genitalia that were captured forever in stone, I thought about Elizabeth. I imagined the two of us sharing that act of sublime passion.
The House that Jack Built Page 45