“She’s so tiny,” he whispered. “We need to be careful. Oh, hon, she’s so delicate...I, uh...here.” And with his free hand he reached under the sheet and grasped Denise’s arm, pulling it out and pressing her hand against his heart, holding it there with his own as he’d done so many times while they lay sleeping together. “There, there.” He cradled their wondrous child against him, rocking ever so gently from side to side.
The tears were coming by rote now, unnoticed. He lifted Denise’s hands from his chest (should her body have begun decomposing this much already?) and tenderly placed it against the baby’s cheek. “There you go, hon, there’s your mommy, it’s all right now, everything’s all right, shhh, yes, there you go. We love you, we do, yes we do.”
He bent over and nuzzled his face against the slope of Denise’s neck, rolling it back and forth the way she liked for him to do when they cuddled, then lifted his head and softly, lovingly, for the last time in his life, kissed her lips.
Pulling in another strained and soaked breath, he slipped her hand away from his chest and put her arm back under the sheet. He began to cover her face but then saw a small smear of blood, no wider than a piece of sewing thread, that started at her jaw and dipped into her shoulder.
He realized that his nose was bleeding—it always bled whenever he was seriously upset—but whereas it usually embarrassed him, tonight he didn’t care.
He reached into his back pocket and removed his handkerchief, wiping away the blood he’d left on her. “I’m so sorry,” he croaked. “I didn’t mean t-to be so s-s-selfish and cruel. Please f-forgive me.” Then the sheet came up and fell over her face and she was gone.
He shuffled to the room-service cart, pushed open the black bag, and began to place his daughter back inside. The overhead lights gleamed off her center again and Robert was suddenly far too aware of how empty he felt, that it shouldn’t be this way and—
—and he couldn’t leave here without...without doing something...
He kissed his daughter’s fingers and unwrapped them from his own.
He started when he heard the doors swish open.
“Mr. Londrigan? Is everything all right?”
Yeah,” Robert said. “Y-yes, fine. I just need another minute, please.”
He waited another silent moment that lasted five eternities until he heard Dr. Steinman leave again (the lingering shadow spilling across the floor from the other side of the curtain had to be a trick of the light; surely the man wouldn’t eavesdrop on such a private moment), then kissed his daughter’s forehead that was as big as his palm, pulling her nearer to his face—
—and then the air became heavy once again, just as it had in the park earlier; a feeling of density in the atmosphere that seeped into his core and made everything seem to move in slow motion, an underwater ballet, murky and shadowed, and once more there was the sensation of standing outside of himself—
—and once more he sensed the presence of a crippling want—
—and once again there was the sound of three whistled notes in his ears—
—but now his daughter flexed her small hand ever so slightly, her fingers curling of their own accord, grasping a small section of his wrist as she smiled and gurgled playfully and moved her head from side to side. He listened to the noises she made and could hear the multi-tones of Chinese, the impossible Russian vowels, the guttural Basque, and he swore that none of those sounds would ever be extincted from her.
Outside the curtain, he could see Steinman’s shadow growing longer—when had the doctor come back?—but he didn’t care.
Denise sat up, the sheet dropping to bunch around her discolored hips. She pushed out her rotting arms and wrapped them around his waist.
“We did it, Robby,” she said. “We re-made ourselves through her.”
He turned and kissed her long and passionately as their daughter scrabbled toward Mommy’s breast. Robert pulled away, and Denise took their daughter in her arms and held the tiny face up to her nipple. Their daughter sucked hungrily.
“What am I supposed to do without you?” asked Robert.
“Don’t leave us here, not stuck inside some dark drawer or in a plastic bag...”
“...no...”
“...you’ll have to take us with you...”
“...I want that, I want that more than anything...”
“...I always loved you, Robby, even when you were being selfish, even when you were being cruel...”
“...ohgod, hon...”
“...because I knew that you didn’t mean to be that way, it wasn’t really you, that you’d punish yourself later...”
“...so lonely, it’s been so lonely and it’s only going to get worse....”
The baby finished its meal. Denise handed her back to Robert. He looked into the chasm and saw the mother’s milk mixing with the dark puddle of liquid where the blue laminated strip bobbed, then a heavy globule of blood from his nose dripped down, landing in the center of the puddle, where it divided and became two, then four, the process continuing until the last visible trace was gone and all their fluids became one.
The lengthening shadow outside the curtain moved, becoming smaller as its owner approached.
“...take us with you,” whispered Denise, “inside you, for always, forever and ever....”
Robert, now back inside himself and able to command the movements of his limbs, lifted their daughter toward his face, turning her on her side like a cup, and she giggled as his mouth closed around her chasm flap. He tilted her and drank deeply, feeling the resonance of his family thrumming within his core as it slid a cool, smooth, quenching path down his throat.
“...I’ll wait for the touch of your hand, my love, and then everything will be the way we always wanted it to be...”
“...I love you...”
“...I’ll wait for you in your secret place, remember? Where the mountain opens up….”
“...the mountain...,” he whispered, some part of his mind hinting at the importance of those words as some distant image of a happy childhood memory tried to turn on the lights and wipe the sleep from its eyes.
Denise disappeared under her sheet, and their daughter into her bag.
Robert wiped his mouth, licked clean the tip of his finger, then stared at what parts of his reflection were visible in the shiny surface of the metal table with the drains.
He heard the curtain being pulled back, sensed the presence of the other man with him.
His face looked fragmented in the shiny surface of the table.
As did Steinman’s face. Fragmented.
Sectioned.
A jigsaw puzzle of flesh and bone, almost...split....
Before he could look up, a very strong hand grabbed the hair on the back of his head.
“Listen up, Willy,” said the voice. “‘Did I say all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say—‘It’s dull in our town since my playmates left!’”
Robert’s face was slammed down against the hard, cold, unyielding surface of the table. Sparks exploded behind his eyes and pain washed over him.
The hand pulled his head back up.
“So tell me, Willy—what further proof do you need?”
“...w-what...what’re you talking about...,” Robert spluttered through the blood and pain.
“Is this proof enough? Do you despair of your humanity now?”
He face was slammed into the table once again. He thought he heard bones crack. His legs started to give out. His body was wrenched sideways and slammed ass-first onto the cold floor.
“Still with me, Willy?”
“...unghhh....”
His head was jerked back, then to the side. A hand appeared before his eyes, holding a photograph...no, not just one, several.
“Look closely, Willy, go on, look at them!”
The first photograph was of an infant whose large, malformed head was the shape of a qua
rter-moon or water balloon, lined with bright red-blue veins that threatened to burst through its all-too-thin flesh. Its face seemed too small, attached to the monstrosity around it. Its mouth was open in a cry of pain and fear that was reflected in its eyes.
“My sister, Willy. Do you despair yet?”
The hand holding the photographs snapped to the side, discarding the top photograph and giving Robert a clear view of the next one.
The child had only one eye socket, directly in the center of its forehead, where two eyes struggled to stay in place. It had no nose; instead, a proboscis-like appendage that looked like an uncircumcised penis grew from the middle of its shrunken forehead.
“My little brother, Willy. Do you despair yet?”
The rest of the photographs were snapped before his face with great speed—Robert had no time to absorb specifics; there were only too-large eyes that weren’t where they were supposed to be, heads that were too large or too small or not round enough, faces that were incomplete or that contained an extra nose, eye, or—in one picture—an additional mouth on one cheek, positioned so that it would chew side-to-side instead of up-and-down. There were bloated bodies, twisted limbs, scaly clefts that obscured other features.
“My family, Willy. My brothers and sisters. Do they frighten you? Sicken you? Do you wonder where we live, or how? Do you wish us love and acceptance? Would you love us if we asked it of you? Do you despair yet? Do you require further proof?”
Robert was yanked back to his feet and spun around, his face pressed back against the surface of the metal table.
“Answer me, damn you.”
Split-Face’s reflection crept onto the surface of the metal table. “Do you despair?”
“Y-yes....”
“Does this prove to you the indifference of heaven, or do you need more convincing?”
“I...I....”
Split-Face continued to press hard against Robert’s skull. “Feel that, Willy? Do you feel them inside your head?” There was a new presence within his brain, blossoming outward, an ice-bird spreading its wings to cool the searing panic he felt within him; the ice-wings were frozen blue water, dotted in ripples, and were melting ever so slowly near the tips, the blue-rippled droplets at first a sprinkle, then a stream cascading through his brain, down his spine and into his chest, cleansing him, expanding something within his body and consciousness; he felt the presence of other minds, other hearts, other...others. “I’m putting some of them there, Willy, to keep you company, to remind you, to show you things, to teach you. Take good care of them, Willy, remember them well, or you’ll be sorry.”
A growling, angry, disgusted, semi-human noise, then Robert’s head was slammed once more against the metal table. Blood from his nose swirled into the drain nearest his face.
“They think they’re wearing masks, Willy. I tell them the story of the Masks and they listen, and they believe. Do you know the story of the Masks? Did she ever tell you?”
Robert hadn’t time to answer before a fist struck the base of his neck; his last conscious sensation was something in his face shattering and flying down his throat; his last conscious thought was, Do we have a secret, you and I?—then all was blinding pain followed by merciful darkness.
Later, when he awakened, Denise, silent and dead, was still there.
But their daughter was gone.
Chapter 2
His face was hidden behind a mask.
Robert opened his eyes and pulled in a deep breath through his nose.
Big mistake.
Pain lanced into his skull.
“Breathe through your mouth, Mr. Londrigan,” said a voice.
“Dr. Steinman?” Christ, even talking hurt like hell.
“Talk only if you have to. Trust me on that one.”
Reaching up to touch the mass of medical tape covering his nose, Robert allowed his hands to follow the layers of tape that spread from the center of his face. There was an odd, T-shaped metal brace or splint covering his nose and a small part of his forehead, the medical tape holding it firmly in place.
Steinman’s hands pulled Robert’s away. “Here.” A cup of water and two pink pills were handed to him. “A Demerol Cocktail, on the house.”
Robert took the painkillers and gulped down the water—another mistake; the movement of his throat muscles seemed to send all vibration right to his nose. He handed the cup back to Steinman, then lay back on the pillows. After a few moments of shallow mouth-breathing, he slowly opened his eyes and saw Steinman standing beside the bed.
“It’ll be fine if you don’t mess with it for about a week.” Steinman gently reached out and touched the splint. “I wasn’t going to use anything to hold it in place after setting it, but looking at the X-ray I thought it could be a bit iffy if you moved too much. Amazingly, you don’t have a concussion, but your nose is going to need some minor reconstructive surgery once it heals. A section of bone broke through the side and had to be stitched. You ever see Chinatown? Remember that scar on Jack Nicholson’s nose?”
“Uh-huh....”
“Yours could hold its own against that. So don’t mess with my work, okay? Your nose was broken in two places but at least the breaks were clean. Pills starting to kick in yet?”
“...feel a little shiny, if that’s what you mean.”
“Shiny. Nice description.” Steinman leaned closer. “There’s a detective waiting outside to talk to you. I promised him I’d let him know as soon as you were awake.”
“Did you see...see who...?”
Steinman bit his lower lip and shook his head. “No. I was letting the guys back in. All I saw were swinging doors and a blur at the end of the hall. I’m so sorry.” He grasped Robert’s hand, squeezing it with all the familiarity and affection of a lifelong friend. “Is there anyone I can call for you?”
“I don’t...uh...what time is it?”
“About two-fifteen in the dismal a.m.” Steinman rubbed his eyes. “Sorry. I guess I don’t have to tell you what a long night it’s been.”
“When was your shift supposed to end?”
“Not until six-thirty,” Steinman replied, looking at his watch. “You want me to call someone for you?”
“Yeah, you could give Denise a call and tell her—” A moment, a breath, a blink, something crumbling inside: “Oh.”
Then: “Ohgod...,” as it all flooded back in clear, unblinking detail.
Steinman raised the upper portion of the bed and held a large wad of cotton under the holes in the cast so the snot and blood from Robert’s nose could drain; with his free arm he simply held Robert, who wept for a few minutes, jerking occasionally until the pills began to take fuller effect.
Steinman helped Robert clean himself up a bit. “Want me to send the detective in?”
“I suppose, yeah.”
Steinman started out of the room, but stopped when Robert called his name.
“Yes, Mr. Londrigan?”
“I just...uh...I wanted to let you know that I r-really appreciate all you tried to—”
Steinman held up his hand, palm-out, silencing him. “Don’t even, okay? Oh, one more thing—don’t be surprised if the hospital’s attorney contacts you in the next few days.”
“You suing me?”
“Hardly. For the record, I, personally, am not all that well-off.”
“Huh?”
Steinman tried to smile; it looked tired and drained. “I don’t even know why I brought that up. I’m sorry, I’m tired as hell.” He stared at Robert a moment longer, his face a prism of sorrow, confusion, and deep respect. “Most men wouldn’t have made it through all this, you know?”
“Who says I have?”
“Yeah, well....” And with that, the good doctor was gone.
Robert lay unmoving, staring at the white-tiled ceiling, thinking about what Split-Face had said: “‘Did I say all? No! One was lame, And could not dance the whole of the way; And in after years, if you would blame His sadness, he was used to say—‘I
t’s dull in our town since my playmates left!’”
Why did that seem so familiar?
He seemed to recall his mother reading those words to him once, when he was eight and stuck in bed with the mumps.
He concentrated on those words, trying desperately to find something to connect them to the memory of his mother reading to him, and nearly had it when the door opened and the detective entered.
The man more resembled a former professional boxer than a cop; everything about him, while not squat, was particularly square and tight and low to the ground. His thick, wavy hair was almost completely white—prematurely so, Robert guessed—and looked distinguished in a favorite-uncle kind of way. He sported a dense moustache, also near-totally white, that made him resemble the actor who used to play the original Captain Kangaroo on the old children’s show; it wasn’t until he got closer and the numerous small, pale scars on his face became evident that the fanciful comparison bit the big one.
The detective found a metal stool and wheeled it over near Robert’s bed. While the caricature of the police detective led Robert to expect him to be baggy-eyed and rumpled, this boxer of a cop was surprisingly neat. From his perfectly-knotted tie to his smooth slacks and fashionable overcoat, he was extremely presentable, with wide, gray, alert eyes that would not, for the moment, meet Robert’s gaze.
The oddest thing about him, though, the most notably disparate element of his appearance, was his hands; they should have been wide and heavy, as befitting such a beefy fellow. Instead they were thin and delicate, an artist’s or pianist’s hands, with long, almost feminine fingers. They looked almost like Denise’s hands.
The thought made Robert chuckle painfully; here he was, in a room with a post-retirement Dirty Harry who had the hands of a housewife who soaked her fingers in Palmolive.
“It’s my hands, isn’t it?” asked the detective in a rumbling voice that sounded as if he’d once gargled with Jack Daniels three times a day. “I know, they look weird attached to this body, but I didn’t have any choice in the matter.” Still not meeting Robert’s gaze, he reached into his jacket and pulled out his ID: Detective William Emerson, Cedar Hill Police Department. He put his ID back into his pocket, removed a small notebook from another pocket, and flipped through it until he found the page he was looking for. Then—as if something had just dawned on him—he became very still.
In Silent Graves Page 5