by Ivan Blake
“Rose, you said there wasn’t any treasure at Marymount,” Chris said as he carefully placed a small painting against the wall.
“There isn’t.”
“Rose! This is a Da Vinci!”
“It’s also a family picture.”
“It’s the Mona Lisa with a child on her lap!”
“No, it’s Arsende Narbona, my husband’s cousin. She was the nurse to one of Da Vinci’s clients.”
Chris was speechless. The collection was staggering...and it had the desired effect.
As Chris withdrew the amulet from his shirt, the specters appeared. They smiled and moved toward him, then seemed to register what was laid out on the floor. The shades drifted over the collection and each apparition gradually moved to its most treasured object. They caressed them, laughed and wept, raised their arms in supplication, and dropped to their knees in prayer. Rose called out to each shade by name and they turned to her. She spoke in Occitan and they listened, the silver outlines of their faces glowing ever brighter in apparent gratitude. “I’ve told them their treasures and their memories shall always be safe with me. You can sense their gratitude.”
“Now explain we want to help them return to Paradise,” Chris whispered.
As Rose spoke, the circle of specters closed in about her.
“Are they going to hurt her?” Gillian whispered in alarm.
“No, no, it’s wonderful! I...I can feel their love. It’s glorious,” Rose cried.
“We need them angry,” Chris said. “You have to tell them why they were torn from Paradise in the first place. They need to know what happened...and who’s responsible.”
And so Rose told her tale.
The only sound in the dim cellar was the soft, lilting music of Rose’s voice as she spoke in her wonderfully strange tongue. The figures watched, wept, shook their fists, clutched themselves, fell to their knees, and turned to one another.
“See!” Chris said. “They’re aware of one another! I knew it.”
“I’ve told them we need their help to recover their remains,” Rose said. “I think it’s time we showed them what they can do.”
“Chris, this is so dangerous,” Gillian said.
“I think so too, but I don’t see what choice we have. They need to see what a spirit is capable of.” Chris moved to the center of the room, removed the amulet from around his neck, and tossed it to Gillian.
At first, the noise sounded like the rainstorm outside had become more intense. The wail of the wind became a mournful howl and then a scream of rage. The foul air in the cellar turned from dank to sulfurous. The small bulb dangling by the doorway shone with the light of the sun and then shattered into a million fragments. A pale blue glow appeared up near the ceiling and swelled in intensity. Sparks crackled and shot about the room. The specters drew closer to Rose. They looked about in confusion.
First the swirling mist, and then the ebony eyes materialized before the circle of specters and began racing about the great room in a mindless frenzy like a dust devil on an open plain. The fearsome eyes swooped down toward Chris, then suddenly spun about and froze. The eyes glared at the specters. Mallory’s entire figure shimmered through the mist. Never before had her whole frame been visible. Malice vanished from her eyes. She seemed confused, and for an instant, moved toward the specters with her arms raised in, what…supplication? The specters drew back in fear. Rage returned to Mallory’s eyes. She glared at the specters, any hint of curiosity or concern now vanished, then turned on Chris.
Her assault was merciless, punishment perhaps for her powerlessness and humiliation the previous night. Chris was tossed into the air to strike the heavy beams of the cellar ceiling, then thrown across the room against the stone foundations of the house. He was kicked and crushed and raked with razors and had his face ground into the dirt.
“No, please!” Gillian screamed. Her tears and desperation made no difference. The torture continued until at last Rose could stand no more. She crept as close as she dared to Chris—his face hammered against the walls of the tower—and slipped the amulet over his head. In the same instant, Mallory was thrown backwards, away from Chris, as if she’d been hit by a bus. Chris slumped to the floor unconscious. Again and again, Mallory flew at him only to be thrown backwards each time, until at last she let out a murderous howl, flew about the cellar like a banshee, and vanished.
Gillian and Rose rushed forward to help Chris. The specters followed, and one by one they glided to his side. When Rose realized what the specters were doing, she touched Gillian’s shoulder to prompt her, without speaking, to move away from Chris. Gillian edged backwards, and the two women watched in wonder.
The specters surrounded the unconscious Chris, slipped their arms beneath his battered body, and slowly raised him up. He lay in their arms, suspended high in the air and enveloped in shimmering light for many minutes until at last he stirred. The specters then slowly lowered him to the earth once again. The shades moved away as Chris opened his eyes, blinked and looked about. He raised himself onto his elbow and asked, “So, did Mallory put on a good show?”
Chapter 16
Sunday, March 15
Martin Koyman arrived in Lewis shortly before nine in the morning. He’d fretted about Jackie all the previous day. At first he’d tried to tell himself he was being silly, and had no reason to worry about her. Jackie was a perfectly capable young woman, and besides, she’d be mad as hell if he interfered in her affairs again. And yet she’d sounded so upset on the phone, as though caught up in something beyond her control. About eight in the evening, in the middle of a burger and a Bruins game on TV, it had hit him like a ton of bricks: Jackie Cormier was the most important person in his squalid existence, not because she was good-looking, which she was, or because he was lonely, which he was, but because she was his friend, the first real, sober friend he’d had in years.
For eighteen months, he’d treated her like a pet: fetch girl, catch! Then suddenly, she hadn’t been a puppy any longer; she’d become a colleague. She respected him, was grateful for guidance, and—miracle of miracles—she liked him. Jackie somehow appreciated his weird sense of humor when no one else did, and put up with his chaotic personal life. She even liked it when his curiosity took him way off topic because she knew wherever he was going, he’d come back with something useful. And he loved her insatiable appetite for ideas, sterling prose, and unbridled determination to do good things in the world. Martin Koyman was as proud of Jackie Cormier as if she’d been his own daughter. So, of course he had to find her!
He parked in front of the police department, hopped out and tried the office door. Open 9 to 4 on Sundays. He ran across the street to the diner and got a coffee and bagel for breakfast. Punchy with fatigue after an eight-hour drive on the back roads of Maine and Vermont in the dark and the pouring rain, Martin desperately wanted to close his eyes, but the moment the cop unlocked the front door, he was out of his car like a shot.
Martin explained to the officer on duty he was a reporter from Bangor looking for a colleague who was researching a story in Lewis. The cop looked very young. “Like, do Maine reporters have jurisdiction in Vermont?” he asked.” Don’t you have to leave Vermont stories to Vermont reporters?”
Koyman hadn’t known whether the kid was serious, but decided not to laugh. “The story’s about a guy from Maine, so we have jurisdiction,” he said.
“Oh, okay then.”
Koyman went on to explain he hadn’t heard from his colleague in forty-eight hours, and since she’d been injured on her previous trip to Lewis, he was concerned for her safety.
“So, when she was hurt the last time, did she come in here to report it?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Because the guy was from Maine?”
Koyman ignored the question. He tried to explain that the story his colleague was investigating involved grave robbery.
“In Lewis?”
“Yeah.”
“And did sh
e come in here to file a report?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Sounds to me like your friend doesn’t think much of the police.”
Martin was getting rattled. He was too tired and strung out to control his temper much longer. Then he mentioned Chris Chandler’s name and everything changed.
“So, you think your friend is mixed up with this Chandler fella? He’s supposed to be trouble,” the officer said. “He was in here the other day complaining about something, and the Chief gave him what for. Chief said the police in some town up in Maine had called to ask that we keep an eye on him. They want to talk to him about some murder. So he’s the guy you’re investigating? And you’re worried your reporter might have crossed this guy?”
“Yes! Yes, exactly right,” Koyman said. “Do you know where we can find him? If he’s got Jackie, then we’ve got to get her to safety.”
“I think he’s staying out at the Monsegur place, up North Kingdom Road.”
“Can you draw me a map or something?”
“Hell no, you’re not confronting a murder suspect alone. You can follow me.”
* * * *
“How long have I been asleep?” Chris asked as he opened his eyes to find Rose sitting on the side of his bed.
“You woke briefly right after Mallory got through with you, then you passed out again. That was around eleven last night. Gillian and I carried you upstairs, cleaned you up and I poured a sleeping draft into you. Then we put you to bed, and it’s now nine. By the way, your room was in quite a state.”
“Uhm, sorry.”
She smiled at him. “You’re a lucky man, Chris Chandler. I adore Gillian. Anyway, when we checked you out, we were amazed your injuries were so minor given the hammering Mallory gave you, just some bruises and a few scrapes.”
“Your friends did it. I felt them all around me.”
“We watched. They picked you up and held you in the air.”
“I had this incredible sense of well-being, no pain at all. But if it’s nine already, we’d better get going.”
“Geraldine called. Her father’s on his way to the theater. Gilbert and company are putting on some sort of special performance. So, if they’re busy with a rehearsal then it’s unlikely they’re moving the bones just yet.”
“Unless the rehearsal is a diversion. We should probably get over there as soon as we can.”
“Incidentally, Geraldine said she was awakened by noises in the alley behind the theater at about four yesterday morning. She watched Gilbert and the twins empty the van then drive off. They got back midmorning.”
“She’s sure they were emptying the van, not filling it?”
“That’s what she said. And that was the only time the van has been moved in days, so she’s pretty sure the bones are still in the theater.”
“Right. And have you tried summoning your friends since last night?” Chris asked.
“No.”
“So we have no idea whether they understood what you told them or whether they’ll remember anything the next time we summon them.”
“No.”
“So we may be tackling Gilbert and his crew alone.”
“Yes.”
“We do have Mallory,” Chris said.
“Better than nothing.”
“Especially if I can get close enough to Gilbert.”
“I’m sure you will,” Rose said with a warm smile and a pat on his hand.
Gillian came into the room and gave Rose a hug, and Rose reciprocated. “You seem very agreeable this morning,” Gillian said.
“I’m feeling very positive today,” Rose replied, “because we have a plan, and I’ve spoken with my friends, and because I’m so grateful to you both.”
Chris and Gillian smiled. “And we’re grateful to you, Rose,” Chris said. “The amulet is amazing. What an extraordinary gift. Only it’s a shame we totally destroy our surroundings whenever we touch.”
“Yes, it’s a problem,” Rose said with a grin, “but I have some ideas.”
“First things first. Today, we have defilers to punish,” Chris said. “The Mortsafemen ride again!”
“Better get out of your jammies first,” Gillian said.
* * * *
There’d been a marked change in the weather. The first clear day in weeks, every door and window had been opened to allow a brisk drying wind to blow through the theater and carry away the worst of the sewer smell. In spite of yesterday’s screwup on Logger Point Road, Gilbert was feeling energized. Probably something about having a plan. Even Dolli’s outburst at the news they had some guy’s corpse in the van hadn’t dimmed Gilbert’s optimism. He’d had to restrain Dolli, the idiot yazzy bitch. She’d actually threatened him, said she’d had enough, and no way was she gonna get mixed up in a murder, even mentioned notifying the cops. Later, when he had time, he’d teach her a real lesson; meantime, a couple of hours, naked, in the van, tied to old man Ferguson’s corpse, was going to have to suffice. Blood and Sweat had been happy to help.
Gilbert was all smiles as he walked to center stage. His performers were seated in the first two rows of the theater.
“I know some of you have had your doubts about this enterprise, but from where I’m standing, things are falling into place nicely.” People shuffled uncomfortably in their seats, glanced at each other, and in the case of Emelia and Lassa, even rolled their eyes at one another. Gilbert waved his arms. “It’s like there’s a new wind blowing.”
“Thank God,” someone muttered, and the cast giggled. Gilbert ignored the interruption and ran through what he considered the many recent positives: the toilets were now working; new carpet for the lobby was arriving in a couple of days; Gilbert was confident he’d have a solution to their money woes within a matter of hours; they finally had a full cast for their first production; and best of all, ticket sales had now reached three hundred. That news did elicit a smattering of applause from the cast.
“Two more pieces of information. First, about our Mayor.” The performers all turned in their seats to glance at the Mayor sitting midway back on the aisle. Paget looked like he’d just swallowed a large bug. “Our Mayor has agreed to attend this special run-through today to give us his assessment of our progress. I’m sure he will be...moved...by our work. And second, about the lights and camera. Blood and Sweat will be filming today’s rehearsal so we can use some of the footage for the TV ads we plan to broadcast across Vermont next weekend. In conclusion, I believe when we finish this morning’s run-through, you’re gonna know we’re on the verge of something amazing. And I’m confident, when the word gets out, audiences will come flooding in. So, we’re gonna let today’s performance run without interruption. Blow a line? Keep going. Special effect not work? Keep going. So, positions everybody. Blood, Sweat, whenever you’re ready.”
The house lights went down. The stage went dark, and to the music of Love like Blood by Killing Joke, the lights came up on Rottingwood Asylum.
To everyone’s amazement, the run-through went...not horribly. Gilbert as leader of the patients was outrageously camp. Emelia, as the mad inventor who creates all the instruments of torture in the asylum, was downright terrifying. Manfred Arimanes screamed the house down as his brains were torn out, and Lassa Tetana, as the nurse who taunted the patients with her short skirts and tight bodice, had a major costume malfunction which had everyone calling for encores. Caspar, the last-minute casting choice for the Asylum doctor who must choose one of his children to live and the other to die, brought people to tears with his wildly emotional performance. The rest of the cast, playing inmates, were suitably shocking with their drooling and fondling and gesticulating. And finally, Jackie Cormier, known to her cast mates as Ebony Nightshade, screamed so convincingly when the door of the iron maiden slammed shut on her, everyone broke character and ran to pry the door open to see if she’d survived. When they discovered Jackie safely concealed behind the curtain giggling like a naughty child, they roared with laughter.
&
nbsp; All in all, most performances were acceptable, in spite of the many blown lines and missed cues. Lighting was passable and the special effects came off surprisingly well. The fog machine worked; the creaking doors sounded great; the electroshock machine sent sparks in all directions, and the one small fire it ignited was extinguished quickly; and during the operation on the doctor’s skull, the blood flowed like a river. Everyone agreed, however, the iron maiden effect surpassed all expectations.
“And your assessment, Mr. Mayor?” Gilbert called out from the stage.
“Well, I liked the naked boob stuff. You should keep that in.”
“Nothing else?” If Gilbert had had something nearby, say an ax or a knife, he’d have thrown it at the Mayor without hesitation.
“The rest was okay. Sick. Really sick. But the ending was good. Whole lotta stuff still to fix though.”
“Yes, of course.”
Why do people think they have to say something so goddamn obvious? Did they really believe they were being helpful saying crap like, “You’ve still got things to fix?” It was like saying, ‘You’ve still got to breathe.’ Goddamn idiots!
“But I guess you’ve got two weeks...so if you can take care of the shit you’ve screwed up, you might be able to open this place on time.”
“Yes, we will.” He stared at the fat slug sprawled in his seat, still ogling Lassa Tetana. “Oh, Mr. Mayor, I have a terrific idea. Perhaps you could help us with our television ad?”
* * * *
Loud and angry banging on the back door startled Gillian. She’d been tidying up the kitchen while Chris dressed and Rose gathered a few things from the cellar. Gillian edged toward the door and called out, “Who is it?
“I’m looking for Jackie Cormier? Is she here?”