Face of Evil

by George Morris De'Ath

  “Alex, what’s going on?”

  “Please,” the line crackles. “Just come.”

  “Alright.” She hangs up.

  “What’s going on?” asks Gretchen.

  “I don’t know.” Lydia lifts her leather jacket off the back of her chair and pulls it on. “He wants me to come to the museum.”

  “Of modern art?” Gretchen looks as confused as Lydia feels.

  “Yeah, we were there today and…” She frowns. “I don’t know, I guess something happened. I’m sorry to dash off like this.”

  “No, it’s fine.” Gretchen gets up and walks her to the door. “I hope everything’s okay.”

  “I’m sure it is.” Lydia pauses on the threshold. “I mean, why else would a man I’ve barely seen in twenty years demand that I meet him at a creepy museum in the middle of the night?”

  “You know what men are like,” Gretchen replies, casually. “Maybe it’s some ill-conceived romantic gesture.”

  “Maybe.” Lydia considers the proposition. “You know,” she eyes Gretchen suspiciously, “for a woman who does what you do, you have a remarkable talent for optimism.”

  “I know. It’s my best quality.” Gretchen beams, and once again, for just a second, she looks ten years younger. “Take care, and thanks for the ride.”

  Lydia’s thoughts have already turned to Alex before she reaches her car, running through various scenarios that might lead him to summon her to the museum in the middle of the night, each more unlikely than the last. But amidst her worry and confusion, she is distantly aware that Gretchen is still standing in the doorway watching her even as the red sports car pulls into the street and, with a low growl, accelerates off into the winter night.

  Eighteen

  An Artistic Endeavour

  The pulse of eerie blue light in the atmosphere gives Lydia advance warning of the police presence long before she arrives, but the size of it still gives her an unpleasant shock. Five cars and two vans are blocking the street and at least a dozen officers, some ushering a crowd of curious bystanders away but most just standing around. As her Mustang crawls towards the barricade, one of them, a young man with neat blond hair, approaches her window.

  “Have to take the long way around.” He gestures back the way she’s come from and then off to the left.

  “I’m here to see Detective Gilbey,” Lydia replies. “I’m Lydia Tune.”

  “Who?” The officer frowns.

  “Lydia Tune.” Lydia feels her cheeks warm with embarrassment. “I’m a writer.”

  “No press allowed right now.” Again, he points back down the road.

  “He’s expecting me.”

  The young officer crouches and peers at her, then reaches for a radio on his belt. “Sarge, you got the detective with you?”

  Silence, then the radio hisses. “Yeah.”

  “There’s a woman here says he’s expecting her.”

  “Tell her to meet him at the Motel 6 like the rest of ’em.”

  The officer smirks, his eyes travelling down Lydia’s front, and she has to bite back the urge to snap at him. The radio hisses again, but this time the voice coming from it is Alex’s. “Let her in.”

  “Copy that,” the officer replies, still smirking. “Go ahead.” He jerks his thumb towards the entrance and walks away. As Lydia parks, she sees him rejoin his group, who all laugh and look over at her. She mutters a curse under her breath, gets out of the car, pulls her leather jacket tight around her and heads for the entrance, ducking underneath hastily erected black and yellow crime scene tape.

  Inside, the building has a very different atmosphere than earlier in the day. Lit only by dim emergency lights, the rooms feel smaller, the ceilings lower. Large, boxy stands and cases cast dark shadows, and paintings that were bright and colourful look drained and melancholy. Where is everybody? Where am I supposed to go?

  Following the same path that she and Alex took through the exhibits, she catches the swinging beam of a flashlight and hears low voices through a doorway ahead. The blood room. Lydia’s heart beats faster as she moves towards it, then explodes in a frenzy when she sees what lies beyond.

  In the middle of the room, faced by all three giant paintings that remind Lydia of gushing wounds, a new display has been erected. Atop a cylindrical plinth, a grotesque creature posed in a crouched position. Its body is human; loose, greying skin hanging and folding, pierced all over with giant, plucked feathers. Arms outstretched like sick parodies of wings. And where a human head used to be, the head of a golden eagle skewered onto the top of the spine, beak wide open, black eyes bulging.

  Lydia retches violently, her legs giving way beneath her, and a strong hand catches her arm as she begins to fall.

  “I got you.”

  Before she knows what is happening, Alex’s arms are around her. She closes her eyes and breathes deeply. “I’m okay.” He releases his grip, and she looks around at him. “Who…” She can’t bring herself to finish the question, or look around again at the mutilated body.

  Alex looks at her for a long moment, as if trying to decide how to answer. Then his eyes move up and to the left, and he jerks his head slightly. Lydia looks, a sucking void in the pit of her stomach.

  Above the door she came in through, a human head has been mounted like a trophy, its eyes and mouth wide mirroring the expression of the bird. Lydia recognises it at once as Dorothy Eagle.

  “She’s—” she begins.

  “Devere’s old teacher,” Alex finishes. “I know.”

  “I met her.” The sight of the old woman’s gaping face causes cold waves of horror to crash over Lydia, but she can’t tear her eyes away from it. “Three days ago.”

  “Yeah, we’re gonna need to talk about that.” Alex puts a hand on her shoulder to bring her attention back to him. “On the record, you understand?”

  Lydia blinks at him. “Of course. Now?”

  “If you’re up to it. The quicker we can gather information, the better our chances of catching whoever did this before they strike again.”

  “Again?” Lydia’s eyes dart involuntarily to the half-human, half-bird monstrosity, crouched in a pool of congealing blood.

  “I’m sure it’s a copycat.” Alex follows her gaze, a grim look on his face. “Some sick freak picking up where Devere left off. Happens more than you’d think, idiots trying to glorify killers as if they’re celebrities or something. Like they have a fan base!”

  A thought occurs to Lydia that makes her already-chilled blood freeze. “Why her?” she asks, looking at Alex, her eyes wide. “Why now? Do you think they know that I…”

  “I don’t know.” He shakes his head. “But you’re not going anywhere without a police escort for a while.”

  “Alex.” Even in these circumstances, Lydia bucks at the notion of having to be protected. “That’s not—”

  “Negotiable. So get used to the idea.”

  “I’m not some damsel in distress you have to save, Alex!”

  “I know you’re not. You’re about one of the only few people I actually do consider my equal.”

  Lydia’s jaw tenses. “I can handle myself.”

  “I know you can!” Alex states, gripping her by the shoulders now. “But, I just don’t want you to have to be put in that sort of situation, any situation.” Lydia notes the sincerity in his tone as he gazes away, letting her go. “I’ll have a couple of officers take you back to the station and then, when we’re done, to a hotel. A different one.”

  “But—”

  “I’ll have someone fetch your things. You can’t go back there. If whoever did this has been watching you…” He doesn’t finish the thought. He doesn’t have to. Lydia remembers her dream, being bound to that table, the glinting steel blade rushing towards her eyes.

  “Alright.” She looks down at the floor, visions of this poor woman’s final moments flashing through her brain at lightning speed, like an old projector.

  A stocky, grey-haired officer enters the ro
om and approaches them, unnerved eyes fixed upon the grim spectacle, and murmurs in Alex’s ear. “Forensics here.”

  “Okay,” Alex replies, then as the man starts to walk away, “oh hey, Jack, can you take Lydia back to the station and get her some coffee? I’ll be along soon.”

  “You bet.” He puts a large, gentle hand on Lydia’s arm and gestures towards the door with the other.

  “Soon?” Lydia looks back towards Alex as she lets the officer guide her towards the exit.

  “You’re going to be alright,” he says, summoning a forced smile. “I promise.”

  The hollow words echo inside Lydia’s head as she turns and leaves the room, spilling out into the dim, cavernous halls of the museum as she passes through, fading, dispersing, until finally escaping like smoke into the black night.

  Nineteen

  An Early Christmas Gift

  It’s still dark when Lydia emerges from the police station next morning, but a deep grey dark rather than pitch black. Dawn approaches. The young officer with blond hair follows her out, swinging a set of keys in his hand.

  “Four Seasons, miss?” He tips an imaginary hat as he opens the rear door of the police car. Is he still mocking me?

  “I have to go somewhere else first.”

  He frowns. “The detective said—”

  “I heard what he said. We’ll go to the hotel, but I need to check on a friend of mine first.”

  “Who?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way.” She climbs into the back seat, and the young man mouths a silent curse before closing the door after her.

  *

  The roads are quiet as they head north out of the city. High-rise blocks become terraces, terraces become detached houses and bungalows, all sprinkled with the colourful trappings of the season. Gaudy never sleeps. On Lydia’s instruction, the car bears right and then along a winding road lined with wrought-iron gates and homes set back out of sight. “Here,” she says, leaning forward and pointing to an entrance ahead and to the left.

  The gravel of the driveway crunches under the tyres, then under Lydia’s feet as she pushes open the door and steps out even before the car has come to a complete stop. “Hey,” the officer calls after her, “hang on.” But she’s already hopping up the rotten, wooden steps to Cecil Sprinkler’s front door. She knocks with bony knuckles, and presses the bell firmly with a crimson-clawed finger.

  “Cecil?” Lydia calls towards the nearest window.

  “He’s probably asleep,” says the officer in a weary voice, catching up with her. His eyes are sleepy, his movements sluggish. Thanks for the bodyguard, Alex, she thinks, rolling her eyes.

  “Cecil!” Lydia shouts louder this time, hammering on the door again.

  “Steady.” The officer makes a grab for her hand, but Lydia whips it away in time. “You’ll wake the whole street.”

  “I don’t care. We’re not leaving until I see him, so either help or get out of my way.”

  The young man looks annoyed, but seems to decide that arguing will only keep him from his bed longer, because he sighs and then calls out, “Mr. Sprinkler? Are you there? It’s Decanten PD.”

  “Cecil!” Lydia stabs at the doorbell again once, twice, three times.

  “Maybe he’s not home.”

  “This man hasn’t left his house in years,” Lydia mutters, leaning to the window on the other side of the door and rapping on it hard.

  “What’s so urgent anyway? Does he know something about what’s happened?”

  Lydia doesn’t reply. She doesn’t want to voice her fears out loud, that would only make them more real. Instead she crouches down by the door and fishes the slim, metal lockpick from her purse.

  “What the hell are you doing?” The officer stares in disbelief as she jams the instrument into the lock and manoeuvres it just-so. “You wanna go back to the station in cuffs?”

  “I’m sure you’ve let worse slide.”

  “Well, yeah,” he admits, “but usually I get something out of it.”

  “I’ll buy you an ice cream.” The lock clicks and Lydia wrenches the handle, darting inside before the young man can try to stop her. She heads down the hall into the living room, eyes peeled for any sign of trouble, anything that looks out of place. But everything from the books on the floor to the photographs on the shelves seems to still be covered by that thick layer of dust. She opens the study door and looks inside. No sign of life. No sign of a struggle.

  “I swear if you steal anything, I’m bringing you in,” says the officer, hot on her heels. Lydia turns and brushes past him on her way back to the hall. She looks up the stairs to the dark landing above and steels herself. Every one creaks loudly, as she knew they would, but she takes them quickly and in a moment is on a narrow landing with three doors off it.

  She tries the first, a small bathroom with olive green fixtures. Clean, but musty-smelling. Ancient soaps wrapped in a dish on the sink. Lydia backs out and opens the second door into a room with two slim, single beds covered in boxes full of clutter. This must be the spare room. Lydia scans it for anything odd before retreating and moving to the third room.

  She takes a deep breath before pushing open the door, and a shock of fear rips up her spine. The silence is oppressive, gnawing at her nerves. She steps forward into the room, fumbling for the light switch as she does so. It clicks, and for a second the warm yellow light is blinding. Then as her eyes adjust, she sees a neat, perfectly made bed with a folded green towel on top and a pair of slippers on the floor next to it. On the bedside table sits an old carriage clock, its hands unmoving, alongside a photograph of Cecil and his wife, again thick with the dust. Lydia stretches out a hand to pick it up, when a loud noise makes her scream and spin around.

  On the window ledge, a Christmas ornament, a snow globe on a stand about the size of a cantaloupe, is lit up and playing music, rotating slowly as it does so. Lydia’s eyes dart around the room, to the door, and then back to the globe. White Christmas, she thinks, the object’s hollow, metallic chimes barely recognisable as the warm, comforting tune that she knows.

  “What’s going on up there?” the officer calls up the stairs. Lydia doesn’t answer. She can’t find her voice. Instead she inches closer to the ornament, staring at it, the hair on the back of her neck prickling. Inside the glass sphere is a house made of red brick, with a pointed roof and tall, arched windows like eyes.

  A creak on the landing sends a fresh chill rippling across Lydia’s skin, but she can’t tear her eyes away from the house. “What did you find?” The young officer steps into the room behind her. “Is he here? What’s that?” Lydia reaches out and picks up the ornament. It’s warm to the touch. “What did I say about stealing?” He moves to her shoulder. “Go on then, give it a shake.”

  Every fibre of Lydia’s being is screaming at her not to, but her hands seem to be acting of their own free will. As though in slow motion, they tip the globe back and then jerk it sharply upright again. Instead of snow, thick, blood-red clouds engulf the tiny house, spreading quickly to fill the glass sphere as the eerie music scrapes out of tune, then grinds to a halt.

  Twenty

  Against the World

  “I want to go to Mortem.” Lydia leans forward between the front seats of the police car, trying not to look at the blood-filled globe lying on the passenger seat.

  “I’m taking you to the hotel,” the young officer replies. He looks shaken.

  “I need to talk to—”

  “I have orders to put you in your hotel room and that’s what I’m going to do.” He puts his foot down and the car accelerates smoothly along the downtown street. The traffic is picking up now as people start to head out to work.

  “Take me to my car then, I’ll drive myself.”

  “Did you hear what I said?” He glances at her with a fed-up expression.

  “I’ll just get a cab then.” Lydia falls back onto the seat, arms folded.

  “They won’t let you into that place today anyway, it�
��s on lockdown.” He turns down the main street.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean the detective’s going there to see Devere, and nobody else will be getting in until he says so.”

  Lydia pulls her phone from her bag and dials Alex’s number. It goes straight to voicemail. She remembers the thick, stone walls and heavy steel doors of Mortem. If he’s already in there, she won’t be able to reach him. Fuck.

  The car pulls over in front of the Four Seasons, a decadent hotel clad in gold and marble, and Lydia throws open the door.

  “Don’t try running,” the officer calls, unfastening his seatbelt, “I’m really not in the mood.” He tries leading her by the arm, but Lydia shakes him off with a glare. “Fine, follow me then.”

  Inside, two more officers are waiting for them; the older man Lydia recognises from the museum, and a squat young woman with short hair she doesn’t know. “Miss Tune,” her bodyguard announces, “this is Officer Zeiss and Officer Ramirez; they’ll do their best to keep you alive while you’re here. You can help them by staying in your room and not going off playing detective anymore. We’ve got real detectives for that.” He exchanges smirks with his colleagues.

  “Room 212.” The female officer hands Lydia a key attached to a heavy block of wood about the size of a candy bar. “We’ll be right outside, so if you need anything just ask.”

  “Am I under arrest?”

  “Think of it as protective custody.” The officer smiles. Lydia rolls her eyes and heads for the elevator.

  *

  The bed in Lydia’s room is vast and soft, and sinks invitingly when she falls onto it, but her brain is far too busy for sleep. So much has happened in the last twenty-four hours and she feels like the pieces of the puzzle are so close to fitting together if she can only organise her thoughts. She heaves herself up and fetches her suitcase from where the officers have left it near the door, lifting it up and onto the bed and zipping it open. Sitting right there on top of a messy wad of clothes and shoes is her laptop. She carries it to a table by the window, sits down, and opens it up.