Face of Evil

by George Morris De'Ath

  “Is the warden around?” Lydia asks, her eyes flicking to the end of the corridor.

  “Oh,” Gretchen rolls her eyes, “he’s preparing his speech for the Christmas party tomorrow night. It’s kind of a tradition.”

  “Sounds nice,” Lydia replies, her stomach churning at the thought of the monstrous Shade delivering a festive speech to people blissfully unaware of his true evil.

  “It’s thoroughly depressing actually,” says Gretchen, a smile playing about the corners of her mouth. Lydia laughs. “You could come, if you like?”

  “I’m not really a party girl.” Lydia remembers brief flashes of her wonderful night dancing with Alex, and once again feels a pang of some emotion she can’t place.

  “Shame,” says Gretchen. “Although to be honest I might not make it either.”

  “Why not?”

  “Once I’ve fed the kids and put them to bed, I can’t usually be bothered to do anything but collapse in front of the TV,” Gretchen replies, yawning. “They’re exhausting. But I wouldn’t have it any other way.” Her face lights up, and Lydia feels a pang of jealousy. Has she ever experienced anything that made her so happy? “Do you have kids? I never asked…”

  “God, no.” Lydia snorts with laughter. “Oh no, I wouldn’t be any good at that. I’m not exactly mother material.”

  “You might surprise yourself,” Gretchen offers with a smile Lydia finds a little too knowing. “I didn’t think I was the motherly type either until I had mine.”

  “I guess…” says Lydia, doubtfully.

  “Though I admit sometimes it feels like an uphill struggle.”

  “Why’s that?” asks Lydia.

  “Michael’s autistic,” says Gretchen, matter-of-factly. “Sometimes it takes a little more effort to do the simple things. And then you’ve got teachers calling for help because they’ve never met a kid like him and they don’t know what to do.” She laughs, a little hollow this time.

  “I’m sure he’ll be fine,” says Lydia. “I was.”

  “You?” Gretchen asks, frowning. “Huh?”

  “I have dyscalculia,” says Lydia. “Couldn’t put two and two together when I was ten years old. My teachers said I was stupid. Drove my parents mad. But did it hold me back? No.”

  “I suppose it can be hard to see the big picture while it’s still being painted,” says Gretchen, thoughtfully. “Kids are under so much stress these days.”

  “These days?”

  “Sorry,” says Gretchen quickly, “I didn’t mean that you weren’t, I was just thinking of my two. But you’re right,” she smiles, “you’ve certainly done very well for yourself.”

  “Miss Tune?” A surly guard pokes his head out of a nearby door. “He’ll be ready in a few minutes.”

  “Thank you,” Lydia replies.

  “Seeing Jason again?” asks Gretchen. She’s trying to sound casual, but Lydia picks up on the note of surprise in her voice.

  “Yes,” Lydia replies absently. “He has a promise to keep.”

  Gretchen eyes her warily. “Anything I should know about?”

  “Oh,” says Lydia, snapping back into the moment. “No, nothing important. I’ll fill you in when I’m done. Does he know about his mother yet?”

  “Yeah,” Gretchen frowns, “the doctor called this morning. How did you know?”

  “Hmm?” Lydia remembers that she’s not supposed to know, and her mind races to find a cover.

  “About Jason’s mother.”

  “Oh,” says Lydia, as airily as she can manage, “the hospital called me too, about an hour ago. I was supposed to go and visit her today, so, they just wanted to let me know not to bother I guess.”

  “Alright…” says Gretchen, now looking and sounding flat-out suspicious. “Well I’ll let you go then.”

  “Thanks. And hey, don’t forget to tell your little boy about me. Tell him he can be anything he wants to be.”

  “I will,” Gretchen replies. “See you then.” She turns and heads to the end of the corridor, before making a right turn and disappearing out of sight.

  Lydia watches her go, and then turns back to the window. The large, pale disc behind the clouds hangs low in the sky now, and the scene seems to darken by the second. The shadows of the tall, spidery trees that line the road to Mortem race across the ground towards her. Again, Lydia feels a peculiar rush of cold and looks around. The corridor is empty, but significantly darker than it was a moment ago, shadows shifting in corners high and low.

  “Gretchen?”

  Her voice echoes into the empty darkness, which seems to creep towards her. Lydia takes a step back and bumps into the window. Turning her head to look out, she thinks she sees a figure racing from the trees towards the building, not fully formed, more like a dense, misty outline of a person moving quickly with awkward, jerky movements. She blinks, and it’s gone.

  “Lydia…”

  Lydia feels a cold burst of air in her ear and spins around. There’s something at the end of the corridor, but she can’t see it clearly. A pale shape against the shadow.

  “Miss Tune?” The guard appears in the doorway again.

  “Yes?” Lydia jumps, her heart racing.

  “Are you alright?” He looks her up and down with concern.

  “Yes…” Lydia takes a deep breath. Get a grip, she scolds herself. You’re tired. It’s all in your head.

  “He’s ready.”

  But as she follows the guard to Jason’s cell, she looks around again for the figure in the darkness, not knowing what might be looking back at her.

  Thirty-Two

  A Deal with the Devil

  Fragile rays of evening sun spill through the bars high above, dust shimmering like gold in the pure light, particles of long-dead patients, doctors, visitors and victims. Amidst this ethereal cloud of memories, two towering figures, two juggernauts face off for one last time. The game has gone on long enough.

  “You knew.” Jason’s voice sounds hollow.

  “It wasn’t my place to tell you, Jason,” Lydia replies. She’s standing a few feet away, out of reach.

  “Bullshit!” he roars.

  “There are procedures,” Lydia says calmly. “Your doctor has to be the one to—”

  “What else do you know?” Jason’s fingers glow white, clutched around the thick steel bars of his cage. “What else aren’t you telling me?”

  “Nothing,” Lydia replies, looking him right in the eye. “I promise.”

  “You promise…” Jason spits, bitterly.

  “She seemed like a nice lady,” says Lydia genuinely. “I’m… I’m sorry.”

  “You will be,” he growls, wolf eyes boring into her.

  “This doesn’t change anything, Jason,” she says, ignoring the threat. “The reasons why you want to tell your side of the story are just as valid today as they were yesterday.” She takes a step towards him. “You can make this right.”

  “No,” he says, looking away, voice heavy with grief. “It’s too late for that.”

  “It’s what she would have wanted…”

  “Don’t you dare!” Jason roars, wrenching the cell bars so hard that the whole thing trembles. “Don’t tell me what my mother would have wanted. You didn’t know her.”

  “You’re right.” Lydia says gently. Ease off. Give him some space. “So what do you want to do?”

  Jason releases the bars and shambles to the back of his cage, half hidden in shadow. “I’ll do it,” he says finally.

  “That’s…” Lydia begins.

  “If you do something for me,” he says over the top of her.

  “What is it that you want?” Lydia asks, opening her palms towards him.

  “Come back tomorrow,” he says in a soft growl, idling towards her. “I’ll tell you then. And I’ll tell you the truth. Everything.”

  “Why not now?” Lydia asks, unable to conceal her impatience.

  “I need time to prepare,” Jason replies. Lydia thinks she can see the flicker of a smile
playing around the corners of his lips, but it might be the fading light playing tricks on her.

  “Prepare what, exactly?”

  “You’ll see.” He walks to his bed and sinks down onto the edge.

  “I thought we weren’t playing games anymore, Jason?” Lydia chides, sounding like a disappointed teacher.

  “Oh? Then perhaps you can tell me how my mother died?”

  “They said it was heart failure.”

  “Okay,” he says in an artificially bright voice. “See you tomorrow.”

  Lydia feels a wave of panic rising within her. He knows. How? What else does he know? Why won’t he tell? Is the person who killed Evelyn the same person who attacked me? Will they try again? Is that why he needs more time? “Jason, I—”

  “Tomorrow,” says Jason, firmly.

  Lydia blinks. Suddenly she feels alone, and small, and powerless. “Alright,” she concedes. “Tomorrow.” She turns to go.

  “Oh and Lydia,” Jason calls out after her.

  “Yes?”

  “No guards. No cameras. Just you and me.”

  “That might be difficult,” says Lydia. She knows this isn’t true, but doesn’t want to give any more ground. The balance of power is shifting, and not to her advantage.

  “You’ll find a way,” says Jason, reclining on his bed, his back towards her. “If you want the truth.”

  “Why should I trust you?” Lydia asks.

  “What choice do you have?”

  Lydia can’t see Jason’s face. She can’t read the emotion in his voice. He knows something she doesn’t, and it’s causing her more than just frustration. She’s uncertain, and afraid. Ice grips her heart, and without another word she turns and heads for the door. Far from being over, the game is suddenly spiralling out of control, and she is losing.

  Thirty-Three

  Transference

  The skunk-like miasma of Mortem fills Lydia’s nostrils, seeps through her skin, eyes, ears, clings to her clothes and suffocates her as she navigates its dark corridors. She needs to get out, to get air, to reach safety and reassess her options. Figure out a new plan. When she walked in here, a flame of confidence deep in her heart had shielded her from the lingering evil of the place. Kept it at bay. Now the flame is flickering, fading, dying, and the shifting figures at the corner of her vision stalk her every step, waiting for their opportunity to pounce.

  “Did he bite?”

  Lydia jumps as Gretchen’s voice drifts out from her office. “What?” she asks, stepping into the doorway.

  “Jason,” says Gretchen, looking up from a pile of work. “How did it go?”

  “Oh, fine,” Lydia lies.

  Gretchen peers at her over the top of her thick, black spectacles, red hair spilling off her shoulder and onto the desk. She sweeps it back and tucks it behind her ear with a practised motion. “I bet,” she replies, coolly.

  Lydia frowns. “Is something wrong, Gretchen?”

  “Of course not,” says Gretchen. “I just…”

  Suddenly a terrible, blood-curdling scream pierces the air from somewhere below, causing both women to jump, eyes wide.

  “What was that?” Lydia asks, voice trembling.

  “The intensive patients…” Gretchen whispers, her face frozen. She bolts out of her chair and almost knocks Lydia to the ground as she sprints out into the corridor.

  “Wait!” Lydia calls after her, but Gretchen isn’t stopping. Lydia hesitates, torn between the desire to find out what’s going on, and the desire to get the hell out of there. Curiosity gets the better of her, and she chases after Gretchen.

  A maze of dark, haunted corridors leads finally to a small, enclosed outdoor area, and then the cold, grey concrete of the intensive patient block. Lydia feels her stomach churn as they enter. This place wasn’t part of the tour when she first arrived, and now she sees why. Cramped and freezing, tiny windowless cells with concrete beds, no toilets, no nothing. Lamps that emit a mocking orange glow but no heat.

  In the midst of this desperate setting, overall-clad guards are stabbing prisoners with tranquilizer-filled syringes and strapping them to stretchers. Four prisoners, two men, two women, all grotesque and evil in their own special ways. Like the four horsemen of the apocalypse. Lydia recognises their faces from the stack of case files she reviewed when she first arrived at the asylum. Henry, short and stocky. Waylon, large and muscular. Holly, slim, busy, beautiful. Hillary with her wild mane of hair. Murderers all.

  “Take them away!” barks a voice as its owner emerges from one of the now-empty cells.

  “Warden!” Gretchen exclaims, running up to him. “What’s going on?!”

  “Progress, Doctor Engel,” barks Shade, thumbs tucked into his waistband, looking very pleased with himself.

  “What do you mean?” Lydia asks.

  “We’ve helped these patients as much as we are able,” the warden replies, “now they’re moving on to receive more…” a nasty smile creeps across his face, “specialist care.”

  “These are my patients.” Gretchen protests. “You can’t just take them away without my consent.”

  “On the contrary, doctor,” Shade’s black eyes glint with malice, “their transfer has been approved by the highest authority. I couldn’t prevent it if I wanted to.” He eyes the four limp, drooling figures with disgust. “Not that I do want to.”

  “Who?” Gretchen asks, desperately. “Who ordered this?”

  “Government officials,” Shade growls, “that’s all you need to know, and all I am going to disclose. Now, why don’t you be a good girl and get back to work?”

  “You can’t speak to her like that,” Lydia bursts out, horrified. Warden Shade rounds on her.

  “I hardly think you are in a position to be giving orders, Miss Tune,” he glowers, menacingly. “Perhaps you have already forgotten our little chat, hmm?” He leans towards her and whispers darkly. “Perhaps you need a little reminder?”

  Lydia takes a step back and looks to Gretchen, who is frowning at her with confusion and fear.

  “Good,” Shade booms, interpreting her silence as submission. “I already have quite enough on my plate to deal with. Although,” he grins nastily, “it will certainly be easier managing the reputation of this place without these four degenerates.” He looks at Lydia again. “Wouldn’t you agree, Miss Tune?”

  “Where are they being taken to?” Gretchen interjects as the burly guards start carrying the loaded stretchers out of the cell block.

  “Classified,” replies the warden, pointedly.

  “That’s not right,” Gretchen protests. “I need to speak to their new doctor, pass on my notes at least.”

  “I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” says Shade, smoothly. “But don’t worry, doctor, you won’t get in trouble. Everything has been taken care of.”

  He turns and follows the last patient carried out, leaving Lydia and Gretchen alone in the empty prison, staring at each other in fearful, disbelieving silence.

  Thirty-Four

  Only You

  “Hello?” A chirpy, cheerful voice answers on the thin, crackling phone line and Lydia seizes upon it like a comfort blanket.

  “Donna?”

  “Lydia! Darling!” The agent’s voice is dripping in honey. “How is it going down there? Are you almost done?”

  “Yes,” Lydia replies, smiling with relief like she genuinely believes it. “I’ve made a deal with the killer to reveal all of his secrets to me tomorrow.”

  “Oh, well done, darling,” says Donna enthusiastically, like a parent praising their precocious toddler. “Well, get it wrapped up and you can be back in New York in time for the holidays.”

  “Yes…” Lydia sinks onto her soft bed, enjoying the thought of being home so much that she is even prepared to forget her hatred of all things Christmas for the sake of enjoying the moment.

  “Is something wrong, dear?” Donna asks, picking up on the uncertainty in Lydia’s voice.

  “No, no,” Lydia
replies quickly. Donna doesn’t need to know about the teacher. She doesn’t need to know that her most valuable client is caught up in a deadly game she does not yet fully understand. Lydia peers out of the window, where heavy snow is falling gently through the black night. “It’s just… him—”

  “Him?” asks Donna, confused. “Him who, dear?”

  “Jason,” Lydia replies. Just saying his name causes her to feel an incongruous uncertainty, as though something is wrong with the world, as though a colder, darker alternate reality is grinding violently against the warm, comforting one she inhabits in this moment.

  “Who’s Jason?”

  “The Krimson Killer,” says Lydia in disbelief. “The guy I’m writing this book about.”

  “Of course,” Donna replies, “serial killer, crazy, I knew that.”

  “Honestly, Donna,” says Lydia, exasperated, “do you care about my books at all? Or just the royalties?”

  “Oh, darling,” Donna replies, sounding grievously wounded. “How could you? Of course I care.” There is a brief silence. “So, do you have plans for the holidays?”

  “I plan to do nothing,” says Lydia.

  “Nothing?” asks Donna, dramatically.

  “I’m not really the Christmassy type,” says Lydia. “I’ll probably do what I do every year. A warm fire, a good book and a dry martini.”

  “Sounds good to me,” Donna laughs. “Well listen, I have a meeting, but let me know how it goes tomorrow, okay?”

  “Will do,” says Lydia. “Thanks.”

  “See you soon, darling!”

  The phone rings off, and Lydia lets it drop out of her hand as she falls back onto the bed. What now? She turns her head and catches sight of a hotel brochure propped up on the bedside table. Oooh, she thinks, they have a spa. That sounds good…

  *

  An hour later Lydia finds herself in heaven, lying face-down amidst a sea of warm, flickering candles releasing their soothing fragrance. Strong yet soft hands massaging slippery oil into her back, gently easing her worries away. Maybe upgrading hotels wasn’t such a bad thing after all. She lets go, surrenders to the hormones triggering in her brain, delicious explosions of pleasure breaking down the dams of stress and tension. She smiles a wide, satisfied, genuine smile, and her thoughts begin to drift to later in the evening. She has arranged to see Alex again, and wonders what he might have in store for her. Dinner? Dancing? Their last night out had awakened something within her that she had not felt in a long time. Ever since she was a teenager, she had viewed men as threats and/or useful resources. That’s what Alex was too, at first. She liked him, but she didn’t feel for him. Now the thumping in her chest and warmth in her skin as she thinks about him tells a different story. She wonders if the masseuse can feel it, and her cheeks glow pink with mingled shame and pleasure.