The Death Collectors

by J. A. Kerley

  I said, “It would probably make good video for your story about serial killers and collectors. A signature shot.”

  She shivered and handed it back. “Screw the story. Kill the damn thing; build a fire from it.”

  I took a final look at the hideous creation, wondering what horrors passed through Forrier’s mind during the mask’s construction. Did he, building it strip by strip, follow a pattern, his mind seeing the mask before his hands created it? Or was it a random creation, the shape of chance? I set the mask aside and held her, listening to the soft hiss of the low surf. I didn’t think fire an appropriate manner for the mask to die. It seemed born of fire, the mask’s smoke capable of tainting the air.

  “Birth by fire, death by water,” I decided, looking at a sun risen scant degrees above the horizon. “And isn’t sunrise traditional for executions?”

  Danbury ran off to check on various projects at the station. I tucked the mask into a drawstring bag and went beneath my house. I lifted my kayak to my shoulder, and walked to the water’s edge. The morning was gentle, windless, the Gulf almost flat. My plans were to drop the mask into the depths past the sand bars. Dirt had not drowned its ugliness and intensity; perhaps water would.

  I secured the bag to a cleat and paddled out for a quarter mile or so, small waves slapping over the bow. I snapped the paddle into the holder and removed the bag from the cleat. It hit me how little it weighed.

  Idiot.

  I’d brought nothing to weigh the bag down. The papier-mâché would float to shore like a jellyfish. Sighing at my stupidity, I unknotted the line to the kayak’s small mushroom-shaped anchor. I removed the mask from the bag and inserted the anchor. Splashing water had soaked the mask and started to dissolve the ageing flour-and-water glue; strips of fabric and paper flapped loose on its backside, the mask beginning to die. I jammed it back into the bag, counted to three in my mind - un, deux, trois - and dropped it over the side.

  It plummeted, a dark shape consumed by the sea, the death of the final mask of Trey Forrier.

  An odd sense of relief flooded my body, relaxed my shoulders, unknotted my back. I hadn’t kayaked out on the water since before Marie Gilbeaux’s body was found. It felt good to be disconnected from the land again, moving any direction I wished. Setting the shore to my back, I dug the paddles deep. A pair of dolphins broke the water a hundred yards ahead, sleek and black and shining, and I chased after them. Everything clouding my mind dissolved in my wake as I followed the dolphins toward the heart of the Gulf.

  I pursued them for two or three minutes, sweat pouring from my body, salt burning my eyes, muscles screaming with effort. I stroked harder, dug deeper, heard myself grunting with the strain. I shook the sweat from my hair and kept going. The dolphins breached again, farther this time. I gave up, crossing the paddle over my lap and leaning forward, sucking breath. My cupped hands reached into the water, splashing it over my face and chest.

  I sighed and started paddling to land.

  It appeared first as glitter on the water, an optical illusion perhaps, or errant pocket of sea vegetation colored by a climbing sun. Closing on the phenomenon, I saw rainbow patches floating on the surface, flat strips undulating like eels. And then I was in a field of raging color, reds and blues and oranges and golds. I reached down and harvested a strip of brightly painted canvas. It dripped white into the waves, dissolved flour glue.

  Heart pounding, I dove overboard, kicking to the bottom through canvas patches like schooling fish. I followed them to the bag. It lay serenely on the bottom, swatches of color drifting upward from its open mouth. I snatched up the bag, drew it closed, and fought toward the surface. The twenty-pound anchor seemed to have gained another hundred pounds. My lungs screamed as I broke into sunlight, set the bag in the boat, then moved through the water, snatching every strip I could find.

  I paddled home, ran to my house, called the institute. Then I phoned my brother directly and told him I needed to see Trey Forrier. I called Danbury, told her I’d fetch her at the station.

  And to buckle in for a wild ride.

  Chapter 46

  I used the two-hour trip to relate how my brother and I had grown up in a situation where any word or action, no matter how innocent, might trigger my father’s violent, trip-wire temper. We moved through life like blind swimmers in a cottonmouth bayou, afraid in all directions.

  My father’s searing, illogical anger centered on Jeremy, who, from the time he was ten, became our father’s chief target. In later years I came to believe it was because Jeremy bore a close physical resemblance to my father.

  “My God, Carson,” Danbury whispered. “You spent every second walking on eggshells.”

  “It was far worse for Jeremy, every day a nightmare. I think it’s why his senses are so acute, hyper-attuned. He lives in a world where everything’s at maximum volume, a distorting volume. Not just sound, but all senses. Accordingly, his observations and reactions are weighted far differently than ours.”

  We arrived, passed through the guards and gates. Dr Prowse was away, but we were expected. We were escorted to Jeremy’s room by a guard who knew me from previous visits, was aware that Dr Prowse allowed me exceptional latitude in dealing with my brother. The guard poised his fingers over the electronic lock. “The same procedure as usual, Detective Ryder, keep the door shut while you’re in there?”

  “Yes. Though I’ll be out to retrieve this.” I set a rolled-up white beach towel beside the door and stepped aside as the guard keyed in the lock code. Danbury’s hand wrapped mine.

  “Are you worried?” I asked.

  “A little. I don’t know what to expect.”

  “I never do either. Just don’t tell him you’re a reporter. He hates them.”

  “Why?”

  “He saw his crimes as a personal mission, a holy vendetta. He’s never forgiven the media for referring to him as a murderous psychopath, what he perceives as a misreading of his intentions. Like I said, his perceptions are skewed, often mirror-images of reality.”

  The door opened, soundless on its heavy hinges. Jeremy was framed in the doorway, five steps away, staring through cool blue eyes.

  “Hello, Jeremy,” I said, crossing the threshold. “I’d like you to meet a good friend of mine, DeeDee Danbury.”

  Jeremy grabbed my arm and pulled me across the room, hissing in my ear. “DeeDee? What the fuck’s a DeeDee? Who is this bitch? Where’s AVA? Where’s my sweet little nightingale?”

  Though he despised her gender, my brother convinced himself of a bond with Ava based on her being a pathologist: that her hands moved inside the dead had elevated her in Jeremy’s eyes.

  “Ava’s in Fort Wayne, Jeremy. You know that. Skip the bullshit.”

  He scowled and mock-whispered in my ear, loud enough for Danbury to hear. “What kind of work does Lady PeePee perform? Does it involve long hours on her knees?”

  “I’ve got no time for games, Jeremy. Have Trey Forrier stop by for a visit.”

  Jeremy turned to Danbury. “He brings all his whores here, you know. He fucks them in front of me. They go at it on the floor like goats. It takes a janitor two hours to mop up all the juice.”

  “Can it, Jeremy. I need Forrier. Now.”

  Jeremy crossed his arms, tapped his toe, and regarded Danbury impatiently. “Miss Ava, my brother’s former love-kettle, was a pathologist. That gave us several things in common. Are you a pathologist, Miss TeeTee? If not, may I ask how you earn your living? Assuming it’s something that can be mentioned in polite company.”

  I said, “Ms Danbury does research for Harry and me. I don’t have time for games, Jeremy. Have Trey Forrier stop by for a visit.”

  He raised a pale eyebrow. “What kind of research?”

  “Right now that’s my business.”

  “What do you want from Trey?”

  “Same answer.”

  There was a knock and the door opened. A second guard leaned in, a younger guy I’d seen a time or two. “Excuse me
, Mr Ryder? I just came on the clock. We’ve met, my name’s Albert Jenkins; I’ll be right outside if you need anything.”

  “Please keep the door shut, Mr Jenkins.”

  “Yes sir.” Jenkins looked up, saw Danbury. His eyes lit with recognition. “I know you. You’re on TV.”

  Jeremy’s head snapped to Danbury. “BeeBee’s on TeeVee?” He studied her with sudden interest. “What do you do, if I may ask?”

  I winced. “Mr Jenkins, we’re having a private conversation here.”

  “Sorry.” He closed the door.

  Jeremy let his eyes range over Danbury. “Are you an actress, Miss WeeWee? I thought all actresses today had great big titties. Are you a struggling actress, still getting small parts?”

  She looked at me. I shrugged, nodded, tell him. He’d pick away at her until he found out the truth.

  “I’m a journalist, Mr Ridgecliff.”

  “A journalist?” he whispered.

  “Yes. A reporter for Channel 14 in Mobile.”

  I expected an explosive rant about television news, whores, corruption of the soul, profit-based sensationalism…his usual litany of invective. He surprised me, widening his eyes and crossing his hands across his chest.

  “The MEDIA? Visiting little ol’ me? Is this my breakthrough, my FIFTEEN MINUTES OF FAME? Do I need an agent? A personal stylist?” He ran to the mirror and fussed with his blond hair as if preparing for a photograph.

  I said, “Get Forrier in here, Jeremy. It’s important.”

  “One minute, Carson. I’ve never met a member of the FOURTH ESTATE!” He bounded across the room with puppyish enthusiasm, sat on his bed, patted beside him. “Come sit, dear, just for a minute. I have something special to confess, an exclusive.”

  Danbury sat beside Jeremy, playing along with him. “Anytime you’re ready, I’m listening.”

  He mock frowned. “You’re not using your microphone. How will my adoring public hear me?”

  She held her hand as if grasping a microphone and aimed it toward Jeremy’s lips. “The world awaits. What’s your exclusive, Mr Ridgecliff?”

  He waggled an admonishing finger. “You didn’t announce me.”

  “Come on, Jeremy,” I grumbled. “Stop messing around. We’re in a hurry.”

  “Indulge me, brother. Thirty seconds, then I’ll call for Trey.”

  Danbury looked into an invisible camera. “Today we’re talking to Mr Jeremy Ridgecliff, who has a message for our viewers. Care to convey your message, Mr Ridgecliff?”

  “I’d be delighted.”

  My brother winked into the imaginary camera, turned to Danbury and spat in her face.

  Without missing a beat, she slapped him.

  I pushed between them as Danbury retreated, wiping her face with her sleeve. I grabbed my brother’s shoulder, turned him to face me. “Get Forrier in here, you sorry little bastard. Now.”

  “I’m sorry I hit you, Mr Ridgecliff,” Danbury said from behind me. “It was automatic. I didn’t mean to -”

  “No,” I said. “Don’t apologize to him. It was a disgusting act. Get Forrier in here, Jeremy. I mean NOW.”

  He spun away from me, walked to the wall and leaned against it. He pretended to buff his nails on his shirt. “I met a reporter named BeeDee, with a pussy exceedingly seedy; it’s filled with disease, and roaches and fleas, but poor Carson, alas, was unheedy.”

  “I can always depend on you to be adolescent,” I said. “Do I have to get Forrier on my own?”

  “He won’t come unless I invite him,” Jeremy said, looking down, continuing to buff his nails. “And that’s not going to happen. Take your face-slapping whore and leave, Carson. Maybe you could peddle her at the docks.”

  I stared at him a moment, then yelled, “Guard! I want to report a cellphone.”

  My brother’s eyes snapped toward me. “What are you doing?” he hissed.

  “Say goodbye to the phone, Jeremy.”

  The door opened and the guard leaned in. “Yes, Mr Ryder?”

  “Something’s come to my attention and I’d like to…” I paused, looked at my brother.

  “Request the company of our good friend, Mr Forrier,” Jeremy completed, expressionless eyes moving between me and Danbury.

  I nodded at the guard. “Ms Danbury and I need to speak with Mr Forrier alone. Have my brother wait elsewhere after he invites Mr Forrier to join us.”

  Jeremy started to protest. I wiggled my thumb to mimic entering numbers on a cellphone, then closed my fist to crush it. He caught my meaning, glaring back but saying nothing.

  “Come with me, Mr Ridgecliff,” the guard said.

  Jeremy started to follow, pausing beside Danbury. She stared into his eyes, holding her ground.

  “I share a few traits with journalists, Ms BeeBee,” Jeremy said. “For instance, I interviewed five women for the position of Mommy. Guess what?”

  Danbury raised an eyebrow. “What, Mr Ridgecliff?”

  He grinned. “They all got the job.”

  He turned and walked into the hall, then paused again, turning to smile at Danbury. “I’d dearly love to interview you, Miss FeeFee. In great depth. If I’m ever in your neighborhood, trust that I’ll certainly drop by.”

  And then he was gone.

  Danbury moved beside me and held my arm. “He’s so volatile, Carson. Cold and hot, charming and venomous. He’s terrifying. But I’m so sorry I slapped him. It was -”

  “A natural reaction. It’s over. Don’t sweat the threat; he’ll be in here forever. Now I need you to turn on the French-speak. I think we’re about to open the door a little wider on Trey Forrier.”

  I was holding her when footsteps came to the threshold.

  Chapter 47

  Forrier entered, looked at me curiously, then walked to the corner. He studied Jeremy’s wall for a moment, then began conducting his invisible orchestra.

  What is he hearing? I wondered again.

  Before the guard closed the door, I grabbed the beach towel from the hall. When I unrolled it across the floor, it revealed the dried strips of painting. I stood above the strange mosaic with my arms crossed. Forrier’s eyes angled toward the strips, then away.

  “They tried to kill your art by killing you, didn’t they, Trey?” I said quietly. “Hexcamp and his followers. They left you to die. But you survived.”

  His hand faltered in the air.

  “I know it was you in Paris, Trey,” I said. “The secretive artist.”

  For a man who’d been in this country for over three decades, I figured Forrier knew much more English than he let on, comfortable in his native tongue, perhaps; or hiding behind it. Forrier’s gestures became a rote exercise, his attention focused on my words.

  “You never insulted Hexcamp personally, it was your ability that belittled him. They beat your body, crushed your temple, shattered your cheekbone, then stole your painting.”

  Forrier’s hand drifted to his wounded face, then dropped to his sides. He closed his eyes in the throes of decision. A moment later, he walked to the injured painting, dropped to his knees.

  “Put the pieces together for us, Mr Forrier,” Danbury prompted. “I speak French, if you wish to talk. Please believe we are here as friends, to hear your story. S’il vous plaît croire que nous sommes ici comme les amis, entendre votre histoire.”

  Forrier looked at Danbury and nodded. He began arranging the strips as if doing a jigsaw puzzle.

  “Marsden avait un trou chez lui…”

  Forrier spoke slowly, his words thick, like a man awakening from a trance. Danbury translated. “Marsden had a hole in him he thought my painting would fill.”

  “Je suis arrivé aux Etats-Unis huit mois après…”

  “I came to America after eight months. One of his monsters was from this area. I was right; they were nearby on a farm.”

  “Il aurait été impossible de tout simplement reprendre mon œuvre…”

  “It would have been impossible to simply take back my work; the
people surrounding Marsden would have torn me apart. So I told Marsden he was a great artist and I was an ant in his shadow. I said, ‘Marsden, God spared my life so I could come to America and learn from you.’ I brought him flowers and kissed his feet. They smelled like rotting camembert.”

  Pieces aligned as Forrier worked, and I figured he had hidden a contiguous quarter of the painting’s pieces in each mask.

  “J’ai posé des questions sur mon art saisi: ‘Qu’est-elle devenue cette toile realisée si longtemps…?’”

  “I asked about my captured art: ‘What became of that canvas I did so long ago, Marsden? Did it find a good home? Might I see it?’ He laughed and said he’d sleep on it. I learned it was a joke. He had a bedroom in the studio and had cut up my painting to fill his pillow with the scraps. Larger pieces and my studies he displayed as his own. He subjugated my work by savaging it and sleeping with it. Pillage and rape.”

  I raised an eyebrow at Danbury; Forrier had made an astute psychological observation. He continued adding pieces to what was now a meter-square section of painting, bringing order to the chaos. There were blank areas, pieces used for other purposes, or lost in the water.

  “…une dépendance, un édifice pourrissant…Marsden a appelé ces conditions mon ‘stage’…’

  “I was not there when he displayed my work as his own. I had to live far from the others in an outbuilding, a rotting structure. I was not allowed contact with anyone but Marsden and…a woman. Marsden called these conditions my ‘internship’. Little by little I gained his confidence until allowed small use of the studio. But I could not find a way to free my painting without detection. Then, an idea: papier-mâché. I used the strips of my painting to build masks, replacing the strips from the pillow with scraps of dropcloth. I hoped to sneak my painting from the filthy life it was leading.”

  “…J’ai rendu les masques laids et difformes…”

  “I made the masks ugly and misshapen. I stuck glass in them. No one wanted to touch them, much less steal them. Marsden said, ‘Take those ugly things away, Forrier, keep them with you.’ He was secretly delighted I made such abominations, proving I had no art.” Forrier paused. “The strutting little peacock didn’t realize it was my turn to joke: I shaped the masks like the souls of those who stole my work.”