Ink

by Damien Walters Grintalis

  He closed his laptop, turned on the television and waited for the news.

  4

  The full moon sat low and heavy in the sky, dark gold with a pale halo. Jason drove into the Harbor Tunnel with his windows open, and air, heavy with exhaust, rushed in, blowing his hair into a porcupine mess. The woman in the tollbooth didn’t even look at him when she took his money.

  Good, she won’t remember me because now I’m not just tampering with evidence.

  His cell phone rang, shattering the silence in the car, and his fingers clenched on the steering wheel. He glanced at the display, his stomach twisting. Mitch. He wanted to talk to her, but he wasn’t sure he could keep his voice steady. And what would he say? He was headed to the river with a part of his ex-wife? She was going out with the girls after work, and he’d told her to call when she got home, but he couldn’t pick up the phone. Was he supposed to ask her to come over and meet Frank?

  At least talk to her. You owe her that much.

  He couldn’t. It wasn’t safe.

  Coward. She believes in ghosts. You could tell her.

  Ghosts were one thing. Tattoos another.

  Maybe he should go over to her house. Maybe Frank wouldn’t come out there. Jason pictured waking up in her bed, waking up to bloodstained sheets, a severed hand, and a well-fed griffin in the corner, gnawing on a bo—

  “Stop,” he said.

  He would not take that risk. Even if it meant avoiding her call, even if it meant avoiding her, and even if it meant making her angry, at least she’d be alive.

  The voices stayed quiet as he drove the rest of the way. He parked the car, and the moonglow guided his steps as he walked along the path to the beach. The cooler tapped against his thigh, but he didn’t want to touch the bag until he had to. Soon enough, the slithery sound of melting ice blended into the gentle push of the waves against the shore. He stopped near the end of the path, concealed by trees and listened for voices or splashes of water, but the night air held only the song of the water and a few birds.

  But no griffins. Frank wouldn’t come out until after he went to sleep, and Jason wasn’t planning to sleep anytime soon. He’d taken a nap after the news, the Shelleyless news, at noon but woke long before sunset. If he drove home quick enough after his

  evidence disposal

  errand, he’d make the eleven o’clock news. If no handless bodies were reported, he’d pay a midnight visit to 1303 Shakespeare Street. After slipping off his shoes and socks, he paused to listen again. The sudden cry of a seagull close by made his fingers twitch. A soft wind caressed the back of his neck as he waited for the cry to drift farther out into the night.

  His hands didn’t shake when he pulled the bag out of the cooler. Melted ice dripped off the plastic onto the ground, a tiny whisper of sound in the night, but the fly didn’t make a noise. Holding the bag out, away from his body, he walked onto the beach.

  The water of the bay shimmered silver in the moonlight. His feet made a small, whisk-whisk noise and sand slipped between his toes, cool and dry at first, then cold and wet. It stuck to his feet and ankles, and a sour taste flooded his mouth. He’d never thought about the sand. The night he and Shelley went in the water, they woke up with sand everywhere, even though their clothes were almost dry and they’d brushed them off with towels before they got back in the car.

  But you’re not going in the water. The hand is, but you’re not.

  Jason sighed, and the wind swallowed it up and carried it away. When he reached the water’s edge, he untied the knot in the bag with steady hands, grateful for the ice in his veins. He pulled on a thin leather glove, reached into the bag, and

  just a block of ice, nothing else

  took out the hand. It was rock hard, frigid even through the leather, the dead meat smell muted by the ice and the salt tang in the air. He pulled back his arm and threw it forward. The hand arced up and up, then a dark cloud passed in front of the moon, plunging the beach into darkness. The ice inside turned and pushed jagged points against his heart.

  It’s too long. It should have hit the water by now. Did I miss?

  Then a soft splash broke the stillness. The clouds slipped away from the moon, something pale and small bobbed up twice in the water, then vanished beneath the dark. He gave a small nod and left the beach. He’d find a Dumpster on the way home for the plastic bags and the doormat.

  5

  Mitch’s car sat in his driveway when he arrived home. His headlights flashed bright on the back of her car, and he fought the urge to throw his car into reverse and take off. If he’d been paying attention, he would have seen her car before he pulled in but he wasn’t. He was thinking. Thinking maybe the hand wasn’t real. Maybe it was a prank.

  Sure and your dad is still alive. In fact, maybe he’s inside, chatting with Mitch.

  Jason left the cooler in his car.

  Stay calm. Pretend nothing is wrong. Pretend you didn’t just dispose of your ex-wife’s hand and your tattoo is just a little bit of ink.

  He walked into the kitchen, and she greeted him with a long hug. For several minutes, he pressed his body against hers. She smelled like the air after a summer storm, like daydreams and sanity and normal, good things. Jason bit the inside of his cheek. The back of his eyes burned, and the back of his heart twisted.

  I love her so much. I have to keep her safe. I can’t let Frank anywhere near her.

  “I’m sorry I let myself in, but I tried to call you a couple times today, and I got worried. Are you okay?”

  “No, it’s okay. We had a problem at work. I’ve been dealing with it all day.” He hated the easy way the lie rolled off his tongue, but he had no choice. He couldn’t tell her the truth, and he couldn’t let her stay at his house, not until it was done. He slipped out of her arms, crossed the kitchen, and grabbed the coffee pot.

  “You’re making coffee? This late?”

  “I have to go back in at midnight. I’m probably going to be working all night.”

  He took his time measuring out the coffee, so he didn’t have to see the concern in her eyes. He could tell her. He could tell her everything and watch her walk out the door. She’d probably think he was crazy, but then she would be safe. He opened his mouth, then clamped it shut. Maybe he was crazy. Maybe none of it was real. Maybe it was all just one big illusion, but if he said the words out loud, it might make them real.

  Of course it was real. The bone, the blood, the flesh turned rock by way of rigor mortis, the thick, dead smell.

  Stop it. Voices in your head, a griffin in your arm, and a severed hand. Do you know what this smells like, boy?

  “I’m sorry,” she said.

  The feel of the skin, cold and hard. The heat of the griffin’s skin. And its eyes…

  It smells like psychosis. The big old “you are approaching certifiable”. Lock you up for now and forever.

  “Me too. I’d rather stay here with you,” he said. “Unfortunately, if I do that, I’ll probably lose my job.”

  The coffee pot started to hiss, and his hands shook. The noise was far too similar to the sound Frank had made before he went flat and out the window. Jason bit the knuckle of one finger.

  Mitch came up behind him and rubbed his upper arms. “Are you sure that’s all it is? Just work?”

  Oh no. It’s so much more. The last time I saw you I thought I was just sick. Sick and seeing things. Now I know.

  “Yes.” He forced it out. Behind the word, his voice shook.

  She leaned her head on his back. “You seem different.”

  You have no idea. No idea at all.

  “I’m fine. Just a little ragged because of work. I’m sorry.”

  What are you apologizing for? Maybe apologizing for going nuts?

  “Shut up.” The words came out in a tangled mumble.

  “What?” she asked against his shirt.

  He turned around, avoiding her eyes, and pulled her into his arms. “Nothing, just thinking about work. I’m not looking forw
ard to pulling an all-nighter.”

  I’m not crazy. I’m not.

  The news would be on soon. He needed to get her out of the house so he could watch for a special report, a breaking story about a missing hand or a strange bird flying in the night sky, then he needed to pay Sailor a visit.

  Good old Sailor. Good old Frank.

  “Maybe I should just stay here and wait for you to get home.”

  “No.” It came out harsh, and he stepped back and raked his fingers through his hair. “I’m sorry, but I might end up working through tomorrow, too. I’d hate to think of you just waiting around. I’ll probably just come home and crash when I’m done.”

  The coffee hissed and sputtered as it finished brewing. Mitch rubbed her palms on her thighs.

  She knows I’m lying. She doesn’t know why, but she knows something isn’t quite right. I can only hope she won’t hate me when this is all over. Because it will be over, somehow.

  She brushed her hair off her forehead and looked down at the floor. Jason reached out and tipped her chin up. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too. Will you call me tomorrow, when you get home?”

  “Yes, of course I will.”

  “Are you sure everything is okay? Did the kid do anything?”

  No, it wasn’t okay. Not really. Not okay at all. He’d had to get rid of his ex-wife’s hand. Her hand. The ink on his arm came to life at night, and as an added bonus, it was responsible for his father’s death. How was that for not okay?

  “No, the kid didn’t do anything. I haven’t even seen him. I’m just tired, that’s all.”

  He kissed her, and her lips tasted like a promise, a promise he didn’t think he could keep. He wanted to take her upstairs and keep kissing her until he forgot about everything, but he couldn’t. Forgetting wouldn’t make it go away.

  “Okay,” she said when their lips parted.

  You’ll get through this. Remember your father’s words. Strong on the inside, where it counts.

  6

  Jason caught the last ten minutes of the news, but saw no special reports. A phone call to Shelley would be the easiest way to find out, but if he called and she didn’t answer, or worse, if she did answer, maybe with her left hand? He could ask her if she’d seen a griffin lately. Big critter with golden-brown wings, a lion’s tail and wickedly sharp talons.

  Jason laughed. Psychosis didn’t run in the family, but there was always a first time for everything, even lunacy.

  Call her.

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  That was what a guilty estranged husband would do. He had to do something, though. He couldn’t sit around waiting for something to happen, not anymore.

  7

  Jason drove to Fells Point with a stone in his chest. He’d tell Sailor he saw the griffin and demand answers. Sailor might not even be at the shop, not this late, but Jason had a feeling he didn’t keep banker’s hours, and if Sailor wasn’t there, he’d wait as long as he needed to. Sailor had to come back sometime.

  He found a parking spot on the opposite side of the street directly across from the café and sat in the car, watching the dark windows, with only his travel mug of coffee for company. Neither the moon nor the pale glow of the streetlamps touched the shadows on Shakespeare Street. Noises from the bars, only a block away, should have been audible, but they weren’t. A strange hush—the absence of sound—filled the spaces in the street. Even the wind was quiet; it reached into the car, touched his skin, then danced away. The silence tasted like tears and sorrow and dread.

  The entrance to 1303 wavered in the darkness, a door-shaped suggestion, sometimes clear and sometimes not there at all. He laughed and the street swallowed up the sound. The street appeared abandoned, not deserted, the buildings standing like broken statues in a desert of gray, forgotten and neglected. The silent wind sent a twisted section of newspaper down the center of the street, but the paper made no sound as it bounced on the asphalt. The smell of exhaust and the water of the harbor should’ve kissed the air; instead, the street had no smell at all.

  But it does. Underneath the silence, it smells of despair.

  A fat fly, made lazy from the night’s warmth, landed on his windshield and sat motionless, but nothing else moved. Not far away, a siren roared to life, loud enough to pierce the thick quiet, then the wail faded and vanished into nothing at all. Jason drummed his fingers on the steering wheel. An odd sensation buzzed in his ears, like soft, dangerous music.

  After an hour passed, a group of people strolled down the street, their bright laughter odd and out of place, and stopped in front of a car parked in front of the café. One young woman with long dark hair turned to face the buildings, and she rubbed her upper arms, still staring as her friends climbed into the car. They didn’t notice when her arms dropped down to her sides and her shoulders slumped. She looked directly at the door for 1303, and Jason wondered if she saw the door or brick.

  It’s stronger tonight. Whatever lingers here is somehow more.

  Jason’s fingers clenched on the steering wheel.

  Look away. It’s his magic. Sailor magic.

  Another girl with copper-colored curls stepped back out of the car and shook the dark-haired girl’s arm. When she turned with a face empty of all expression, the redhead backed up, talking to the others already in the car. Jason reached for the door handle as the girl shifted and flooded back into herself. The redhead got back into the car; the dark-haired girl started to follow. She paused to look over her shoulder, shuddered, and disappeared into the car. When the tail lights vanished around the corner, Jason gulped down the last of his cold coffee.

  What am I doing here?

  The answer, which seemed so clear earlier, was now hazy at the edges. When he reached for the key, the window above the door to 1303 filled with pale, bluish light. He shook his head, sure it was an illusion, but the image remained. The light appeared a little to the right the door, not directly above, which didn’t make sense, since the door at the top of the narrow staircase had opened to the left.

  Left. Right. Does it matter? Your tattoo is alive. You can’t get more ”doesn’t make sense” than that.

  High-pitched carnival music drifted past. Jason turned his head to catch the tune, but it faded away. An upbeat whistle began at the top of the street, growing louder as a darkness in the shadows moved closer. He slid low in the seat. A man-sized shape emerged, and the whistle slowed. Shifted to melancholy. A tune reminiscent of cigarette smoke, horned instruments, women with tight dresses and small waists and men with striped suits and dangerous smiles. The whistle shifted again, and the smell of the street became exotic perfume, hair oil and smoke hovering in a thick cloud overhead. Jason closed his eyes, sighing as the whistle slid inside his head, like a memory.

  But someone else’s. Not mine.

  Notes shivered in the air as the musicians played in the crowded club, and even though the song held sadness in its words, laughter drifted under the haze of tobacco smoke. The women held cigarettes in red-lacquered nails and smiled in all the right places. They were window-dressing, beautiful, but curved to admire and bed and nothing more. A group of men with slicked-back hair leaned in over their table, their brows creased with the intensity of their conversation. They were the kind of men best to avoid; Jason moved away from their table as fast as he could.

  Except I’m not here. Not really. I’m in his memories somehow, even though it feels real.

  The smoke stung his eyes, and a woman bumped into him as she passed. She turned, smiling with full, pink-lipsticked lips in a way that said the bump wasn’t accidental. Her lips matched the pink, satiny dress clinging to her swaying hips. He could follow her…

  The music reached a crescendo, drowning out all the voices as it built and built, the notes climbing impossible heights. It hung, then with a clash of cymbals, stopped. Applause followed, some enthusiastic, some only polite. Perfunctory.

  When the band members walked offstage, the drummer’
s skin shimmered like ebony in the lights, in sharp contrast to his crisp, white shirt. He wiped sweat off his brow and laughed, a big, booming laugh filled with genuine happiness, not caring if anyone in the room paid any attention at all; he played for the love of the music. His bald head bobbed through the crowd as he walked to the bar and stopped only once, when the pink-lipped woman touched his upper arm with an enviable familiarity and whispered something in his ear. As he laughed again, his eyes filled with naked hunger. She walked away, smiling.

  I would stay away from her, buddy. I think she’s more dangerous than the slick men.

  The bartender slid a drink across the bar, nodding toward the end. Jason followed the nod. The man wore a dark, tailored suit, and his features struck a chord in Jason’s own memory. The memories of the club

  Max’s

  pushed it away. The suited man lifted his drink in a silent toast. The drummer did the same, then walked over to him. He sat down on the padded stool next to the man in the suit, their lips moving in conversation.

  It’s when they met.

  But how could I know that? This isn’t real. It’s some sort of illusion.

  Jason stood too far away to hear their words, but they both wore smiles on their faces. The drummer turned to look at the woman in the pink dress several times, each time with the same expression. He wanted her. Maybe not for forever, but for more than an hour or two. He couldn’t because she was married to a bastard with fast fists, and it wouldn’t take much to push him over the edge. Her husband wasn’t one of the slick men, but he was slick.

  How do I know all this? Why is he showing this to me?

  Eventually, another musician went over to the drummer and nudged his shoulder. He said his goodbyes to the man in the suit and walked back to the stage. The man left behind slid money onto the bar, and when he got up, his eyes—pale, watery green eyes—met Jason’s. A razor-sharp jolt of fear sent his pulse racing. The man in the suit started to walk toward Jason, but he didn’t walk. He rolled. Hips first, then legs, then hips again. A shipwalk. A sailor walk.