Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee

by Edward Lee

"I believe it," he said, and signed the agreement. He set the money down, numb in the disbelief.

  Vivica was looking at him, her eyes suddenly far away.

  "I'm ready," Westmore said.

  "Several times already, you've referred to my 'late' husband. Well, Mr. Westmore, I don't believe that he's dead. There's no evidence to that effect."

  Westmore frowned. "I read the obituary. Suicide."

  "It's fake."

  Westmore sat up more alertly. "You mean you-"

  "Money talks. I paid the right persons to menufacture the obituary and the police findings."

  "So who's in your husband's gave? There was a service listed about a week after the suicide."

  "Not my husband. My people assure me of it."

  Westmore rubbed his face. "The rumor is that your husband killed a whole bunch of innocent people with an ax-"

  "No one is innocent, Mr. Westmore. Believe me, none of those people in that house were innocent."

  "Fine. What exactly do you want me to do?"

  "Find out what happened on that night. I believe that my husband is still alive. I believe that he's still in that house."

  Westmore's gaze felt just as far away as hers now He could only look at her through a blur.

  "You're a reporter. Report. To me. And I want you to monitor the other people who will be there."

  "Be where?"

  "The Hildreth Mansion. I've hired some other people to investigate the events of the night in question."

  Other people? More reporter? Christ, I hope not. He could see a bad scene coming already. "It was a couple weeks ago, right?"

  "Yes. The night of April 3rd."

  "And you think your husband's still in the house?"

  "I believe that he may be." She gave him a card. "This is my cell phone number. You can call me anytime, and Karen will be at your disposal too. There's also a lot of visual evidence, still in the house. Take your time examining it. It will be a bit grueling, but ... that's what I'm hiring you for."

  "What kind of visual evidence?"

  "DVD's and digital master tapes. My husband owned an adult movie business. He bought the company outright some time ago, and relocated its studio and offices to the mansion. I'm talking about pornography, Mr. Westmore. My husband was a very sexually obsessed man. He surrounded himself with sexual energy."

  Yeah, this is aazy, all right. This woman's paying me a ton of money to ... watch porn?

  "Don't share anything exclusive you discover with the others; that's essential. I only trust Karen, and Mack, my security man. The others I'm not sure about. I have no reason to trust them. They're all a bunch of writers, too."

  I knew it. "What can you tell me about the mansion?"

  "It's ... indescribable. It's like nothing you've ever seen. And it has ... a rich past, which I'm sure you'll discover along the way." Then she smiled.

  This was too many curve balls too fast. "Mrs. Hildreth, you're paying me an awful lot of money, and I'm still not exactly sure what you want me to do."

  "Ultimately, I want to know where my husband is, and beyond that, I want to know the limits of his obsession. My husband was preparing for something he thought would occur in the future. I want to know what-exactly-it was he was preparing for. And I want to know when. Remember that above all else."

  At this point all Westmore could do was slump back in the wire chair. He put his hands up. "I don't know what you mean.

  When Vivica Hildreth turned her head slightly, her angle shrouded her face in darkness.

  "I don't believe in the Devil, Mr. Westmore. But my husband did."

  Chapter Three

  I

  Nyvysk had no sensitivities, and he was grateful for that. He'd seen enough to believe it all, though. How could he not? In Nineveh he'd been sent to the site of the Library of Ashurbanipal-in the '80s before the Iraq wars-and had failed in exorcizing some thing out of a local woman who was speaking what sounded like Zraetic, the first protodi- alect of the Tabernacle of God. It was supposedly the language that was spoken before Adam and Eve. Nyvysk had stood there in his Catholic raiments, The Rites of Exordsm limp in his hand, and then watched a young Kurd in his twenties channel out a noxious endoplasm from the woman's eyes after which she vomited up a pile of live frogs. Nyvysk remembered the young man's name- Saeed.Nnd remembered the effect of his ministration. The local woman had been cured on the spot, leaving Nyvysk to stand there, a fascinated failure.

  He'd seen all that, and a lot more.

  He pulled the van into a Citgo station once he'd gotten off of 275. I don't know where I'm going, he realized with a chuckle. He wouldn't have even taken this job; he liked to think of himself as a part-time retiree. And he didn't really need the money-he made plenty of that with his books, even after the fifty-percent he gave to the Church. But there'd been something about the woman's invitation ...

  And Nyvysk, in all truth, was bored.

  He drove a long Ford step van, white, innocuous. He'd taken the wrong turn-off and wound up in this frowzy beach town. Several construction workers were filling up their trucks, one nodded to him as though they were comrades of the same trade. Of course, right now, with the banged-up van and scruffy beard, Nyvysk could pass for a blue-collar redneck himself. The thought amused him: Your truck's full of tools. Care to guess what my truck's full oft

  His first name was Alexander. He was six-foot-five and sixty years old. So much field work for the Diocese had left him rugged, tough. Not your typical priest. IJ they could see me now, he thought, catching his reflection in the gasstation's plate glass. I look like somebody in ZZTopµ Gray hair down to the bottom of his ribs, and a grayer beard to his sternum. Workboots, faded jeans, baggy t-shirt. He tended to dress like this most of the time; a counselor at the mental health rectory in Richmond had told him that it was proof of his repentance, a concerted effort on his part to appear unattractive "to other-er ... to those who might be attracted to you in a prurient sense," a sideswipe reference to his weakness. The beard and the long hair, too. For decades he'd had a buzz-cut and been clean shaven save for a moustache.

  I guess I'm a pretty content mess, he thought.

  The only thing that didn't look the part was the large black cross around his neck.

  A middle-aged couple crossing the lot on foot were arguing, a blonde wearing an amethyst necklace and a goateed guy in a t-shirt that read JOY DIVISION. They held hands but looked like they couldn't stand each other. I better not ask them, Nyvysk thought. Inside when he paid for his gas, an old man at the counter, wearing a cross, gave him the eye when he asked, "Could you tell me how to find Prospect Hill? I'm looking for a place called the Hildreth Mansion."

  "I've no idea. Next in line!"

  Ah, yes, Nyvysk thought, and reflected the first Book of Peter. "Honor all men. Love the brotherhood." God be with you anyway. Back outside, the couple stood by the pumps, embracing, kissing fervently. "I fucking adore you," the goateed guy whispered to the woman.

  That was quick. Love is everywhere. Nyvysk asked, "Pardon me but have you heard of Prospect Hill? I'm trying to find the-"

  "Hildreth House?" the woman asked, green eyes shining like emeralds.

  "Yes," Nyvysk said. "Good guess:'

  The goateed guy pushed wire-rim glasses up his nose. "It's a pretty famous place ... and it's the only building on the hill. Take a left onto Prospect Hill Road off 66th Street, and that'll take you there. But once you get there, you'll never be seen again."

  Nyvsyk's brow ridged.

  "It's haunted," added the girl.

  "We're kidding!" the guy said. He had a tattoo on his forearm that read NARRATION IS YOUR ENEMY "There was a mass-murder there last month. Kooky rich guy cut up a bunch of house guests with an ax:'

  Now Nyvysk smiled. "So I've heard. Thank you for the directions." Nyvysk unconsciously diddled with the large cross around his neck. "Let me leave you now with this: 'Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the Lord.' Oh, and Go Devil Rays."

/>   .`Cool,,, the guy said.

  "Why are you going to the Hildreth Mansion?" the girl asked.

  "I'm a demonologist and a technical paranormal investigator," Nyvysk said, and got back in his van and drove away.

  Five miles and a bridge behind him, Nyvysk spotted a tiny roadsign on the thoroughfare for Prospect Hill Road. Then he winced over a pot-hole, heard something clatter in the back. Probably the influx tubes of the chromatograph, he feared. Or my $50,000 barometer. Then he saw another sign: JCT - STATE ROUTE 666. You've got to be kidding me, he thought. He peered incredulous at the map and saw that the road did indeed exist but thankfully led elsewhere. Then he slowed in the right lane, watching for his turn.

  A Muslim-nineteen or twenty perhaps--was hitchhiking. Nyvysk's eyes locked, and he felt something tighten in his chest. The hitcher reminded him of the young Kurd who'd exorcized the woman in Nineveh, the boy named Saved. The memory seemed to fog about his head: how, when the rite was over, the boy smiled at the younger, slimmer, and much-less-shaggy Nyvysk. How their eyes had locked. The silent invitation mouthed on the Kurd's lips and how hurt those eyes had appeared when Nyvysk sighed and turned away.

  Nyvysk touched his cross. Thank you, God, for giving me the strength to never break my vows ...

  He knew it was completely disconnected but it seemed that his quelled libido had been raging over the past few days-since he'd gotten the letter from Vivica Hildreth.

  Everywhere he went now it seemed that lust was being aimed at him from so many wide-open eyes.

  He bit his lip and drove on, watching the boy fade in his rearview.

  He blanked his mind for quite a while.

  "This can't be it," he complained to himself later but took a hard left turn anyway. He knew the interstate north was coming up, and it didn't look like there was room for too many more turns. The road wasn't on the map, either, but there was a listing in the phone book. Maybe that couple at the gas station are having a laugh on the old guy right now ... But just as he'd lost his faith, less than a hundred feet up the gravel road he'd just turned on to, the bent sign stood: PROSPECT HILL RD. Why put the damn sign here! It should be on the corner--you know-where people can SEE it! Then another dissociated thought flicked in his head.

  Maybe they didn't want people to see it ...

  The road wound through a dense forest full of weeping willows and very strange, very tall pine trees. He noticed not one of the palm trees that Florida was known for. Spanish moss hung off branches of the trees which lined the road, creating a green curtain. Who would put a house--a mansion no less-in the middle of the woods? The road kept winding upward, and seemed to grow more narrow. Branches, like skeletal hands, scratched against the van's side panels, and overhead, more, broader, branches reached across the road, joining, forming a webwork tunnel that filtered out the sunlight. Nyvysk soon felt certain that he was on the wrong road when he was at last emptied into a green clearing surrounded by a ring of trees.

  And there the Hildreth Mansion stood, as if in wait.

  My God, it's huge...

  Nyvysk slowed, then stopped to stare at the place. What faced him was a Gothic immensity, five stories of gray brick staring back. Stained-glass windows glittered like bizarre dark gems; oddly placed stone verandas seemed ensconced into the heavy walls. Were the high corner-posts of the building made of iron? Things he guessed were decorative gargoyles sat perched on intricate cornices like transfigured crows. Bow windows with sloping, slate half-roofs extruded from the first story's east and west wings, and stained-glass windows-these diamond-shaped-were set along the sides of the mansion's central structure. Parapets on either side extended over sloping dormers of the fifth floor, rung with spiked cresting.

  Nyvysk-though he wasn't psychic at all-could feel the ill-omen hovering over the place, like a murky cloud.

  He actually got out of the van to look further, still a hundred yards away. The feel in his gut, and simply the way the sun was half-blocked by the mansion's highest peak, reminded him of a time when he was in Jerusalem, just north of the Damascus Gate. Here, he'd succeeded in an exor- cism---an infant-and when he'd looked up he saw a similar murkiness just over the area where Christ had likely been buried. He closed his eyes now but could still see the sunlight through the lids, and he prayed, Yes, God, I'm really going to need courage this time. Please give me courage.

  When he opened his eyes again, he noticed that the house's massive arched doorway stood open now Someone was standing under the keystone, waving at him.

  II

  "I'm flattered that you find me attractive," Vivica Hildreth said, her eyes narrowed. She uncrossed her legs, then recrossed them in the wire chair. "Everybody likes to be admired, even if they act like they don't."

  Westmore nearly fell out of his own chair; the suddenness of the comment-a total shift in subjectsr--threw him for a loop. He blushed, because he knew why she'd said this. "I ... apologize. I guess I've been ... staring at you. I didn't mean to."

  "Not staring-appraising, maybe. Don't worry, Mr. Westmore. It makes me feel better. Most men are put off by me."

  By now, Westmore was growing accustomed to the awkwardness of the day. "I don't know why. You're a very interesting woman."

  She took off the Paisley shawl, her breasts blooming beneath the t-shirt. He guessed she was teasing him now, overtly. "You're a very intriguing man. It's regrettable that we don't have anything in common."

  Now all Westmore could do was shake his head and laugh. "Come on! DeKooning?"

  "Not to mention that I would never cheat on my husband. If you are able to discern that he's dead, though ... who knows what the future might hold?"

  I do not believe this ...

  Her voice edged down. "Do you know what the future holds?"

  "No, I don't."

  "Well, then. Time ... will tell." Her breasts, standing out, preceded her words-the bright-eyed pop baroness in flipflops. "Strange day, huh, Mr. Westmore?"

  "Yes

  She stood up, and bid the exit with her hand. "You're about to walk into a very strange week. Good luck."

  I gum that means I'm leaving. He rose and shook her hand again, felt a static charge crackle when their skin made contact.

  "As I've said, there will be others at the house with you, but remember whom you're working for."

  Westmore raised a brow. "I thought I was working for you. 11

  ..You are, and anything you discover while you're staying at my husband's house-anything snuitiue ... you're not to share that with anyone else. Report, in private to me. I can be reached on my cell phone at all times. You're not to give the number to anyone else."

  "Understood," Westmore said, but he still didn't really understand much at all. Iguess she wants me to find out everything I can about what happened that night, and find out whew her husband is. It was a trick-bag, though, and he knew it. Right now he knew essentially nothing about Reginald Hildreth ... except that his obituary was faked. And he couldn't tell a soul unless he wanted Vivica's lawyers to drop a depth-charge into the middle of his life. She'd said it all a minute ago: it would be a very strange week.

  She walked him to the foyer. "I'd like you to start tomorrow. Is that acceptable to you?"

  "Sure."

  "I'm glad. Then go now, to prepare. Karen will be driving you home. She'll give you some things when she drives you back, and any cursory questions you can ask her. She'll be staying at the house, too."

  "What about you?" Westmore asked next and then wished he hadn't. His reactive flirtation was amateurish, nothing like hers. "Will you be at the house?"

  "I've never set foot in that house, Mr. Westmore," she said, then walked away.

  Walking across the street, Westmore remembered what she'd said earlier, the theme of his job: My husband was preparing for something he thought could occur in the future. I want to know what-exactly-it was he ua s preparing for. And I cant to know when. Remember that above all else.

  "What the hell could this nut hav
e been preparing for?" he muttered to himself. Then he patted the envelope in his pocket, the sheaf of money, and lots more to come.

  Who cares? He was not terribly discontent with that acknowledgment. At least I'm being honest when I don't deny that IT do pretty much anything for money.

  "I'm really in need, brother," a very rough voice said. "I could use anything you can spare."

  Westmore looked around, didn't see anyone. It was getting dark. Then he looked down and saw a filthy, straggly man sitting behind the garbage can next to the bus shelter that Westmore was grateful he wouldn't have to stand in today.

  Rheumy eyes beseeched him. "Got my leg all shot up in Iraq."

  Westmore doubted it; the leg jutting from stained shorts appeared infected from dirty needles. "Sure," he said, and reached into his pocket. I've got a shitload of money on me, he reminded himself. Then he gave the bum a $ 100 bill.

  "Is that all ya got?"

  Jesus, Westmore thought and walked on.

  Let's see, she said she'd meet me in the oyster bar, of all places. He peered through the dark plate glass and saw Karen sitting up at the fine cherry-wood bar. It occurred to him then that he hadn't walked in here in three years. He'd al ways loved the place because of its posh interior darknessit was harder for him to see his reflection in the mirror behind the liquor shelves.

  A few tables were full but the bar itself stood empty save for Karen. Oh, that's just great, she's tying one on, he thought. She tossed back her blonde bangs and took a slug from a preposterously large martini glass full of glowing-blue ice.

  Westmore winced when he saw what rested just next to her: two glasses, a Dewar's on the rocks and a ginger ale.

  Now how the hell did she ...

  Karen seemed to be staring at space as she sipped the massive drink.

  "I'm back," Westmore said.

  "Did I get it right?" She pointed to the two glasses next to her.

  "Yes, but I don't drink anymore."

  "Oh, I know that. But you always order a scotch and don't drink it. At your neighborhood bar where you live? Every night? The Sloppy Heron, the place is called. But several years ago, you'd skip the ginger ale and drink eight or ten Dewar's. Same thing here, too, right? This oyster bar we're sitting in right now? You used to come here a lot, didn't you?"