by Ivan Blake
Mallory laughed. “Little Miss Sunday School won’t be going to Paradise any time soon.”
“Why not?”
“Because she killed herself.”
“So?”
“So she’s stuck here.”
“Stuck here. What’s that mean?”
“All suicides are. My daddy says people who kill themselves are deafened by the roar of their last emotion and can’t hear their family’s guiding prayers, so they can’t find Puya. They’re trapped where they died until the end of time.”
“That’s terrible.”
“And it gets better. Daddy says whatever pain the person thought they might escape by killing themselves becomes the only emotion they will know for the rest of eternity. It’s so ironic, and the gods love that. Suicides keep the weak out of Puya, and causing someone’s suicide is an offering the gods truly prize.”
“So…you killed Darleen?”
“No. Of course not! She killed herself. She was weak.”
“But…you sent the letter to the school board.” And then, like an electrical arc at the center of his brain, Chris saw the pattern: Darleen’s suicide, the pictures of Jennifer, the cartoon about Floyd, the attacks on Felicity Holcomb, maybe even the letter the cops blamed on Chris—all, Mallory’s ‘offerings’.
“The letter was just a test…and the bitch failed,” Mallory said as she sat back looking self-satisfied. Then she bounced forward again and said excitedly, “You know, I bet if we went over to Bailey’s Road tonight we’d see her spirit, still right where she killed herself, still bawling her eyes out.” Mallory giggled, and added, “Because she’s still weak. Only now, she’s weak…and dead.”
“So, you believe in ghosts as well?”
“They’re not ghosts—more like…like the shadows of sad, pathetic lives. If your spirit doesn’t get into Puya, then what’s left of you on this earth isn’t you. It’s just your last emotion, like your sorrow, or your despair, or maybe your rage…your emotional wreckage. It lingers after you’re dead like a stain or a smell…and for all time.”
“Can anything be done to free such a spirit?”
“No. It can see us but it can’t hear us. Its emotions are just too overwhelming for it to make sense of anything. It just reacts. So there’s no way to help it or get rid of it. It’s just left here. Like garbage dropped at the side of the road.”
“So have you ever seen one of these…ghosts?”
“Yes. Darleen Jensen.”
“You’ve seen Darleen?”
Mallory grinned. “Sure, the other night, and like I said, just sitting there in a ditch, still bawling her eyes out.”
For an instant, it wasn’t Mallory Dahlman across the table from Chris but a dark presence, a black cloud of cruelty and hate. Would Mallory ever really drive someone to suicide—and then take pleasure in it?
Then it occurred to him maybe she’d made it all up. The twinkle in her eye—perhaps she’d been kidding all along. She did have a perverse sense of humor after all. Ghosts and walking corpses! Yeah right!
Mallory broke the silence. “So, why do you need to see Mr. Duncan?” she asked, as if she’d just made an interesting connection.
What a relief, to change the subject. “Because he said he’d do something for me.”
“Are you going to tell me what?”
At that moment, Chris didn’t feel comfortable telling Mallory anything. Hell, she’d probably want to help Meath. Chopping up bodies might be just her thing.
“Perhaps, maybe after we’ve spoken to Mr. Duncan.”
“Okay then, let’s go find him.”
As they were pulling out of the motel parking lot, Mallory looked across at Chris and said with a grin, “We should come back here sometime, maybe get a room, spend the whole night together.”
“But Jennifer would know.”
“Oh I can deal with her.”
* * * *
They headed north out of town, in the direction of the Potteries. For ten minutes or so, they drove through farmland, then slowed as the road neared the water once again. They pulled off the main road into a sandy lane marked Potteries Beach and crept along, trying to read the names on the mailboxes. When they found the one with Duncan painted on it, they pulled over.
The weathered saltbox house was set well away from the road on a rise overlooking the beach and the open ocean. They could hear the crash of the surf as they walked up the sandy path to the front door. The wind was biting and filled with salt. Chris knocked.
“Yes?” a voice called from inside.
“Mr. Duncan, it’s Chris Chandler. I’m sorry to bother you so late. I was wondering if we could talk.”
The door opened. Mr. Duncan was wearing a long, blue robe and reading glasses, his legs and feet were bare, and he was holding a book in one hand. Classical music played somewhere in the house.
“Mr. Chandler, I don’t think you should...Oh, Miss Dahlman...”
“Mallory gave me a ride,” Chris explained. “I was hoping we could talk. I wondered if you spoke to the police, and, well, there’s something else I need to tell you.”
“I guess you’d better come inside.”
They stepped into a small foyer cluttered with boots, coats, and walking sticks.
“Come through.”
Mr. Duncan led the way down the hall past a staircase, a darkened dining room, and into a large open space across the back of the house. There was a kitchen at one end and a living area at the other. Two old bay windows faced seaward. A Franklin stove with a crackling fire had pride of place in the center of the room. Shelves crammed with every type and size of book covered the walls. At the end of the room opposite the kitchen was an enormous desk piled high with papers and more books. Several overstuffed armchairs were scattered around the room.
“So, Mr. Chandler?” Mr. Duncan sat down near the stove. Chris and Mallory remained standing.
“I...I wondered whether you had a chance to—” and he glanced at Mallory.
Mr. Duncan interrupted. “You told people what you saw? After I warned you not—”
“No, I haven’t told anyone. Not even Mallory, not yet.”
“So, should we talk in private?”
“Is that okay, Mallory?” Chris asked.
“Sure. I’ll just wait here.” She smiled sweetly, crossed the room and settled into a chair beside Mr. Duncan’s desk.
Chris followed Mr. Duncan into the dining room. The teacher switched on the light, and closed the door. Chris immediately asked, “Did you tell the police what I saw?”
“No, not yet.”
“It’s just it happened again, last night. I saw the guy with another body.”
“Mr. Chandler,” Mr. Duncan said, shaking his head.
“Look, I know how this sounds.”
“Like you’re trying to set me up....” He knew only too well what Gabe Boucher thought of Chris Chandler.
“I’m not, I swear.”
“All right,” he sighed, “so what did you see this time?”
“Well, just like before, I saw the goatman—”
“Who?”
“Dr. Meath, the old man who works at the funeral home, he raises goats.”
“He’s the guy you saw?”
“Yes, on the old railway line. He has this cart he pedals along the tracks.”
“Everyone knows his bike.” The irritation in Duncan’s voice was obvious.
“And like the last time, he had this huge sack. So I followed him, and I saw him take the sack into his barn, and, well, I looked through the window.”
“You know what you’re doing is illegal.”
“Well maybe, but—”
“No buts about it, it’s trespassing, it’s voyeurism, and it’s a crime.”
“But what he’s doing—”
“All right, what was he doing?”
“He had a body in the sack, and he tied it to some sort of chair, and then moved the head around with some kind of electrical device, and a
fter a couple of minutes, he took the device off the body and cut it up, just like you butcher a cow or a goat.”
“Oh, Mr. Chandler, this is really too—”
“Look, I know you don’t believe me, nobody will, but I know what I saw...and I just can’t do nothing, can I?”
“So, you think Dr. Meath is stealing bodies from the funeral home for his experiments?”
“Yes.”
“And nobody misses these bodies?”
“He takes them after they’re buried.”
“So he’s robbing graves.”
“Well, you said it happens.”
“I said it happened a hundred years ago.”
“Then why not today?”
Mr. Duncan said nothing. He stared into Chris’s eyes. Chris held his gaze. “All right,” Duncan said at last, “I’ll give you the benefit of the doubt. If this is some kind of a joke—”
“No, Mr. Duncan, I swear.”
“Tomorrow, I’ll go to the police. I’ll talk to Chief Boucher, ask a few questions about the doctor and the funeral home.”
“I appreciate it, I do.”
“Meantime, Mr. Chandler, you have to stop spying on your neighbors, otherwise you’ll be the one in jail, not Meath.”
* * * *
As they drove away from the Potteries, Mallory asked, “Are you going to tell me what this is about?”
“Could we wait a few days?”
“You know, if we’re going together, we shouldn’t have any secrets.”
Whoa. Where did that come from? “We’re going together?”
“After this afternoon, I would have thought it was obvious. Unless of course you don’t want to, in which case I might have to kill you,” she said with a grin.
“Yeah sure, that would be great...going together, I mean.”
“So why won’t you tell me what you’re up to?”
“Because...because it’s weird...and it might be dangerous...and I’m just not sure of the facts yet.”
“Then will you tell me who it’s about?”
“I guess. It’s about the goatman.”
“Who?”
“The old guy who works at the funeral home, lives out past where I live, the chiropractor, Dr. Meath?”
“Him? He’s just a weirdo, and he smells awful. Why would you be interested in him?” She grinned and asked, “Are you planning something?”
“No, not really.”
“Then why would you care about a freak like him?”
“I...I can’t tell you yet.”
“So you won’t share your secret with me. I might be a little upset if it were anybody else.”
Neither of them spoke for several minutes. As they neared Mallory’s lane, she broke the silence. “Still waters, Christopher Chandler,” she said. “You’re a man of mystery. Maybe you should spend the night at my house, give me time to examine you more closely.”
“Huh?”
“Oh, don’t worry. Mother will have passed out long ago, and she won’t come round again until mid-morning. Won’t hear a thing we say...or do.” The car rolled to a stop at the head of the lane.
This is amazing. It never rains but it pours. He was so tempted. A repeat performance might be slightly less creepy. Something told him things weren’t quite right, however.
“I...I’d love to, but...I told my parents I’d be home tonight...they worry.”
“I didn’t take you for someone who cares whether mummy worries.”
“I’m not...but…”
“It’s all right. Maybe we are moving a bit too fast. At least I hope that’s the problem.” She pulled back onto the road and headed for the Willards’.
Reaching across to caress Mallory’s shoulder as she drove, Chris whispered, “Another time?”
“Oh, sure.”
“Didn’t your mother say your brother would be in hospital for a while?”
Mallory looked across at him and smiled. “And Mother might be gone for several days.”
Chris horrified himself by saying, “Then let’s hope Rudy takes a long time getting better.” He felt acid rise in his throat as soon as the words were out of his mouth. From Mallory he got such a malicious grin.
“Oh, I’m sure that can be arranged.” The way she said it gave him goose flesh.
Mallory turned into Willard Lane and stopped the car.
“What the hell...?”
All the lights in the Willard house were on. “Something’s happened,” he said.
“Hope they haven’t toppled more barrels in their cider cellar,” Mallory said with a smirk. “Once was pathetic, twice would be stupid.”
She must have seen the shock in Chris’s eyes at the horribly insensitive remark because she said, “I’m sure it’s nothing.” Then she kissed Chris, and added, “I loved this afternoon. You were so good, the best. We have to do it again soon.” She blew a second kiss as he got out of the car. Tires spun in the gravel as she backed the car up onto the main road, and raced away into the night.
Chris saw Gillian in her bedroom window. He waved, but she disappeared.
As he walked down the lane and around the house, his unease intensified. All the lights were on in the back part of the house as well. As he opened the door, his mother rushed forward, cried, “Oh, Chris!” and threw her arms around him.
“What is it? What’s happened?”
“Where have you been?” his dad demanded.
“Why? What’s going on?”
“Just answer me. Where have you been since school?” His father was shaking with emotion.
“With Mallory Dahlman. We hung out at her place, then had supper together and afterwards, went to see one of my teachers.”
“One of your teachers?” His father looked stunned, apparently not the answer he’d been expecting.
“About a project...for school.”
“So your teacher can vouch for your whereabouts?” The relief in his father’s eyes was obvious.
“For my whereabouts?”
“Where you went and what you did after school.”
“Yeah sure, why?”
“Because Floyd Balzer is dead...and the police want to ask you some questions.”
Floyd...dead...
His mother turned and went upstairs, sobbing.
“God, Chris,” his dad said, “the boy hanged himself, and the police seem to think you had something to do with it.” He almost broke down as well. Instead, he turned away. “I’ve got to help your mother.”
Chris couldn’t sleep that night. He played over and over in his mind the last, vicious confrontation with Floyd, and then imagined the final, horrifying minutes of Floyd’s pathetic life.
Like garbage dropped at the side of the road, Mallory had said.
Chapter Eight
Tuesday, November 19
Chris’s father drove him to the police station before school. “You keep quiet. Let me do the talking,” his dad said.
An officer ushered them into the Chief’s office. Chief Boucher and Deputy Pike were waiting. The Chief, seated at his desk, was the first to speak. “This is a sad affair. The Balzer family is well liked in this town.” The implication was clear: the Chandler family was not. “I’ve given the Balzers my word the Bemishstock Police Department will do everything it can to find out what happened to young Floyd.”
“Last night, when you phoned,” Chris’s dad said, “you told me the boy had taken his own life, hanged himself in one of the father’s sheds.”
“Well yes, I thought that. Since then, I’ve been made aware of circumstances surrounding the death that give rise to many new questions.”
“Circumstances? What circumstances?”
“Why don’t you let me ask the questions?”
“Because I don’t see what any of this has to do with my son?”
“Well, you wouldn’t, would you. From where I’m sitting, however, this tragedy has everything to do with your son. It appears young Floyd had been in a fight before he died, and j
udging by his injuries, he’d lost. So now it looks to me like the fight may have contributed to his death.”
“And you think Floyd was in a fight with my son?”
“Hell no, I think Floyd could have taken your son apart, no problem. What I think is that Floyd was beaten up by somebody doing your son’s dirty work.”
“What?”
“Or yours. I’m told you threatened Floyd’s father.”
“I said I would terminate his contracts, not beat up his son.”
“That’s not what Floyd told his buddies. When he arrived at school the other day with his face cut up, he said goons from the plant had ambushed him on your orders.”
“That’s just crap! Nobody from the plant ever touched the boy! Check all you want!”
“His own dad beat him,” Chris said. “All the time, and everybody knows it!”
“Chris, quiet,” his father said.
“But—”
“There’s no proof Ed Balzer ever touched his son,” the Chief said, getting up and walking around the desk to stand directly in front of Chris. “Just some shitty cartoon—a mean joke someone played on the poor kid. And a lot of people think you were behind it, boy.” Boucher poked a finger into Chris’s chest.
“Me, no.”
“Chief Boucher.” Chris’s dad stepped in front of the Chief. “You may not know who beat up Floyd Balzer yesterday, but I know where my son was all afternoon and evening. And he has witnesses.”
“Oh? Who? Someone from the plant I suppose, or one of the Willards again?”
“The Dahlman girl and her mother, and a teacher named Mr. Duncan.”
Boucher said nothing.
“So if that’s all you need from my son, we’ll be going now.”
With that, father and son marched out of Boucher’s office.
Boucher called after them, “Chandler!” They turned and stared at him. The Chief sauntered out of his office and started speaking in a normal voice.
“Your boy has been nothing but trouble since he arrived in this town, and even if he didn’t touch young Floyd, it’s clear he drove the poor boy to take his own life. He stole his girl, and then spread terrible lies about him and his family. I’ll get to the bottom of this. And even if the law doesn’t find your son responsible, I’ll make damn sure this whole town does.”
