by Ivan Blake
Chris guessed most of the stories originated with Mallory. From time to time, he saw her draped over her new love, Billy, or laughing at some lame joke, or listening to the inane chitchat of her teachers—pretending to care. Their eyes met just once before Felicity’s funeral. For an instant, Mallory feigned a sad face and pretended to wipe away a tear, then laughed, and took Billy’s arm. He appeared to flinch. A large bandage covered his forearm.
From the morgue in the town’s small hospital, Felicity Holcomb’s body had been moved to the funeral parlor. Since too much of the body had been consumed by flames, there was no mention of a public viewing. And besides, who would have come? Instructions for the disposition of Felix’s remains were provided over the phone by her brother Nigel from New York, and he wired the money for a modest funeral to the undertaker. There was to be no funeral notice or obituary or church service, and attendance at the interment was by invitation only. Felicity was to be buried beside her beloved husband Harold on the top of their mountain.
Nigel Harrow flew into Bangor from New York, rented a car, and arrived in town two days before the graveside service. He’d already booked rooms at a grand old seaside inn down the coast for himself and an elegant young man. The presence of the young man fueled the dirty stories about Felicity and her relatives. Sitting beside the young man at the coroner’s inquest, however, Chris learned he was actually an artist’s agent from the gallery curating the upcoming exhibition of Felix’s work. The event, he said, would transform Felicity Holcomb into a household name. When the agent had learned of her death, he’d asked her brother if he could attend her burial to see where she’d lived and painted, and to buy up any of her canvases still in the area.
The inquest lasted only a day, and the finding was, ‘Death from smoke inhalation in a fire of suspicious origin.’ The police recounted the incidences of harassment reported by Mrs. Holcomb. The fire chief gave evidence concerning an exploded gas can he’d found in the ashes of the porch and some sort of wooden obstruction across the doorway. However, since no one had ever been charged with harassing her, since the wooden object blocking the door had all but burned away and could not be identified, and since Felix herself may have stored the gas can on the porch, no finding of foul play was rendered. Chris tried to attend some of the proceedings during spare periods at school. He was emotionally drained by the whole affair and could only shake his head when the verdict was read.
On the morning of Felicity’s funeral, the sky, which had been gray since the fire, managed to brighten, and the damp chill that had hung over the coast for as long as anyone could remember suddenly lifted. Everyone enjoyed a last day of warmth before winter set in with a vengeance. Present at the interment were Felix’s brother Nigel and her husband’s brother, James Holcomb, Gillian, her mother and grandfather, the artist’s agent from New York, a gallery owner from Bangor, two of Felicity’s friends with the magazines, New Yankee Arts and Historic New England, and of course, Chris. They’d tried to dissuade James from attending because of his frail condition, but he’d made it abundantly clear he wanted to be there. The funeral director had agreed to deliver the simple wooden casket to the foot of the trail, and from there, Gillian’s mother trucked it to the top in her pickup. She stopped the truck at the edge of the meadow, and they all in some fashion helped carry Felicity’s coffin to the side of her husband’s grave, all except James who remained in the truck wrapped up in blankets and Gillian’s grandfather who said he’d keep James company.
On her husband’s simple headstone was inscribed his name and the words, Let Us Meet Here, My Darling. Next to it, Felicity’s grave, which Nigel had personally prepared, had a matching stone that read, Sorry to Have Kept You Waiting, My Love. Chris both teared and chuckled as he read the inscriptions. No lies there.
The whole afternoon was like that, filled with stories and songs and laughter and tears. Then they all helped lower Felix’s casket into the grave, fill it in, and cover it with the last few wildflowers of the autumn. There were hugs and more tears, and then they strolled across the meadow to the ruins of the cottage and stood in silence.
After a moment, Chris turned away from the cottage and walked to Felicity’s old car, still standing where she’d parked it, alongside the shed which had also burned. Some of the Buick’s paint had been scorched by the fire, but otherwise it appeared to be in running order. Nigel came up beside Chris.
“A real beauty wasn’t she.”
“I miss her,” Chris started to say.
“No son,” her brother chuckled, “I was talking about the car. But yes, I miss my sister too.”
“You have to believe me, sir, I had absolutely nothing to do with the fire...no matter what the police chief may have said at the Inquiry.”
“Oh, I know that, son. My sister thought you were quite special.”
Chris was overwhelmed. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“I think she would have wanted you to have these.” And he handed Chris a set of keys. “I found them in the ashes. Felicity told me her car was how you met. So…it’s yours,” he said, “if you can get it off this mountain.”
“What?” Chris was stunned.
“The car, son, it’s yours.”
“Oh, I couldn’t.”
“Well, I’m not going to sell it, so if you won’t take it, then it’s just going to rust away up here, and that seems a shame. Let’s make a deal. You use it to look after Felicity’s grave, drive up here from time to time to cut back the weed, maybe place a few wildflowers.”
“It would be an honor.” He fingered the keys and played with the fob, a piece of charred deer skin. “You know, she told me we have an obligation to sleep in the soil where we lived most fully.”
“Sounds like my sister. Look son, you’re finishing high school soon. Well, when you’re done, contact me; we’ll see what we can do to improve your prospects.” And Nigel walked back to the group.
Chris remained by the car, stroking it, remembering the first time Felicity had picked him up in it, how he’d sweltered and cursed her excruciatingly slow driving. Then he remembered her warm face and humor and courage. He would treasure Felicity’s memory and her car for years to come.
The sun had begun to set and a chill wind rose up the hill from the bay. Chris glanced at his watch, four-thirty. Without speaking, the small group turned from the ashes and strolled back across the meadow toward the trail. Gillian’s mother drove the two infirmed old gentlemen to the bottom of the hill. The others opted to walk.
That evening, Chris joined his family for dinner, the first meal they’d eaten together in years. Even his mom seemed cheerful; new medication she’d picked up in Bangor, she said. They’d finished eating and had moved to the living room. Chris was telling them about the beautiful service and the gift of the car and the kind words from Felicity’s brother. His parents looked at each other in amazement. “Maybe our fortunes are changing,” his mother said with a weak smile.
Then the doorbell rang.
* * * *
Chris’s father left the living room to answer the door. After a moment, he called, “It’s for you, son.”
“Is it Gillian?”
“No,” his dad said as he came back into the living room and sat down.
It was one of Mallory’s friends, one of her minions. “Hi, Chris.”
“Hi.” He struggled to remember the girl’s name, Grace or Faith or something.
“Can I talk to you?” She sounded so pitying and sorrowful, as if she was about to break some terrible news.
“Sure.” He didn’t invite her in or make any move to join her outside.
“I mean, out here?”
“All right.” He slipped on his shoes and went out onto the steps but went no further. “What’s up?”
“Okay, well, it’s Mallory. She’s so upset.”
“And I should care why?”
“She says she has to talk to you.”
“Maybe at school tomorrow?”
�
��No, now. She has to talk to you now. She’s in her car—we’re all in her car—up at the road, and she says it’s extremely important.”
This sounded far too much like a setup. “I don’t think so. I’m just finishing dinner.”
“But Mallory needs you.” The girl seemed quite incredulous anyone could say no to Mallory.
“What about Billy?”
“They broke up this afternoon.”
“Smart man.”
“No, Mallory dumped Billy because her heart belongs to you, that’s what she said, only to you.”
“I’m…flattered. The answer’s still no. I just got home from a funeral...and I’m still...very emotional, and I don’t think I could handle seeing Mallory right now.” Because he might kill the bitch if he did.
“Oh, okay, I understand. Mallory is going to be so disappointed.”
“Well, tell her I’m sorry. She’ll just have to wait.”
“Actually, Mallory was afraid you might not want to see her. She knows how much she hurt you.”
“Oh yes, she really did.” Chris almost laughed out loud.
“So she wrote you this note and told me to give it to you if you refused to talk.” She handed Chris a small envelope.
“What does it say?”
“I...I don’t know...It’s only for you. She said you have to read it right away. She’s so upset and we’re really worried about her.”
This had to be a trap. “Well, tell Mallory everything’s going to be okay. Tell her to be strong.” Oh, she’ll love that.
“I will, and thanks, Chris. Mallory is right about you. You really are nice. And I,” she leaned forward and whispered, “I never believed you were queer.”
Chris almost choked. “Okay, goodnight.” He waited on the steps as she disappeared around the house, then, by the porch light, read the note.
Chris, my dark prince,
I’ve made a terrible mistake. I thought I could put you out of my life. I can’t. I thought I was strong. I’m not. I’ve hurt you and so many others, and now I’m being punished, and I can’t endure the pain. Please, you must forgive me. I need you more than ever. Come to me and I’ll do anything to win you back. I beg you, come to my house tonight at 11. We’ll take Mother’s car, we’ll go wherever you want, and we’ll do whatever you wish, just as long as we can be together.
If you don’t come, I dare not think what I may be forced to do.
Your loving Mallory
What the hell? So...geez, so bloody creepy. My dark prince? Where had that come from? Way over the top. Had Mallory really believed he would fall for something so stupid? She probably had the whole hockey team waiting, ready to beat the crap out of him. Or maybe she was trying out one of her magic spells, trying to manipulate him. Or maybe she was working with the police, and they were waiting at her house, ready to pounce on a prowler. Well, her trap wasn’t going to work.
Then he reread the last line; if you don’t come, I dare not think what I may be forced to do. Was it some kind of threat? And against whom, against him, or Gillian, or maybe even herself? Oh crap.
He jumped off the porch and ran after Mallory’s minion, shouting, “Wait a minute!” He had to know what Mallory was up to. In the dark, he could barely see the girl at the top of the lane. Again, he shouted but she disappeared round the corner. He ran as fast as possible to the road, just in time to see the tail lights of Mallory’s car disappear in the distance.
“So what do I do now?” he said to himself and started back to the house. Then he heard an engine.
Thinking Mallory might be coming back, he waited on the main road but no car appeared. The engine noise grew louder. Then, high up on the hillside, he saw lights, a pair of them, coming down the track from Felicity’s cottage.
What the hell? Her car?
Chris ran across the road, stood right in the middle of the track, and waited. A hundred yards above him, a vehicle rounded the last bend and accelerated down the slope toward the main road. It showed no sign of stopping. Only at the last second did he throw himself to the side as an old truck rolled past, spun wildly as it hit the asphalt, and squealed to a stop. Sprawled in the frozen grass, Chris looked up at the driver. Meath! The doctor stared back, a huge grin on his face, then floored the truck, spun its tires, and rumbled away into the night.
“What have you done?” Chris shouted at the top of his lungs. He scrambled from the grass and first ran after the truck, then turned back and started up the track like a madman. “Please, not Felix!” he said over and over to himself, as he slipped and stumbled up the icy slope. Meath couldn’t have taken Felix’s body! There wasn’t enough left for him to use! No coat, no gloves, a bitterly cold night, Chris felt only the heat of his anger.
Twenty minutes later, he emerged from the wood, chest heaving, gasping for breath, and sweating like a pig in spite of the cold. The night was pitch black, and for a moment, Chris had difficulty orienting himself. Slowly at first, he picked his way across the meadow in what he thought was the direction of the two graves. When he sensed he was close, he began to run. In the dark, he didn’t see the new mound of earth. He fell headlong over it and into a shallow pit, right on top of the splintered wooden box which just hours ago had held his dear friend. He howled in pain and then in anger.
He dragged himself out of the grave, pulled two long splinters from his leg and right arm, and cried, “I’m going to stop you, you bastard!” Then the hopelessness of the situation sank in, and Chris sobbed. It would take half an hour just to get down the hill, and another half hour to get to Meath’s place. The mad man would have done his worst before Chris got close.
For an instant, moonlight broke through the cloud, and Chris glimpsed across the meadow the hulking silhouette of the old Buick. Felix was telling him what to do! He searched his pockets for the keys—found them—then ran to the car and fumbled with the lock. It wasn’t going to start. Battery was probably dead. He pulled open the heavy door, and the roof light came on.
Chris threw himself inside, put the key in the ignition, and tried to turn the engine over. It coughed and died twice. On the third try, the engine roared to life. What an old beauty! He hit the gas, spun the steering wheel, and headed off across the meadow in search of the trail down the mountain.
“Heroic,” Felicity whispered as the Buick raced away from the ashes of her cottage.
* * * *
Chris had never approached Meath’s farm from the main road before, so he missed the turnoff, realized his mistake, and slammed on the brakes. Stopping the Buick was like stopping an aircraft carrier. The car left a fifty-yard strip of rubber along the road before it rocked to a halt. He slammed the shift into reverse, and in a cloud of smoke, raced backwards until the car was abreast of Meath’s turnoff.
The old Buick lurched and bounced along the muddy lane as fast as Chris could push it until the house appeared in the distance. He eased off on the gas, rolled the Buick alongside Meath’s pickup, and shut off the engine. No sign of Meath, so he got out of the car and walked cautiously toward the house.
The front door opened and Meath’s wife appeared. She staggered out onto the porch on crutches and in great pain, her neck cinched in some sort of high collar.
“Where is he?” Chris shouted.
The old lady waved a crutch as if to warn Chris off. Her mouth opened in a silent cry.
“I said, where is he?”
She pointed at her throat, apparently unable to speak, and again tried to wave Chris away. Then she gave up, and pointed a crutch to the side of the house.
Chris ran to the back of the house and threw open the barn doors.
“Ah, Chandler!” Meath was standing by the butcher’s table. “Just in time. The wife’s no longer much help,” he said. “Shall we get started?”
Meath lifted the familiar red sack out of the wheelbarrow and onto the table.
“Well, get over here!”
“I’m not here to help you, you freak. I’ve come to take Felicity Holcomb
back.”
“Having second thoughts? I guess I don’t blame you...she is an awful sight.” He opened the sack and Felicity’s remains tumbled onto the table in an oily black heap. Her face was placid, almost serene, but her ash-streaked upper body was barely recognizable as human...and her lower half was a nightmare of charred and twisted sticks which had once been bones, and shredded black hide—once skin, now dripping with a thick, tar-like fluid and caked with dirt.
Chris had not been prepared for the sight. In the morgue, only Felicity’s face and shoulders had been visible, and they’d been washed and made to seem human. Now....
“Oh, I know what you’re going to say, she’s too badly damaged to be of any use to us. Not to worry. I examined the neck when I had the remains in the funeral parlor, and I am pleased to say, it’s in good shape, for a human briquette I mean.” And he laughed. “So let’s get her into...”
On the verge of tears, Chris cried out, “No, you have no right.”
“Don’t start that again. We haven’t time. She’s soon going to start smelling something awful. You haven’t worked with burned corpses before. I have, and let me tell you, the smell when all those roasted organs turn bad...”
As Meath spoke, he arranged the charred remains in an upright position, balancing them on what must have been the pelvic bones. “Not enough left to strap into the chair. We’re going to have to do the test on the table. You hold the torso upright while I install my Activator. You’re going to want to wear gloves. She’s dripping badly...all the fats have been boiled out of the skin. There’s a pair on my workbench. We’ll use the bags of feed by the milking machines to hold her in position when we turn on my device.”
“I’m not going to let you do this,” Chris said. In spite of the horror before him, he kept telling himself, she was his friend and would not have wanted this. “I’m taking her back to her mountain!” he shouted, and ran to the table where he pulled the doctor’s hands away from the corpse.
