by Ivan Blake
“What are you doing?” Meath seemed momentarily stunned by this show of insolence. “Get away!”
They shouted at each other across the heap of charred flesh.
“You have no right to do this!”
“And you have no right to stop me!”
“This is not what she wanted!”
“She’s dead, she’s a pile of crud, she’s not even a she! There is no she, Look at it.” Meath grabbed Felix’s hair and shook the head. “It’s road kill, you stupid boy!”
“I’m putting her back in the earth where she wanted to rest.” Chris grabbed Felix’s hair as well and tried to pull her head away from Meath.
“No one wants to be in the earth, you idiot.” Meath grabbed the charred shoulders and shook what remained of Felicity’s body. “We want to be alive! And when we aren’t, then what the hell do we care where we are—because we’re dead!”
“I’m taking her!” Chris grabbed a handful of bones and tendons with one hand and shoved Meath away with the other. They struggled. Felix slipped out of their grasp, her head striking the corner as the remains slid from the table. Her neck fell across the edge of the wheelbarrow with a sharp crack before dropping to the dirt.
“Well, now look what you’ve done!” Meath said as he bent to examine the charred heap. “You idiot, you’ve broken the neck. If you’d let me work, her pitiful life might have served some purpose. Not now.” He stood up and stepped away from the body. “So, go on, take her!”
Chris gathered up the remains of his friend, slipped them back into the sack, and lifted it onto his shoulder. She weighed practically nothing; not surprising, since she’d always been quite small, and now, well, only half of her was left.
“Of course, I rescind my offer,” Meath said.
“You’re nuts.”
“And you’re in grave danger. Ha, did I just say grave?” Meath started to laugh.
“I’m going to stop you,” Chris shouted as he left the barn.
“How?” The doctor followed Chris outside. “No one around here believes a word you say. Oh, and I know where you sleep.”
Chris opened the trunk of the Buick and gently placed the sack inside. He closed it and got into the car. Meath stood on the porch beside his wife, wagging a finger in Chris’s direction as the car pulled away.
At first, Chris felt fired up by his conquest. Heroic! Then doubt set in as the adrenaline rush ebbed. So what now? Take her to the police as proof of what he’d been telling them about Meath? The corpse was in his possession and not the doctor’s, so who were they likely to believe? What about taking the remains to Felicity’s brother at his hotel? No, he was already on his way back to New York. Then it became blindingly obvious what he had to do.
* * * *
What a performance Mallory had given! All the tears and the fainting, all the hand wringing and the prayers for Chris’s love and forgiveness, and her little circle of idiot girlfriends had eaten it all up. As she’d thrown herself about the room and wept like a cartoon princess, they’d hugged and kissed and held her tight. They’d given her sips of soda water and applied cold compresses to her forehead. As the evening had worn on, and her mother had turned in, they’d made her cocoa, then undressed and bathed and tucked her into bed. And then they’d all sat around the edge, patting her hands and wiping away her tears. They’d even sung to her! Finally around ten—when she’d pretended to doze—they’d left. Thank the gods!
Time for the good stuff!
She dragged the trunk with her most treasured Torajan paraphernalia out from beneath the bed. Her first task had been to finish the stitching on the dolls. She loved the scarlet thread—dyed it with her own blood—she’d used to embroider Chris’s name. Then she anointed both dolls with more blood and marched them through their intended actions. She unfolded her father’s prayer script and whispered the holy words. The power of the words coursed through her. She felt so powerful at that moment she was prepared to walk to the brink of death to control Chris Chandler and to punish him for ever having denied her. There was no doubt in her mind—no doubt whatsoever—that he’d do exactly as she’d instructed in her note.
He’d arrive precisely at eleven, and when he did, she would own him. From that day forth, he was going to do everything demanded of him. Never again would he say no to her. And together, they were going to make their classmates dance like puppets; in fact, they were going to control the whole damned town. For the next six months, they’d turn Bemishstock into a pit of sorrow and suffering, and her gods would be enraptured and eternally in her debt!
Then, in the spring when school ended, they would travel together to Toraja to find her father, and she’d discover the truth. After all their years apart, after all his promises, if her father put aside his Torajan family to make way for her, then she’d dispose of Chris. If her father would not, then Chris would enact vengeance on her dad, and it would be merciless.
So good to have a plan!
Mallory pulled a coat over her sheerest nightdress and boots over her bare feet. She took a blanket from her bed and car keys from the kitchen counter, and left the house.
As she crept across the yard, she smiled to think that somewhere out there in the night, Chris was on his way to save her…and lose himself.
She opened the garage door, slipped inside, and then closed and locked it. Her hero would have to break it down. Way more dramatic. She got into the back seat of her mother’s car and wrapped herself in the blanket. In spite of the cold, she dared not turn on the car engine, not until just before the appointed time. The engine had to run just long enough to create the illusion she’d been trying to kill herself. She’d pretend to be unconscious when Chris broke down the door. Only a half hour to wait.
Time passed ever so slowly. She shivered and grew angrier by the moment. It was almost inconceivable, but if for some unfathomable reason, Chris did not show, then there would be hell to pay. She’d unleash such a nightmare…
She pulled the blanket tighter about herself. Her hands and feet were numb. Chris had to be getting close by now. Ten to eleven. She’d soon turn on the engine. The warmth would be welcome. She yawned, rubbed her eyes, and fingered the keys.
* * * *
How he loved the old Buick! It rolled smoothly through the night, like a hippo on a mud bank. The heat belting out was marvelous. And for a moment, Chris even allowed himself to enjoy the aria on the eight track.
At Willard Lane, he saw Gillian standing by the side of the road. He eased the car onto the shoulder and rolled down the window.
“What’s going on?” Gillian was visibly upset. “Were you out joyriding?”
“No. Get in and I’ll explain.” He opened the passenger door and Gillian climbed in.
“How did you get Felicity’s car? Was that you driving it down the hill? I was getting Granddad into bed when I saw it come tearing down the hill and drive off toward Perkin’s Pond. I couldn’t believe it. I thought maybe somebody had stolen it. I ran around to your place to tell you. Your dad said you’d gone out after dinner.” Gillian was practically in tears. “I thought Floyd’s teammates had taken you. I’ve been waiting out here ever since. I’ve been so scared.”
“Gillian, I’m sorry, really, but it’s incredible! You won’t believe what I just did! I rescued Felicity!”
“But...she’s dead.”
“I rescued her body from Meath!”
“Oh no!”
“No, it’s good, it’s really good.” Chris turned the key and the old car roared to life again.
“Where are we going?”
“Up the mountain.” He swung the car across the road and onto Felicity’s trail. “We have a job to do.”
As they drove up the long track to the mountaintop, Chris recounted the whole ghastly story. At the meadow, he drove right to the side of the desecrated grave. They got out, and by the headlights of the car, set to work. As best they could in the dark and the cold, they sorted out the broken boards and the torn linen
at the bottom of the grave. Then Chris lifted the sack from the trunk and eased Felicity back into the simple coffin. He took pains to arrange her head as naturally as he could on the small silk pillow. Then he wiped some of the earth and gore from her cheek and whispered, “Sleep well.” Gillian watched, never flinching. Then they moved the splintered boards back onto the box and pushed earth back into the grave. “I’ll come up here tomorrow and finish the job properly,” Chris said. “But...I feel good.”
“You should, you did a brave thing.”
“She wanted to rest here undisturbed, and it’s my job to see she does.”
“She called you her hero.”
They hugged.
“Chris, you’ve got no coat on, you must be freezing.”
Chris hadn’t realized he was trembling. “Yeah, I guess, kind of.”
“Let’s get in the car. It’s warm.”
“I must be filthy.”
“Yes, well you are, but we need to warm you up.”
Chris crept into the house long past midnight. He’d used the downstairs mudroom in Gillian’s house to wash the worst of the dirt and gore from his hands and face. She’d also cleaned and bandaged his wounds from the tumble he’d taken into Felicity’s open grave. Then she’d kissed him good night. “I’m proud of you,” she’d said as he’d walked away from her front door.
Climbing up into the attic, some of Chris’s confidence and self-satisfaction had begun to slip away. How the hell was he going to sleep knowing at any moment the doctor might open the tiny door at the foot of the bed and toss in a lighted match? Then he had a brainwave. He’d sleep in the main section of the attic.
If Meath came looking for him, he might have more warning if he wasn’t in the usual crawl space. With more room, he might even be able to put up a decent fight. Chris opened the tiny door and slipped through on his belly. The main attic was far colder because it didn’t have suicide board beneath the rafters to provide meager insulation. Chris dragged a couple of blankets and a pillow with him and made a bed of sorts behind some old trunks. Fully clothed, he settled into his new sleeping space, and for warmth, shoved his hands in his pockets.
That’s when he found Mallory’s note.
Chapter Sixteen
Wednesday, December 4
Against all odds, and on a pile of musty blankets, wearing almost everything he owned against the raw, damp cold in the attic, and crammed behind two old trunks, with dead flies, cobwebs, and spiders all over him, Chris managed to get the best night’s sleep he’d had in days, all five hours of it anyway.
He was awakened by his father calling from the landing below. He had to scramble the length of the attic and back through the tiny door before answering for fear he’d give away his strange new sleeping arrangement. “Be right down!”
“You’re going to miss your bus.”
So what, he had a car! He grinned, pulled on some clean clothes, and did the best he could to put things back to normal in the crawl space, in case Meath came snooping. Then he dropped down through the attic hatch.
His father was waiting for him. “What happened last night? We were worried about you. You went out to speak to that girl, and never came back. Not very considerate leaving us hanging.”
Chris wasn’t sure how he felt about this new familiarity with his parents; he was accustomed to coming and going like a lodger instead of a family member. He had a ready answer however. “Well, after telling you and Mom about the car, I was excited and wanted try it out, and it ran beautifully. Sorry.”
“Is it outside now? Well, let’s see it.”
Everyone traipsed outside and soon they were joined by the Willards. They took turns sitting in the old car and Chris and his dad and Grandpa Willard discussed how the singed paint might be repaired. The school bus came and went, but so what? Chris and Gillian were going to drive to school in style. They were sure to give everyone something to talk about.
As it turned out, hardly anyone noticed the car.
* * * *
The huge Buick swam along the road like a steel whale rising and diving through the waves. Chris’s dad had managed to un-stick the temperature gauge so they could cut the heat to a tolerable level. Chris and Gillian sat side-by-side, grinning proudly—until they neared the Dahlman property.
When Chris saw the flashing lights coming toward him, he slowed the Roadmaster. An ambulance from town, travelling at breakneck speed, turned into the Dahlmans’ long drive, squealing its tires as it left the main road. Two police cars with their lights flashing were parked up at the house already, and a third was stopped just off the main road at the top of the drive. Ricky Pike, standing by the single car, waved the ambulance past and on up to the house.
The Buick drew abreast of the Dahlmans’ driveway. “What’s happened?” Gillian murmured.
“Should we ask?” Chris said as he pulled the Roadmaster over onto the shoulder.
“I...I’m not sure.”
Chris suddenly wheeled the car across the road, pulled alongside Deputy Pike, and rolled down his window.
“I’ll be goddamned! How’d you get this car?” Pike asked.
“Mrs. Holcomb left it to me.”
“The Chief know that?”
“What do I care?” Chris said.
“He’ll want to know for sure.”
“What’s happened?” asked Chris.
“Can’t tell you.”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“Both, I guess.”
“Is the boy sick again?”
“No. The girl this time.”
Chris’s blood ran cold. “Can I go and see?”
Gillian put her hand on Chris’s arm. “Chris, I don’t think—”
“Nope. Chief said no one’s allowed up there.”
“She’s a friend.” He felt sick.
“Chris,” Gillian started to say.
“It’s just I might know something.”
“Nope, no one’s allowed,” said Pike.
“But—”
“Back this car out now!”
Chris hesitated, then revved the car, threw it into reverse, and tore out onto the main road, tossing a great shower of dirt and gravel in Deputy Pike’s direction.
“You son of a...,” they heard Pike yell as the Buick roared away.
Neither said a word until they pulled into the school parking lot and saw the many small groups of students standing around, talking quietly. Some folks hugged one another and a few seemed to be crying. Members of the hockey team were comforting Billy, who sat on the school steps, his face in his hands.
“What did you mean when you said you might know something?” asked Gillian.
“Huh?”
“To Ricky Pike, you said you might know something.”
“No, not really.” Chris didn’t know how to explain Mallory’s note.
They got out of the car and walked slowly toward the school. No one paid them the slightest attention. Chris hadn’t known what to expect but it wasn’t this. No finger-pointing, no taunts, nothing. He stopped and stood for a moment, trying to pick up the whispered conversations around him.
“I’m going to class,” Gillian said. “See you later?”
“Yeah.”
She looked at Chris hard, then shook her head. He didn’t even notice she’d walked away.
* * * *
No one knew for certain what had happened. A lot of people had heard police cars racing out of town with their sirens blaring around seven in the morning. Most people knew Mallory and Billy had broken up, and she’d been very upset. One story going round was that Mallory’d had a fight with someone else after the breakup, maybe her mother or a girlfriend or even another boy. Nothing was for sure.
Chris looked around without success for the girl who’d delivered Mallory’s note, on the chance she might know more, so he headed for first class. Then, passing the school office, he spotted her inside with several girlfriends, all sobbing hysterically.
First perio
d was given over almost entirely to rumor. Notes and whispered stories flew up and down every aisle, and grew ever more colorful. The Dahlmans had been murdered in their beds. Mr. Dahlman had returned, killed everyone, and was now on the run. Mallory had been killed, and the arrest of her murderer was imminent. And finally, Mallory’s brother had hanged himself because he’d been Mr. Duncan’s lover.
Then during recess, and in a crowded hallway, Chris ran into the girl who’d delivered Mallory’s note. She flew at him, swinging her fists and shrieking. “Mallory asked you to come, begged you, and you ignored her! You could have saved her!” Other girls joined the attack. “You broke her heart! It’s your fault! You bastard, she loved you and you let her die!”
Chris was struck dumb. A teacher heard the shrieking, came running, and managed to pull him away from the girls and into the school office.
“Good, you found Chandler,” the school secretary said. “Principal Dell wants to talk to him right after he makes an announcement,” she said, dabbing her eyes. The teacher pushed Chris down onto a wooden chair by the reception desk. “Wait here,” he grumbled.
“It is my dreadful duty,” intoned Dell over the PA, “to announce that our little community has suffered another terrible loss. I have been informed that Mallory Dahlman, a treasured member of our school family and a beautiful soul, has died. I am not at liberty to say how because the circumstances are still under investigation.”
Chris heard cries up and down the hallway.
“I do want to say a few words, however, about what we must all do now to honor Mallory’s memory.” Dell’s voice broke. “We…we must start by helping each other through this awful time. No one should grieve alone. Your teachers are here to help. And you should reach out and comfort one another. We all need the support of friends, and never more than at a time like this. I can assure you, sorrow is soothed by sharing with friends one’s happiest memories of the dear departed.”
Chris sat staring at his feet. Share what with friends? What did he feel? Shock, certainly. Sorrow, not sure. Guilt?
“Christopher Chandler,” Principal Dell said, standing over him, “Come into my office.”
