by Ivan Blake
February to August
Kind of a pretty boy as inmates go, and still frail from his injuries, Chris could have expected a hellish time in the detention centre. From the moment he’d arrived, however, he’d employed his strategy of embracing his enemies to wreak havoc on people who gave him grief.
Chris suffered frequently and horribly from Mallory’s rage, and so did anyone else who took him on. Mallory attacked every two or three days, and less often if Chris managed to deflect her rage onto someone else. To inmates and guards alike, Chris soon became off limits, almost a taboo subject. No one could explain his injuries and absolutely no one could figure out how he managed to punish people who crossed him. It became apparent to all, however, the smartest thing to do was simply leave the Chandler kid entirely alone to suffer his own torments. Once in a while, some new arrival still made the mistake of crossing Chris. The latest victim had been a kid who’d had to be shipped off to a psych ward after his ear and scalp were ripped away by what he described as demons.
It amused Chris to think that having Mallory around was like having a kind of superpower, the crappiest superpower imaginable, but a superpower all the same. And the first thing he planned to do with his superpower when he got out of South Portland was re-acquaint Mallory with Floyd Balzer’s father. Ed Balzer, his soon-to-be new best friend, would be so tickled to see Mallory again.
Chris’s mother wrote twice. The letters were surprisingly upbeat, and each closed with the same cryptic affirmation: I’m proud of you, and I know we’ll defeat the darkness together. Chris didn’t know what she meant. No matter, for some strange reason, his mother was proud of him, and that was all Chris cared about.
He’d been in South Portland for about six months when he got a letter from Felicity Holcomb’s brother in New York City. Nigel Harrow wrote to say he’d just learned about Chris’s trial, and was disappointed Chris hadn’t contacted him for help. He added that he’d reviewed the trial transcript, was appalled at the judge’s conduct, and was determined to launch an immediate appeal.
In his reply, Chris explained he hadn’t wanted to abuse his friendship with Felix by asking for Nigel’s help, and for the moment anyway, was content to serve out his sentence because he was using the time to get his life back on track. One day, he might want to clear his name. For the present, however, he was content merely to be away from Bemishstock.
Of course Chris tried to contact Gillian Willard. He first wrote the Willard family in March to ask how Gillian was doing and to express his profound regret for getting her mixed up in the dispute with Meath. Gillian’s mother wrote back to say Gillian was still in a coma, she would never forgive Chris for what had happened to her daughter, and Chris should never again attempt to contact their family. It took Chris days to get over the pain of Mrs. Willard’s reply.
Thereafter, Chris threw himself into other things. He read novels, attended classes, and stayed pretty much to himself. The one thing that broke the monotony of incarceration was the occasional letter from Rudy Dahlman. Rudy wrote every few weeks to say in words simply dripping with malice how much he hoped Mallory was still beating the crap out of Chris. Rudy minced no words about the mauling he’d taken from Mallory, and swore repeatedly he’d have his own revenge on Chris one day. Well, mused Chris, at least somebody besides my mom is thinking of me.
Then in July, Chris learned through Nigel Harrow that Gillian had been released from hospital. Nigel’s art dealer friend had visited the Willards in connection with the Holcomb exhibition in New York and been delighted to find Gillian up and about. Chris immediately wrote to Gillian herself in the hope she might read the letter before her mother could destroy it. His first letter was simply to say how pleased he was to learn she was out of the hospital and how terrible he felt about the pain he’d caused her. No reply. So he went for broke in a second letter and wrote the most achingly truthful letter he could manage; he described at length his profound admiration for her courage and strength, and the deep affection and longing he felt for her. Again, no reply. That was that, he’d concluded; his ludicrous battles with Meath and Mallory over dead bodies and Torajan magic had cost him the dearest friend, the bravest ally, and most beautiful person he’d ever known.
Then one day, after almost eight months, Gillian Willard came to visit.
September
Gillian was already seated at a table in the cafeteria when Chris was escorted into the cavernous room. As he hobbled across the empty hall to meet her, he could see the shock in her eyes at the sight of him. She, however, looked...stunning.
“Hello, Gillian,” he said. “You, you look...absolutely amazing!” And he meant it.
She stood up as he approached. When he got to the table, he sat down painfully. She was even taller than he remembered; her long blond hair, no longer wild and windblown, now hung to her shoulders where it turned up slightly and bounced softly. She was wearing a blue crocheted dress that fell just to mid-thigh, and she had the most beautiful long legs. Gillian looked breathtaking, like some kind of fashion model. How right you were, Felicity.
“Oh, Chris….” His appearance had obviously caught her off guard.
“I…I’m surprised to see you after all this time,” he said.
“You’re wondering why I didn’t write.”
“No, it’s okay. You’re here now.”
“But I want to explain,” she said. “After my coma, I didn’t know what had happened to you and Mother never told me about your letters. In the hospital, they said you’d moved away, and you hadn’t written to me because you probably wanted to forget all about your time in Maine. Then, when I finally got out, Mother said Chief Boucher had threatened to re-investigate my role in the fire if I tried to contact you.”
“He said that?”
“Yes.”
“But you came anyway.”
“I told my mom what really happened at Meath’s farm, and she finally gave me your letters, and, well, I had to see you.”
Oh God, she’s here to tell me to get lost! After his pathetic little love letter, she’d felt sorry for him and had come in person to tell him to move on. She was too honorable to do it in a letter. He felt like such a fool.
“Oh, Chris, you look awful,” she said. “No, I mean you look great, but your injuries! Shouldn’t they have healed by now?”
“I have Mallory to thank.”
“She’s still here?” Gillian looked horrified and confused.
“Oh yes, and having just a wonderful time.”
“But I buried her bones...”
“You know where they are? That’s marvelous!”
“Sure. You said she’d be trapped in her remains if we got them together. Then why is she here? How did she get free? How can she still be here hurting you?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the fire? It must have driven her spirit from her flesh.”
“Then what can we do?”
We, she said we! “Well, Mallory’s supposed to be inside her remains since her gods ordered it. Perhaps this release is just temporary. If I can get her together with her bones again, maybe she’ll be trapped again.”
“And then what?”
“Well, then I could bury her and let her suffer for eternity. Or I could find the right prayers to say over the bones and set her spirit free to find the Land of Souls.”
“Part of me says let the bitch suffer,” Gillian said, “but the other part says we should do the right thing. So, I guess we have to find those prayers.”
Chris smiled. “I’m going to write to her father. I managed to find an address for his employer. I’ll say I was a close friend of Mallory and Rudy, and how I admired Mallory’s passion for Torajan lore. I’ll ask for the prayers Rudy read over his sister’s body because they sounded very musical. Her father doesn’t know they were never read. And I’ll also ask if he knows any Torajan priests in New England in case I have more questions about Torajan religion. The only reason I haven’t written him yet is because I’m afraid he mig
ht recognize my name. He might know Mallory killed herself because of me.”
“Chris, you must let me write the letter. I’ll do it today!”
“You’d do that for me? After all the pain I caused you?”
“Oh, Chris,” and she started to reach across the table.
He pulled back. “No, we can’t touch, not yet.”
“Sure, I know, Mallory will come after me, the way she did Meath...” and Gillian visibly shuddered, “but, Chris...I...”
“Yeah, I know...” But he didn’t know. He didn’t know if she cared for him at all anymore. Nine months had passed. Why would she want to have anything to do with a loser like him? And yet she seemed to be genuinely concerned.
He tried to sound almost casual as he asked, “So what’s happened to you since…since…”
“Our battle? Well, I think you know I cracked my head when I hit the house. After they brought me out of the coma, for a while I had a few problems. I’m okay now though, just the odd headache.”
Five months in a coma! “I’m so sorry.” He almost broke down. “I’m so sorry for getting you into this whole mess.”
“You shouldn’t be! We had to do it.” She teared up too. “There’s nothing to be sorry for! That’s what I wanted to tell you! Meath was a monster. We were doing something important. That’s all I have ever wanted, to do something that matters. And we did it together. Maybe nobody else knows, but we do, and that’s what’s important.”
“I never expected anyone would get killed.”
“That was Meath’s own fault. He and his wife, they deserved everything they got.”
“Yeah, when I think of what he tried to do to Felicity.” They smiled at each other tenderly. “So, when did you get out of hospital?”
“July. And that’s when I learned where you were. A nurse told me you were in jail. I was horrified and didn’t know what to do but I had to try. I knew where Mallory’s bones were, I thought maybe I should tell the police. I hoped they might prove what you’d been saying about Meath, so after I got out of hospital, I went to the police station. They wouldn’t talk to me. Chief Boucher said the whole matter was closed and I should consider myself lucky they didn’t ask more questions about my presence at the Meaths’ farm the night of the fire.”
“And that’s when Boucher threatened your mother?”
“I didn’t know he’d done it. He frightened Mother terribly. That’s why she kept your letters from me.”
“That’s okay. But what about Mallory’s bones?”
“Well, when I kicked them out of the flames—Mallory’s skull and a couple of other large bones—I used my sweater to pick them up. I ran down to the tracks and threw them into a tidal pool where I thought they’d be safe from animals until I could come back for them.”
“Funny, if you only picked up a few bones, then there must have been others nearby. Why didn’t the police find those? Well, anyway, after you got out of the hospital, you got the bones out of the water...”
“And I buried them in our family graveyard...where you used to sit.”
“Perfect.”
“And creepy; I read the inscription on my great, great grandmother’s tombstone...‘Death is not the worst evil...’ Weird huh?”
“...but rather when we wish to die and cannot,” Chris answered. “Fitting for Mallory.”
“That’s one thing I don’t get,” Gillian said. “So if Mallory’s beliefs about spirits and walking corpses were somehow true, then why didn’t her spell to control you work? And since it didn’t work, then maybe the prayers to release her spirit won’t work either.”
The same questions had occurred to Chris and given him many a terrible night. “I don’t know what happened? Maybe Mallory just got them wrong…so we’ll just have to get them right.”
They sat in silence for a moment.
“Oh, that reminds me,” Gillian said, “when the hospital gave me back the clothes I’d been wearing the night I was admitted, there were some pages in the pocket of my coat, pages I’d taken from Meath’s barn. Here.” She pulled a wad of singed and sooty pages out of her purse and passed them across the table. “I think maybe the police have the rest because when I asked if they’d found Meath’s binder, the Chief got real serious and told me to get out. You really need to read them.”
“Later, okay?”
“Sure, only we do have to talk about setting things right.”
Five minutes ago, he’d thought she was there to tell him to get lost, and now she wanted to help him set things right. He couldn’t believe his good fortune. “Sure, just not right now, okay?” He wanted to revel in every beautiful detail of her.
They sat in silence for a moment, happy to be together after all this time.
“By the way, I have your car,” Gillian said with a wonderful smile.
“You do? That’s great! How?”
“After the trial the police returned it to your parents, and since they were leaving town, they asked my mother if she would keep it for you, until you got out. It’s in our barn. Grandpa even fixed the damage from the accident and the paint where it got burned. Sometimes I go and sit in it—to be near you. That’s where I read your letters.”
“How are your mom and grandfather?” It was such a transparent effort to change the subject and avoid talking about the letters. He was still worried all this chit-chat was leading up to some heartbreaking news.
“Good,” Gillian said. “Did you know Felicity is kind of famous now, because of the exhibition in New York? Anyway, we had a bunch of her paintings from a long time ago and the agent, the one who came to her funeral, well he came back later and bought some of them for a lot of money, so Mom was able to get a few new pieces of equipment for the business, and that’s helped us a lot.”
“That’s wonderful.” Now the hard stuff. “And how’s school?” By which he meant, are you seeing anyone?
“Good too, I guess, busy. I had to start the school year a week or two late but I’m doing okay.”
“Why late?”
“I was having a little trouble walking...”
“Oh god, Gillian, I’m so sorry!” He was crushed to once again realize what she’d been through because of him.
“No, it’s fine. I just had to do a bunch of exercises to get my balance and strength back. So now I’m good, and I’m even kind of a celebrity. Oh, and you remember my friend Madelyn, well we’ve both heard we’re getting full scholarships to U Maine, so yeah, school’s good. And you, how are you doing, other than Mallory, I mean?”
“Well, believe it or not,” Chris said, “I’m taking classes too, and I’m doing okay. A couple of good grades, great in fact, for the first time ever. And I’m going to be getting my diploma this spring, same time as you.”
“That’s great. And do you know what you’ll do when you get out of here?”
“College I hope. I’d like to learn to write. Maybe the Army first though.” Then with a wry smile Chris added, “Or maybe I’ll hunt down grave robbers; somebody has to.”
“Not without me, okay?” Gillian said softly, with a big grin. “We’re a team.” She slid her hand across the table toward him, palm up.
“Gillian! Your hand!” Across her palm was a vicious-looking, bright red scar, almost as if she’d been branded.
“Oh yes, my mark.”
“How?”
“When I picked up Meath’s scalpel to cut away your ropes, it burned me.” She made no move to conceal the injury. “My hand’s fine now. It only looks bad. Does it remind you of anything?”
He studied the scar closely, every ridge, and tear, and jagged edge. The pain she must have endured, and for him! He would never forgive himself. Then suddenly he saw it. The crest of the Mortsafemen! There it was, diagonally across her palm, silhouetted in scarlet, the arched mausoleum and hooded figure holding an axe. He looked up at Gillian in amazement.
“You see?” she said. “We really are a team!”
Chris moved his left hand toward
hers. Although he longed to grasp Gillian’s hand, he dared not for fear of what Mallory might do. Besides, he hadn’t recovered sensation in his left hand. That’s why it came as such an overwhelming surprise when their fingertips touched and a wave of such intense pleasure ran through his hand and his entire body that it took his breath away. He looked deep into Gillian’s eyes and saw the same flutter of pleasure there too. She smiled the most beautiful warm smile Chris had ever seen, and he wanted nothing more than to dive across the table and sweep her into his arms.
Then he saw Mallory’s face—in the corner of the room, up near the ceiling—hovering there, staring at him—waiting.
November
As Martin Koyman and Jackie Cormier entered the Bemishstock police station, they overheard the deputy say, “They’re back, Chief,” and the Chief reply, “Then let’s get this over with.”
Koyman chuckled to himself. If the fat bastard Boucher thought this business was going to end today, he was in for the shock of his life. What they’d uncovered in the past month took Martin’s breath away. It was probably the biggest story of Koyman’s career! Well, more precisely, of their careers, because Bemishstock was going to make the reputation of his young intern as well. She had done amazing work, and he couldn’t have been more proud of her if she’d been his own daughter. What she’d uncovered!
“Thanks for seeing us, Chief,” he said, poking his head into Boucher’s office. “I know you’re busy.”
“No problem,” Boucher replied, but Koyman could read plainly the look of utter disgust on Boucher’s face as he and Jackie sat themselves down.
“Chief Boucher, this is Jackie Cormier. She’s been working with me, and she has a few questions for you.”
“Sure.” Boucher grinned and sat back in his chair. He probably thought Jackie was going to be a pushover. The idiot wouldn’t know what hit him.
“So,” she began with a disarming smile, “what can you tell us about the remains you found in the ashes of the barn?”
