Sacrifice

by Edward Lee

  “And here it is, every day in the damned newspaper!”

  They were looking down at an opened newspaper on the halfboard.

  “What an awful world,” the other waitress said. “I mean, who could do something like this? And it says right here there have been more; this deacon from St. Mary’s. They found his body this morning in an apartment utility room. And this other guy, this photographer from the paper.”

  Holly’s eyes narrowed. Photographer?

  “I don’t care about any of them!” the first girl sobbed loudly. “All I care about is Micah!”

  The name was unfamiliar at first, but Holly’s drooping head bolted up nevertheless. Micah? she wondered. Then—

  The note…

  That was the name signed at the bottom of one of the notes she’d found in Alice’s bedroom.

  Micah.

  “He worked here for all that time, and now—now…he’s dead…”

  Holly assessed the comment, but something else was nagging at her.

  What else had the girls said? Something about a photographer. A photographer from the paper.

  Alice said a photographer was coming over. To take pictures of the house for some article…

  Holly sipped more coffee, waiting for the distraught waitresses to get back to their work. Then she reached over, snatched up the newspaper, and spread it before her on the bar.

  The front page of the city paper. An article about strange, recent murders, all related by an unspecified modus. A deacon from the local Catholic parish. A photographer from the same newspaper, and a local cartoonist who worked part-time in this very restaurant, named Micah. And—

  Holy shit, Holly thought.

  —and a plumber named George.

  Holly paid her tab and rose to leave.

  “Hey, wait,” the bartender nearly shouted. “You’re too drunk to drive, lady. Let me call you a—”

  But by then Holly was already out the door and heading for her car.

  — | — | —

  39

  Her eyes went wide in thrall, her heart beat with an ecstatic energy she could not describe.

  Was she dreaming?

  It didn’t matter…

  Alice stepped down into the basement, wearing a sheer white nightgown. It felt so warm down here, yet not uncomfortably so. She felt safe, as if in a womb. But there was something else she felt, something…in the air?

  By now she’d changed so much, and so much for the better, and she knew that it was her mind that was changing as well as her physical body. This seemed much more important.

  She understood it all now.

  I…I can see it all…

  The basement stood vacant before her. The jagged rock walls made her feel safe as a womb. In fact, they were a womb of sorts. The womb of her womanhood.

  The womb of all women, all the women of history.

  Holly had been down here; Alice knew that because Dessamona had told her. Dessamona told her everything.

  Alice pushed one of the moving boxes away from the wall, revealing several black plastic garbage bags. She knelt and opened one of the bags.

  And smiled.

  The bag was stuffed with clothes—men’s clothes and rags encrusted with blood. Thank God Holly didn’t see this, she thought. Would she understand? Would she be able to see why all of this is so important?

  Alice’s memory seemed so strange lately, so woozy. She remembered going to Holly’s earlier. But Holly wasn’t home—her car wasn’t there—and her mailbox hadn’t been emptied. And she wasn’t at her office, either.

  At first Alice had been worried. Where could Holly have been for all this time?

  But then Dessamona had told her:

  (She’s been out…prying into things, Alice. Finding out…about us…the notes, Alice, the false notes from the men—Holly found them. She took them out of the house and brought them back later.)

  Alice’s mouth fell open silently.

  (That’s right, Alice. Holly knows…but you were very wise to take the mail out of her mailbox.)

  Had she? Alice mulled over her thoughts. Yes, she had. When she’d gone to Holly’s town house and noticed the mail in the box…she’d taken it, hadn’t she?

  Yes. I did. But—

  She couldn’t imagine why she would do such a thing.

  (You took her mail, Alice, because you’re smart, because our wisdoms are becoming shared now. Taking her mail will give us more time, and that’s very important because…because…she’ll be coming here soon.)

  No, no, Alice thought.

  (But you mustn’t worry about that. We’ll…take care of that. Together, you and I, we will take care of everything—)

  Alice thought no more of it. Dessamona knows what’s best, she thought. If there was anyone she could trust, it had to be Dessamona, right? So—

  Alice moved to the back of the basement. To the door.

  (Alice?)

  She opened the door.

  (Alice?)

  Alice smiled and entered the basement’s back room.

  ««—»»

  A dream?

  Was it really?

  Two candles flickered; that was the only light. The black church stood before her now, the same place she’d dreamed of the night she first met Dessamona, the night she’d…

  The memory steeled her.

  The night she’d tried to kill herself. But—

  Dessamona saved me.

  She owed Dessamona…so much.

  The candlelit darkness seemed to churn. Alice’s eyes struggled to adjust, and eventually the image formed:

  The figure.

  It stood like a chess piece, draped in a black robe and hood.

  It spoke, then, as it had so many times in the past, the lovely, reassuring woman’s voice, sweet with knowledge and all the verity of history:

  (Alice?)

  “I’m here.”

  (We’ve come a long way, haven’t we?)

  “Oh, yes!” Alice enthused.

  (And do you understand now? Do you?)

  “Yes! I…I know! I see it all now.”

  (Good. And now it’s time for you to see…me.)

  Alice didn’t quite understand. She’d seen Dessamona many times by now, all those nights the angel had come to comfort her, to help Alice rebuild herself out of the sad pieces of her old life, into the new and resplendent woman she’d become.

  Dessamona was beautiful, as always nude in her beauty. Her skin flawless, her body trim and fit, with feminine curves.

  Her breasts large and firm and perfect.

  Her hair like a cascade of fine black silk…

  But—

  Alice remembered now.

  I’ve never really seen Dessamona’s face…

  The angel stood erect, motionless. And as Alice’s eyes further adjusted to the darkness, she noticed the crude stone altar that Dessamona stood behind.

  (Don’t be frightened, Alice.) the lovely voice said. (But it’s time for you to look at me, to really see me.)

  Alice’s eyes widened.

  The figure’s hand slowly raised, paused in the light, and then lowered the black hood.

  Alice stared.

  The face that looked back at her was not that of a beautiful woman. It was, instead, the face of a man, or at least something vaguely resembling a man.

  Hideous.

  Huge, orbicular eyes blinked. The warped, anguloid head looked runneled, squashed to one side. Two rimmed holes were all that existed of its nose, and the skin of its pocked, gray-mottled cheeks seemed thin enough to nearly see through, as though the entirety of the face itself had been eroded by untold eons.

  And its mouth…

  The figure of Dessamona smiled as best it could, the lipless mouth stretched taut across crooked, sharpened teeth more like a gash full of broken glass.

  Yet the voice remained. Still soft and assuring, still lovely in its femininity.

  (Beauty— real beauty, Alice—is not something that can be d
efined by the world. Do you understand?)

  “Yes,” Alice breathed.

  (Behold, then. Behold the rest of my beauty.)

  Nearly skeletal hands rose to the black robe’s collar, and then the robe fell away, sliding down over shadow-boned shoulders. No, this was not the beautiful woman Alice had known. What stood before her now, behind the jagged stone altar, was something more akin to a corpse. Ribs so sunken they looked like slits, decayed muscles corded beneath the pocked and mottled skin and hued in an ugly grayish-green. Its gut sucked in, its navel like a puncture.

  And between the bone-thin legs, a scrotum and snoutlike penis…

  (Do you understand?) the thing said next. (See me now, Alice, in all my truth, in all the truth that’s ever existed.)

  As it spoke the words, the familiar feminine voice had corroded, fluttering down into barely human suboctaves that sounded like crumbling rock.

  (Do you understand, Alice?) it croaked once more.

  Alice remained standing in her rigor, her eyes unable even to blink.

  (Alice?Alice?)

  ««—»»

  This must be my lucky night.

  Climbing up onto the back deck had been a cinch. Perfect darkness back there, lots of high trees, high fences. And the deck itself was very well built; the weather-guarded planks didn’t so much as creak when he set his feet down after swiveling over the rail.

  And he didn’t even need his glass cutter—the French doors were unlocked!

  But—

  No Alice, Steve discerned at once, after he slipped into the bedroom, his gun in one hand and a gag in the other.

  And no Alice in the other rooms, either.

  He quickly combed the rest of the floor, slipping in and out like a slick shadow, ready to pounce as he flashed his red-lensed light.

  What the fuck?

  The entire house was dark. But Alice wasn’t here. He was sure she’d been here, though, an hour or so ago; he’d seen her in the window. And only a matter of minutes ago he’d seen the lights flick out.

  Where the hell could she have gotten to? he wondered, perplexed, his gloved hands clenching. His brow furrowed beneath the ski mask.

  Standing in the dark foyer, he heard clocks ticking. And then he heard—

  A voice?

  He stood stock-still, listening, his head cocked.

  A voice—Alice’s voice.

  But it was so muffled, so distant…

  Where’s it coming from?

  He took several steps down the hall. The voice, however scarcely audible, grew slightly in volume.

  And next—

  Now he saw it.

  Steve smiled.

  There was the faintest light in the gap at the bottom of the door on the left.

  A room behind there…

  Ever so carefully, then, Steve opened the door.

  No, not just a room—

  A basement, he instantly realized.

  A flight of steps led down to the basement.

  Visions bloomed, like flowers in his mind. What he would do to her would make those other women look like peanuts. He would do things to her that had never been done to women ever, ever in the world—he would do things that had never even been conceived of.

  His head grew light just thinking about it.

  Oh, yes. What he would do to Alice Sterling would be legendary…

  Steve began to walk down the steps.

  Yeah, he thought. This is definitely my lucky day.

  ««—»»

  Swallow it all, my little suckling.

  Drink it up like wine from a goblet.

  Eat it like the starving eat their porridge.

  Consume my lies, my love!

  And swallow it, yes! Swallow every morsel down into the empty belly of your soul.

  And here he comes, a final pig for our final feast together.

  A final helping of meat for my gullet…

  — | — | —

  40

  “Driver’s license and registration, please.”

  My God, Holly thought. At her back, and in the rearview mirror, manic red and blue lights throbbed, washing the houses on either side of the road. She’d been just about to turn the Maserati off the Circle—Alice’s house was less than a half-mile away—when this had happened.

  She rummaged through her purse, retrieved her license, and then rooted for her registration in the glove box.

  The big-city cop stood stoically just behind her open driver’s window. All she could see of him was his torso up to the level of his badge, and, of course, the bullet-studded gunbelt.

  “Listen, Officer,” she attempted, still unable to locate her pink MVA registration. “My name is Holly Ryan. I’m a psychiatrist, and right now I’m in the middle of an emergency regarding one of my patients.”

  “Driver’s license and registration, please,” the officer repeated.

  Goddamn! she thought. She knew she’d been weaving; she knew she was going to get a ticket, but right now—

  I don’t have time for this shit!

  She had to get to Alice’s…

  “Look, Officer, here, take my license; give me a ticket later. This really is a psychiatric emergency. I have to get to my patient’s home.”

  Only now did the officer lean over far enough to show his face. And it was not a happy face by any means. A cold glare through hard eyes, a face like carved wood.

  “I said, Miss Ryan, driver’s license and registration.”

  Holly rummaged again. “I can’t find it!”

  The officer’s nose seemed to twitch. “You’ve been drinking, haven’t you, Miss Ryan?”

  Holly didn’t answer.

  “Step out of the vehicle, please, Miss Ryan.”

  She looked up, forlorn now. “Officer, I’m serious. I really do have a medical emergency. Give me a ticket later; you have my name and address. Arrest me later. But, right now, I really do have to go.”

  A pause. Was he contemplating? Then—

  “Step out of the vehicle, please, Miss Ryan. If I let you drive this car another yard, there’d be quite a few more medical emergencies, I’m afraid. You smell like a distillery. When you turned off the Circle you nearly hit two other vehicles. You’re too drunk to drive.”

  “Christ Almighty!” Holly cut loose and yelled. “Are you dense! I have a patient who’s probably schizoid and homicidal, you idiot!”

  “Miss Ryan, you’re under arrest for driving while intoxicated. Step out of the vehicle, and I mean right now. Is that clear?”

  The red and blue lights throbbed on.

  Her sweat trickled.

  And in her mind she could only see Alice…

  “All right,” she agreed. “I’m getting out.”

  The officer stepped back, and—

  Holly stomped on the gas.

  The screech of rubber resounded like a siren. The Maserati lurched forward, fishtailing, and when its tires finally found purchase with the street it took off, the sheer inertia slamming Holly back into the seat. She cut across someone’s yard at the end of the street rather than slowing down to make the turn. It was only a few seconds later when she heard a real siren slicing through the night.

  You’ve only got one chance, Holly, she told herself. The Maserati could probably outrun any police car in the state, but on residential streets? The extra performance would do her little good, or worse, would prove to be a detriment. She was a psychiatrist, not an Indy 500 driver. And there was one more consideration: She was drunk.

  That storm trooper’ll be on my tail in ten seconds, she realized.

  She jammed the brakes. Again, the tires screamed. She got out of the car, dashed into the darkness of a side yard, and ran as fast as her inebriated feet would carry her. Through the trees, as she ran, she could see the red and blue lights racing in the opposite direction. The siren whooped.

  She stopped a moment behind someone’s lawnmower shed. She needed to catch her breath, regain her bearings. A dog barked from not to
o far off. Even this late, she could hear televisions chattering from open windows. There was one good thing, at least: the sudden rush of adrenaline cleared her senses and helped sober her up.

  After another few seconds she cut across the next yard. Christ, what if she got lost? She could see it now: Drunk psychiatrist flees from police and is found wandering lost in Historic District. But when she peeked into the adjacent street, the corner sign about hit her in the eye:

  FEDERAL STREET.

  Holly glanced both ways. The street was empty of traffic. She dashed across, scurried into the first backyard on the other side, then began to make her way down.

  Through trees and hedges she could see moonlight glinting on the bay; she knew she was close. Then she nearly bumped into another shed.

  Not a shed.

  Alice’s carriage house, she realized. Her new garage.

  She’d stumbled into Alice’s yard without even realizing it. The police lights could still be seen high off, but they were safely distant. She peeked quickly into the carriage house, blinked, and caught the glimmer of moonlight on the brown lacquer of Alice’s car. Thank God she’s home…

  But what now? She couldn’t just go knock on the door. Best to look around first, she decided, and again thought of her Peeping-Tom patient. All of the windows were dark. Maybe she’s asleep, Holly considered, and she knew there was only one way to find out.

  Christ! She nearly tripped over a roll of lawn hoses. The back deck loomed, as high as her head as she stood on the yard’s steep decline. Grunting, now, she attempted to step up onto the large Trane a/c unit, when snap!

  Her heel broke off in the grill. Make some noise, why don’t you, she thought. She kicked off her shoes, stepped up a second time, and after more repressed grunting, managed to pull herself up onto the back deck.

  She rested again, steadied herself. The moon shone high over the placid water. Crickets throbbed en masse. The first thing she needed to do was peek into one of the watch room’s windows, see if Alice was in bed. But when she moved to do so, she froze.

  The French doors both stood wide open, the air-conditioning making the sheer drape liners billow outward.