Heretics

by Greg F. Gifune

  “Nothing,” he said. “Nothing, Chief. I just came back to see Rip, that’s all.”

  Dunham remained quiet for a time, stared straight ahead. “Couldn’t ever prove it, but I always knew you two were guilty. The whole town did.” He turned, and Harry saw himself in the mirrored lenses. “And when Ripley mutilated himself like that it just proved it. Guilt, that’s all that was, years of guilt. Just his way of admitting it, I guess. How about you, Harry? Do you ever admit it?”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Dunham stepped closer. “How about when you’re all alone, do you admit it then? Or do you lie to yourself just like you lied to me and everybody else for all these years?”

  “There’s nothing to admit to, nothing to lie about. We didn’t do anything.”

  “Come on, Harry, it’s not like I’m wired or could prove anything anyway. We’re just two guys talking, you can tell me.”

  Distant screams echoed in his mind.

  “We weren’t even there.”

  Blood and gasoline and fire and–

  “You’re guilty as sin.”

  Help me. Will you help me, Harry? Will you? Will you help me?

  “Guilty by association?” Harry shook his head, hoping to clear it. “Madeline was our friend, and we were close and spent most of our time together, yes. But because of that everyone automatically assumed Rip and I were a part of what happened in her house that night. It couldn’t be that bad things just happened up on the cliffs, right? No, not among the upper crust of Virtue, the two poor kids from the other side of town must’ve had something to do with it. Things like that don’t happen to rich people. Chief, there isn’t a day goes by that I don’t wish I could’ve known what was happening there, what was about to happen, but I didn’t. I didn’t. We were asleep in our beds that night. We had no way of knowing what she was going to do.”

  Madeline was standing next to the car, lips moving soundlessly, her nude body sprayed with blood, head tilting from side to side, back and forth, right then left…left then right…gaining speed, faster and impossibly faster still until she became nothing more than a blur of rapid motion.

  Harry closed his eyes. When he opened them the vision was gone, replaced by a faint smile dancing along Dunham’s lips.

  “That little bitch was crazy,” he said. “No doubt about it. Crazier than hell, but she didn’t do all that by her lonesome, Harry. She didn’t raise all that hell by herself. You know it and I know it. All that bullshit the news stations and nut-jobs made up, claiming the place might have been haunted by demons because that maid had been practicing witchcraft in the house or some nonsense, bunch of ratings hype. There wasn’t anything supernatural to blame for what happened that night, Harry. There wasn’t anyone practicing black arts or demonic shit in that house unless the three of you were, and even if you were, it was all a bunch of crap anyway. Bunch of drugged out kids playing martyrs.” He stuffed his hands into his pants pockets. “Never surprised me when it came to Ripley. That boy was a steaming piece of dog shit from the minute the best part of his daddy dribbled between his momma’s legs. He was bad news right from the get-go; it was only a matter of time for him. And that Martin girl was a strange one. She’d been to shrinks since she’d been little, did you know that? So those two had reasons, I guess, not excuses but reasons as to why or how they might’ve ended up in a situation like that. But you, you were the one I could never figure out. Where the hell did you go wrong? Your parents were decent, hard-working, law-abiding people, and your brother followed suit.”

  “I’m all of those things, too.”

  Dunham pulled his hands from his pockets, curled them into fists but left them at his sides. “Do you really believe that?” he asked through gritted teeth. “Are you that far gone, boy?”

  Not yet, Harry, Madeline’s voice whispered in his ear. Not yet.

  Even with the mirrors blocking his eyes the intensity rising within Dunham was evident. All these years later, it still haunted him too. A cop who spent his life policing a quiet town, still tormented by the worst and most publicized night in that town’s history, Dunham continued to chase the demons right along with them. A case seemingly open and shut, but one where questions would always remain, where suspicion would always linger, he had failed at his one chance to play a real crime-solver, to be the hero, the sheriff in the white hat trotting through town, and the eventual rage born of that frustration still bubbled just beneath the surface. After a moment he sighed, his posture relaxed a bit and he kicked at a small stone in the dirt. “I don’t have to worry about blind-boy anymore, his days of causing me or anybody else problems are over, and I don’t plan to spend all my time following your sorry ass around, you hear me? I’ve got a few weeks left, Harry, and nothing else is going to happen, not on my watch. So you get in your shit-box and you get the fuck out of my town.” He peeled the sunglasses off, slid them into his shirt pocket and stepped closer to Harry. “You read me?”

  “I read you.”

  “I hope so, because if I see you again I’ll have you arrested.”

  “For what?”

  “I’ll think of something.”

  Harry nodded. “Can I go now?”

  “Can’t go far enough for me.” Dunham looked at him as if he saw something more than what Harry was showing him, like he could see clear through to his soul. “But you know what? One of these days, Harry, no matter what you do, you’re gonna get yours. One day, you’re gonna burn.”

  In Hell, Madeline giggled.

  Dunham waved a hand at the air between them. “Get out of my sight.”

  Harry got back into his car, watched the rearview as Dunham returned to the cruiser and it made a U-turn and headed back toward town. Despite his shaking hands, he managed to light a cigarette.

  Flashes of Madeline sitting next to him, her hair and skin soaked in gasoline and blood, blinked like a strobe then faded.

  She’s calling you back too…same as she did me.

  “There’s one difference between Rip and me, Madeline.” He leaned over, popped the glove compartment and removed a closed, pearl handled straight razor. After examining it a moment, he slipped it into his pocket. “I’m ready for you.”

  Harry dropped the car into Drive, and headed for the cliffs.

  12

  The candle had nearly burned out. Except for a small spot directly above and around it that stood out from the darkness like a dying beacon, perhaps a warning, the flame still danced but did little to light the room. The drape that had once skirted the bed now hung free, a large portion of it strewn across the floor along with other remnants of the previous few hours. The wind had grown louder, and the house shook gently against its assault. Interspersed with the steady cadence of their breathing and the sounds of a turbulent ocean, previously unnoticed night clatter became an irrepressible symphony.

  A dirge, Harry thought, opening his eyes to the shadows playing along the ceiling.

  Madeline was already awake, and from the looks, had been for quite a while, though he couldn’t be certain that she’d ever drifted off to sleep at all. Lying between them, hands folded across her stomach, legs bent at the knee, head cradled by plush, sweat-stained pillows, hair damp and hanging free, she grinned at him through the darkness, big eyes blinking and unusually peaceful. Their bodies, still slick and wet, smelled of sex and smoke. He felt her foot brush his, linger, rub against it.

  On the other side of her, on his stomach, Rip snored quietly, a bit of drool dribbling from his open mouth to the sheet, eyes fluttering with each breath, his back and buttocks glossy with perspiration and looking as if they’d been waxed while he slept.

  Madeline looked at him with an expression teetering between fondness and hunger, and like he’d read her mind, Rip came awake with a cough and a snort. He pawed at his eyes with one hand and draped the other across her, his palm resting between her breasts as he nuzzled closer and put his head on her shoulder. As he did so he came into direct eye
contact with Harry. They watched each other for what seemed more like hours than seconds.

  Harry pulled the sheet around his waist, covered himself and flung an arm across his forehead. He had a slight headache, and the effects of the wine and pot had not yet left him. “The candle’s almost out.” His voice was raspy and unfamiliar.

  “There’s another one in the drawer,” Madeline said in a breathy near-whisper.

  Bringing the sheet with him, he rolled off the bed and looked in the nightstand drawer. He found a fresh candle and a box of stick matches, along with a very large and ornate dagger. With visions of their lovemaking still flooding his mind, Harry replaced the old candle with the new, sitting it firmly in the holder. The room came into clearer focus just then, the pool of light spreading to allow visibility beyond the bed. Although he’d never been comfortable with knives in general, he found himself picking up the dagger and holding it to the candlelight. It was heavy and cold, and upon closer inspection had been forged in the likeness of some ancient Inca god or spirit, a wide-mouthed being with glaring eyes and a flamboyant headdress, the handle serving as its head and torso, its legs flaring down into what became a blade perhaps seven or eight inches long. “What the hell is this?”

  “It’s very old,” Madeline answered. “It was used in ancient rituals, some believe for human sacrifice.”

  “What are you doing with it?”

  “Never know when you might have to sacrifice someone.”

  Harry turned to her. She was smiling; eyes wide. “Where did you get it?”

  “It belonged to Fortunata. She’s had it since she was a little girl. It’s been passed down through her family, a family of witches, for generations. She was more or less born a bruja.”

  “She gave it to you?”

  “I stole it.”

  “Why?”

  The smile faded. “To protect myself from them.”

  “Who?”

  “Fortunata and my father.”

  Harry put it down on the nightstand and grabbed his watch. “It’s really late,” he mumbled. “Almost three o’clock.”

  “Who cares?” Rip said suddenly, his tone uncharacteristically gruff. “You got an appointment or something?” He rolled out of bed, found his cigarettes and lit one. After coughing out the initial drag he walked to the window, pulled back the lace curtain and watched the night and ocean below. “You hear what she just fucking said?”

  Madeline scooted to the foot of the bed, pranced over to where he was and hugged him from behind, resting her chin on his shoulder. Their awkward uncertainty and lack of confidence had vanished, it seemed. Harry began to search for his clothes.

  “Isn’t it wonderful to be a heretic?” Madeline said through short, dreamy laughter. “Isn’t it wonderful to be free, to do whatever you want to do, whatever your body or mind suggests it needs or desires, simply because you feel like it, and for no other reason? No justification or rationalization or excuses or guilt. No explanations necessary. Isn’t it wonderful to forget all the lies they force us to believe true, the fault they force us to assume as our own? There’s purity in forgetting it, really, and that’s so ironic it’s positively delicious. Imagine finding anything pure in the dark.”

  Harry stepped into his jeans, pulled them on. Madeline had released Rip and was now strolling about the room, her nude body still wet from them. He felt himself stir, remembered what it felt like to be against her, on top of her, beneath her, inside her, remembered the sounds she made, the things she’d said and the things she’d done, the things the three of them…

  “But it is pure. Animalistic and instinctual in a way,” she said, “moving through life with the basic desire to eat, to drink, to fuck, to sleep, to laugh, to love, to kill, to survive, to just be.”

  The headache had crept from behind Harry’s eyes to his temples. He squinted against the pain, focused on Madeline’s body. He swallowed, but the taste of her lingered.

  “I was afraid for so long,” she said. “I didn’t believe them, I—I kept thinking it couldn’t be this way—not really—that there had to be a catch, that somewhere there had to be a punishment for what we do in this world, how we behave, the decisions we make, the things we create as reality. Somehow, I thought, it all has to fit together like one vast and extraordinary puzzle. Karma or God or whatever you want to call it—or him or her—had to exist in the way we’ve all been led to believe under the banner of one silly manmade religion or another. It couldn’t be something else, something…different…

  But it is. It is.”

  “These beings told you these things?” Harry asked.

  Madeline nodded, moved closer. “It’s different there, Harry, where they are. It’s not like this world, with all the confines and—”

  “There is no other world.” He sighed. “Christ, don’t you get it? There’s just us, there’s just…this. That’s all.”

  “We can go there,” she said. “They’ve told me how. I can take you with me, both of you. We can be free there, powerful, do you understand?”

  “No, Madeline, I don’t. I don’t understand.”

  “I’m going to tell you a story.” She scampered to what remained of the drape around the bed and yanked it free. With a flick of her wrist she released it, and it spiraled slowly in the air before gradually descending to the floor like a falling wisp of white smoke. With childlike glee she bounced onto the foot of the bed and sat Indian-style, oblivious to her nudity. “I first saw them when I was very young. One day my father asked me why I talked to thin air as if someone were there, and I told him. I told him the truth, the way those who are very young so effortlessly and innocently do. But he didn’t believe it and instead dismissed me as a little girl with an overactive imagination who was simply talking to make-believe friends. From then on, whenever they were in my room at night, right before I’d go to bed, they’d put their fingers to their lips and say, ‘Shhh’, like I shouldn’t tell, like it was our secret.

  “My father was convinced it was a phase, a game, something that would eventually pass,” she continued. “But when it didn’t, he began taking me to doctors. They asked me questions, these psychologists or psychiatrists or whatever they were, these old men and plump women with bad hair and worse skin and voices like they’d just emerged from comas themselves. I answered them, told them the truth, the same truth I’d trusted my father with. Of course these doctors assured him it all had to do with my mother. I missed her terribly, you see, and used these imaginary people to replace her, to fill the void she had left behind. And they were right.” She laughed, shook her head. “But what no one understood, was that these so-called imaginary friends of mine had been there long before my mother had gone. No one understood, no one knew what I was experiencing, and it was isolating. Sometimes it frightened me, sometimes it just made me sad, but sometimes it made me happy, it made me feel special and alive and important. Three years after my mother left, we moved to Peru, and although I was still only six years old, I encountered people for the first time that truly understood.

  “We went to that village I told you about,” she said to Harry. “The village where Fortunata was born. I didn’t realize then that my father had taken me there in the hopes of finding someone who could heal me, as he later put it, but he had. He’d tried churches and doctors and I suppose he found himself in this strange new land and thought he had nothing to lose trying the local shamans and healers. I remember that village so vividly. We lived in Lima, which is a city, of course, but this village was different. It was poorer there, less modern. The poverty—my God, the squalor—those memories are burned into my mind forever. It was like stepping back in time, this village, like going back to a place and age when gods and goddesses, demons and spirits still walked the Earth and anything was possible. These people—the natives—had a wisdom I’d never known existed, an awareness of another reality I hadn’t thought anyone else knew about. It was as if everything I’d seen and experienced in my mind had come true in the he
re and now. I was so young I didn’t fully understand it at the time, but visiting that village changed my life forever.”

  “And this is where you first met Fortunata?” Harry asked.

  “Yes.” Madeline nodded, combed strands of hair behind her ears with her fingers. “She was just a teenager herself, only eighteen, but already a skilled bruja. She was the first one to recognize something in me that wasn’t quite…usual. She understood what was happening to me, believed it, and told my father it was as real as I chose to make it. My father hired her to work for him and to look after me. For someone who came from such poverty it was a marvelous opportunity, a chance at a life most from her village could only dream of. She moved in with us, and we were close at first, but that lasted less than a year. She tried to show me the ways of her people, their magic, their rules and rituals, but I had no interest in her powders and gods and all the rest. My magic was more powerful even then, and she knew it. I only had to harness it, to recognize it myself, to accept and learn how to use it, to learn how to listen to the creatures who were trying so desperately to speak to me, to show me the way. When my father’s work in Lima was through and we returned to the states, he brought her with us.”