SILENT (a psychological thriller, combining mystery, crime and suspense)

by D. M. Mitchell

  It was partially engulfed in flame which was being beaten out by a couple of guys swinging blankets. The fire had spread to a mound of car tyres, which had caused the dense black cloud of smoke. He saw an ambulance, men in short white coats entering the shack.

  Headed towards him was an old man, his face blackened by smoke, his watery eyes rimmed red. He had a coat draped over his arm.

  ‘I say, buddy,’ Mason said, stopping the man, ‘what’s going on down there?’

  ‘I was out in the field,’ he said, ‘working on the ditches. Then I see this smoke, coming from the old Cooper place. Some careless hobo, I thought, or kids fooling around with matches. But when I get close and look through the window I see a man lying on the floor and he’s covered in fire. So I try to get into the place, managed to beat some of it out. Some cops saw the smoke and came snooping around, they told me to get out of there. I did, but not before I heard one of them get all excited.’

  ‘Excited over what?’

  ‘I heard him say they found papers in there, a wallet, things like that. He said the guy in there was someone called Peter Harvey. Turns out the stiff was a wanted man, a guy who wasted someone in Louisiana.’

  ‘He was dead?’ he said, his legs going weak.

  ‘Sure was. Black as charcoal. Poured gasoline over himself and set light to it. That’s what they said.’

  Mason put his hand to his spinning head. ‘No…’ he gasped, struggling to breathe.

  The old man squeezed one eye closed and stared at Mason. ‘Say, aren’t you that monster-guy? The one from that movie?’

  ‘No, you must be mistaken,’ he replied.

  ‘You sure look like that monster-guy.’

  He ignored the old man. He looked to the shack and saw the two men coming out with a stretcher. There was a body on it, covered with a sheet. He groaned and went back to his car, started the engine.

  The old man came up to the car, grinning a toothless grin. ‘You sure are that monster-guy. I knew you were! I said to myself, Jesus, that’s the monster-guy! You can never escape!’ he said, laughing. ‘Ain’t that what you say? You can never escape!’

  ‘Get out of my fucking way!’ said Mason.

  ‘You can never escape!’ he called again, a cloud of thick dust being thrown up by the car’s speeding tyres causing the old man to choke and put his hand over his mouth.

  * * * *

  29

  A Short Memory

  ‘How is she?’

  Doctor Lombard’s face was grave. He closed the bedroom door. ‘She was showing signs of slow improvement, but I’m shocked by what I see. What happened to cause her such distress?’

  His tone was flavoured with accusation, which caused Rick Mason to shake his head and look down at the carpet. He knew what had brought about this sudden relapse. The news of Davey’s death had come down on her fragile emotions like a sledgehammer. She’d been inconsolable, screaming and lamenting like some forlorn banshee. Nothing he could say or do could calm her down. He rang for the doctor at once.

  ‘She’s depressed, Mr Mason. Her nerves so shredded, her mood so low that I truly fear for her safety. We should really move her to a hospital where we can keep a watchful eye on her.’

  ‘She doesn’t want that,’ he said. ‘All she wants is to be cooped up in that damn room.’

  ‘And you are certain you know of nothing that might have tipped her over the edge like this?’

  He desperately needed to tell him, to tell someone, but he knew he could not. He was helpless. ‘What can I do to help her?’

  ‘I’ve given her strong sedatives to help her sleep. I’ll be prescribing a course of medication to help manage her mood. All you can do for now is look after her. Keep an eye on her, watch out for signs that she’s sinking any lower.’ He put a hand on Mason’s arm. ‘You look shocking still, Mr Mason. Are the tablets I gave you helping any?’

  Mason shrugged. ‘I dunno. I feel terrible. My head… I feel like I’m losing it.’

  ‘It’s only to be expected with everything that is happening to you.’ Doctor Lombard reached into his leather bag. He handed Mason a bottle. ‘These are stronger than the others. Try them. Same dosage.’ He noticed how Mason had trembled as he took the bottle from him. ‘Please, for your own sake, Mr Mason, get some rest. I’ll be back first thing tomorrow to check up on Betsy, but if you need me urgently you know where to reach me.’

  ‘Thanks, doc, you’ve been a big help.’

  ‘I suggest you employ a private nurse to take care of Betsy from now on till she gets well. I have a good one in mind and can leave details.’ He was escorted by Mason to the door. ‘The life of a Hollywood star is not always what it is expected to be, eh, Mr Mason? There are unseen prices that must be paid in return for fame.’

  As Lombard drove away Mason saw Warren Sykes striding towards him, the bodyguard holding a wad of paper in his hand.

  ‘I’ve increased security at the gates,’ he said. ‘I’ve put a man on them at all times. I’ve looked at perimeter security and there are places your walls might easily be breached by an intruder, so I’m installing lights and barbed wire in some areas, though I’d be happier if you’d allow me to build some of the walls a little higher. I’ve got a man with a dog patrolling the mansion grounds from 9pm to 5am. We can extend that, of course.’

  ‘Is all this really necessary?’ said Mason.

  ‘You were nearly killed, sir. That’s reason enough. I’m just following your wife’s instructions on additional security.’

  The man was like a machine, Mason thought. As serious as a notice of foreclosure. ‘You fought during the war, that right?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Mason licked his dry lips. ‘You kill anyone?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Plenty.’

  ‘You get some kind of pleasure from that, Sykes?’

  The two men locked eyes, but Mason couldn’t read what lay beyond the man’s steely orbs.

  ‘I was doing my job, sir.’

  ‘Still, did you enjoy killing even though it was your job?’

  ‘Some guys did,’ he said.

  ‘And you?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it, sir.’ He bent to his papers. ‘I’d like to go through this list of proposed changes with you, sir, at some time.’

  ‘Fine, later.’

  ‘We’ll soon have this place as impregnable as a castle,’ he said.

  Mason studied the man’s face for a smudge of irony but found nothing. As Sykes walked away Mason turned to look up at his mansion. He’d never noticed how the place resembled parts of Castle Dragutin back in Slavonia. A pared-down version maybe, but the ghost of it was there. Had something deep inside him chosen it with that in mind?

  He went back inside, checked on Betsy, who lay fast asleep in her bed. The nanny was feeding his baby boy. He’d barely held the kid himself. What was he afraid of? Why daren’t he touch him?

  He ran a cold glass of water in the bathroom, swallowed a couple of pills. Next he filled a basin full of water, ducked his head into it and held it there until he couldn’t hold his breath any longer. He raised his head, looked into the mirror over the basin.

  The leering, distorted, skull-like face of Baron Dragutin stared back at him.

  He yelled out in shock, jumped away from the basin and slipped on the tiles, his back hitting the wall behind him. He lay there, gasping for breath, his wet hair plastered down over his forehead, dripping water into his eyes and blurring his vision. He staggered to his feet, cautiously looked in the mirror again, his heart crashing against his ribcage.

  His reflection was normal.

  He swiped a hand over his face, rubbed his eyes. ‘Oh, Jesus!’ he said breathlessly.

  Without drying his hair he dashed out of the bathroom, threw on a jacket and went out to his car.

  ‘Where are you going, sir?’ said Sykes.

  ‘None of your damn business!’ he yelled.

  ‘I’m being paid to watch you, sir.’

&n
bsp; ‘To watch me?’

  ‘To make sure no one does you any harm.’

  ‘Trust me, they can’t do any worse to me.’

  He drove away, noticing that Sykes was getting into his own car with the intention of following him.

  He drove aimlessly, his mind in a whorl. First Franz Horvat, then Victor Wallace, now Davey. So many deaths. Was there really a connection, or was he trying to find one that wasn’t there?

  Somehow he ended up at the gates of Metropolitan Studios. He didn’t acknowledge the wave of the guard as he drove into the yard. He parked the car and wandered around the various stages, watching blankly the comings and goings of a busy studio. Movie-making at work. This had been his dream once upon a time. A lifetime ago. Now it was a nightmare that he couldn’t wake from.

  He made his way to stage number three, where they were constructing some of the interior sets of Castle Dragutin. They were impressive. Based on his own recollections, the rooms were so real he could have been standing inside Castle Dragutin back in Slavonia.

  Outside they’d been building the exterior walls, which would be used in external shots along with the subtle use of matte paintings to increase its size up on screen. They now had to be done on a back-lot instead of filming on location as they had intended. The precarious financial situation kicked that into touch. All the same he was mightily impressed by the sheer size and scale of the work, staring up at the massive circular towers, the many windows studding the realistic plaster walls.

  ‘Scary, isn’t it?’

  He turned to see a woman standing there behind him, following his gaze to the high castle walls.

  ‘Bunny, I didn’t see you there,’ he said. She looked different without all the makeup and fancy clothes he’d seen her in when accompanied by Jefferson. Her face was almost childlike in its wonder.

  ‘I thought I’d come and have a look around the set. See where I’d be working. Seeing it on paper is one thing; to see it with your own eyes is quite a different thing. Now I feel the enormity of it.’

  ‘You’ll be fine,’ he said unemotionally.

  ‘You don’t like me, do you, Rick?’

  ‘I don’t have an opinion either way.’

  ‘I admire you,’ she admitted.

  He laughed hollowly. ‘That I find hard to believe.’

  ‘It’s not your fault, all this that’s happening out there. You were brilliant as Dragutin.’

  ‘Hollywood has a short memory, Bunny. Always remember that.’

  ‘Is your wife any better?’

  ‘I’d rather not talk about it.’

  ‘I’ll bet she hates me, too.’

  ‘That’s OK. She hates me as well.’ He found he couldn’t stay angry with her. ‘You have to take your chances in life when they come along, Bunny. Nobody blames you for that, least of all me.’

  ‘Can I ask you something, Rick?’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Would you mind if we spent some time together, going over our lines? I’m more than a little nervous. It would help immensely.’

  He eyed her uncertainly. ‘I don’t know, Bunny…’

  Then she laughed in embarrassment. ‘Oh no, I didn’t mean that! I’m not that kind of girl!’ She held up her hand, showing Mason an engagement ring. ‘I’m getting married in a few months time. I just wanted to go over some lines with you. It would be a big help, settle my nerves. I’ve got this meeting coming up with Hal Bremner and I admit the man scares me half to death.’

  He laughed, too. ‘Sorry, you must think me a sap. Sure, Bunny, that sounds like a swell idea.’

  He couldn’t remember laughing like that in a long time.

  * * * *

  30

  Poor Kid

  He awoke and was instantly gripped by wild panic, sitting upright in bed, his heart racing and his chest as tight as if someone had placed metal bands around it and was squeezing them hard. His entire body was drenched in sweat, his hair dripping with it, as if he’d been in the fiery grip of a raging fever.

  He didn’t know where he was. He was entombed in almost total darkness and he couldn’t get his mind to focus. For a disturbing moment or two he didn’t know who he was, and the panic welled up within him even stronger till he was on the verge of screaming out in fear.

  Then he saw the outline of the window, the heavy drapes, and with that objects in the room floated out of the gloom, came together and started to make sense. The whole resolved itself from some overwhelmingly dreadful black cave of death and despair into the familiar surroundings of the spare bedroom.

  He gasped thankfully as the loose ends of his brain tied themselves neatly together and he released a pent-up breath. Rick Mason sank bank down to his pillow. It was wet with sweat so he sat back up again.

  ‘You damn fool,’ he said to himself, combing fingers through his damp hair, across a damp forehead. ‘What’s gotten into you?’

  He threw the covers off him, swung his legs over the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes. His head hurt like blazes again, as if someone had poured broken glass into his skull and cocktail-like was giving it a good shake round. His mouth felt as dry as the desert soil.

  Mason made out his crumpled clothes cast unceremoniously into an untidy mound on the floor. His shoes had been kicked off, one by the drapes, the other by the side of the bed. He frowned, because he couldn’t remember undressing, getting into bed. His eyes narrowed further in thought, as if trying to squeeze out the relevant memories. Then it came to him that most of yesterday was a blank. There was nothing there and nothing he could do would bring it back.

  He found himself getting panicky all over again and he rose from the bed, aware that he was naked, the sweat on his body cooling and causing him to shiver. He went over to the drapes and pulled them open slightly. The Sun was up. Looked like mid-morning approaching noon. It was unlike him to sleep so late; he was an early bird, but he guessed from the way he felt he was coming down with something. And tired – hell, he could hardly put one foot in front of the other. He’d talk to the doc when he came round to check on Betsy. Maybe he’d give him a shot of something. He couldn’t afford to fall ill with shooting about to begin soon.

  He went to the bathroom, checked himself out in the mirror, and was even happy to see his own haggard, bloodless face staring back. ‘You look like shit,’ he said, splashing water onto his hot face. He took a warm shower, washed away the sweat smell, still concerned that the events of the day before were still locked away in his skull somewhere. But he put it down to the fever he was obviously running.

  From the wardrobe he chose a clean set of clothes, and as he did so he was washed over by a great sadness. They reminded him he had to sleep here, in a spare room because of Betsy’s worsening condition, as if it were a physical sign that their life together was unravelling, being torn apart and he was powerless to prevent it.

  He dressed, then bent down to pick up the pile of discarded clothes from the floor.

  That’s when he saw the blood.

  A small patch of it, about an inch in diameter, soaking into the woollen fibres of the carpet. He put a finger to it, brought it up to his nose to smell it. Yes, it was blood, a definite metallic tang. He examined the jacket and saw splashes of blood on the sleeve, even more of it on the white of his shirt front.

  He dropped the clothing in horror, stepped back from it. There was too much of it to be a cut, and anyhow, there wasn’t a mark on him. It wasn’t his blood, that was for sure.

  ‘My God!’ he mouthed ‘Oh, my God!’ He stared at it for a minute or two, not knowing what was happening, what to do. He walked around the pile of clothes, his head in his hand, trying to rationalise what he was seeing. An animal, perhaps? Had he hit something with his car last night on the way home – a dog, maybe? On the way home from where? This is crazy, he thought; I can’t remember last night!

  His attention was snagged by a cigar box on his bedside cabinet. He’d not noticed it before. He didn’t smoke cigars himself; it was
a silver box he kept downstairs, filled with cigars that he kept for visitors. What on earth was it doing up here, he thought?

  Not knowing why, he felt escalating trepidation as he took the cigar box and flipped the lid.

  He dropped it with a gasp. It hit the floor, and a white finger fell out of it, rolled briefly over the carpet and lay pointing accusingly at him.

  ‘Oh Jesus!’ he said, backing across the room to the door. When his breathing settled he crept slowly back, bent to his haunches and looked at the finger.

  Mason immediately recognised the ring that it still bore. It was Bunny Foster’s engagement ring.

  He fell to the carpet, his legs unable to support him, the finger but two feet away from him.

  ‘This can’t be!’ he groaned. ‘It’s impossible! It’s not happening, none of it is! I’ve got a fever – I’m seeing things. It’s not really here.’

  But it didn’t melt away. It remained, along with the blood on the carpet and on his clothes. His mind became a seething storm of crashing thoughts. He banged a fist against his temple. ‘Remember, damn you! Remember!’ But he couldn’t, and with memories of how he’d nearly strangled the woman in the bedroom, he was faced with the terrible truth that he had done something horrific to poor Bunny Foster.

  A full half hour passed as he sat in a semi-trance, then, almost automatically, he got a handkerchief, picked up the finger with it, feeling his stomach heave at the touch. He put it back in the cigar box and shut it away in a drawer. He did the same for the pile of clothes. But the patch of blood on the carpet regarded him like a red satanic eye. He needed to clean it away, he told himself. There had to be a rational explanation for all of this, but he still needed to get rid of it.

  That makes you guilty, his other self told him; wanting to hide the truth.

  Guilty of what? I don’t know what’s happened. It could all be nothing.