“I don’t know what I’m saying, Jack. After your performance on the street yesterday. And now…now THIS!” I gritted my teeth and slammed the newspaper with my right hand. I instantly regretted it. The sting of my burnt palm shot up my arm.
“I don’t understand anything. I can’t believe she’s dead. Please help me.” He sighed.
“Alright, stay calm. First let’s get a few things perfectly clear. If it comes to it, I was with you. You and the hookers. Right?” It was as if I was onto him and he demanded my loyalty.
“Yeah? That’s not how I remember it. You let me have all the fun. We disappeared into my room. Where the HELL were you?”
“Dammit Mal! Listen to me. You needed it. Like you never needed anything before. In your whole pathetic life. But DO NOT make the mistake of FUCKING WITH ME!” He sighed again. A hissing snake over a digital line. Threatening or assuaging, I didn’t know.
“Look. You were with them for hours. And I sat in your living room and drank. Oh, by the way and just for the record, I didn’t let you have all the fun.” Okay, so what did you do? I asked myself, not him. I already knew what he was going to say.
“When you finished with them, you passed out. No big surprise there. You were mentally exhausted and they were wild.” He started to chuckle but then seemed to remember himself. Then I had my fun with them. And not that I’m trying to have a measure-off here, but the four of us went for four straight hours before I kicked them out. I needed to sleep because my flight left early.” A spark of memory that lit a fire.
“Why are you back in Nova Scotia? You said you were staying for New Year’s.”
“I know I did. But while you were with the tantalizing trio, Fred called. There’s a major problem with a purchase I’m making. Seven figures. From a private collector in Damascus. Dammit! If you want to get something done right, you have to do it yourself. I had to review the new contract and have some documents notarized. He didn’t know I was in Montreal, so he FedExed them here.
“So I flew in this morning, took care of it, and I was planning on coming back tonight, but under the circumstances, I’m not so sure that’s a good idea.” I nodded. His excuse made sense, I guess.
I calmed down as I digested his explanation. Physical and emotional anguish swirled behind my eyeballs. A lava lamp. I was so tired. I began to sob uncontrollably.
“Jack, she’s dead. She’s dead…” I repeated the word. As if I was informing myself, for the first time, of the cruel news. He sighed.
“I know. Listen, don’t beat yourself up. Just remember something. Montreal is a big place. She obviously wasn’t in the best frame of mind. She probably went for a walk to clear her head. And ended up somewhere she shouldn’t have been. The wrong place at the wrong time.
“Besides, no on saw the three of us on the street yesterday. I’m sure of it.”
What does that have to do with your lame explanation, Jack?
You are a cancer that needs to be burned.
“She was BEHEADED, Jack! Oh, FUCK!” I dropped the phone and ran to the nearest wastebasket. Fell to my knees and puked repeatedly.
I hadn’t had much to eat, so after the Scotch was expelled from my stomach, I dry-heaved for two minutes. Painful, retching dry heaves. Several times. Each heave shot searing muscular pain through my gut. Finally, I was done. I pulled myself to my feet and went back to the phone.
“Ohhhhh, God!” Sour digested Scotch coated my tongue. On the rocks.
“Are you okay?” I think there was concern in his voice and I groaned.
“Never better.” I barely managed the words. My mouth tasted like stomach acid. I held my gut with my good hand and wondered if I was developing an ulcer.
“Mal, I’ve got a suggestion. You shouldn’t be alone right now. Hop on a plane and get the Hell down here. The house is just about complete. I moved in two weeks ago. Maybe it’ll take your mind off things.” I doubted it.
But he was right. I shouldn’t be alone. I agreed and told him that I’d catch a morning flight. After I hung up I booked a ticket. There were no available seats in the morning, so I had to settle for late afternoon.
Not knowing what else to do, I packed my things. As I did so, I thought about all the things I never said to her. Things I’d never have a chance to say.
I felt lonelier than I ever had, in my storied and strife-filled life.
Chapter 55
This is The House that Jack Built.
After I finished packing I sat down and wondered whether I could trust Jack.
I didn’t really have a choice. But I wondered if he was being truthful with me about what he did while I did three hookers.
I needed to get out of town. I knew how it would look to the Police – if I was being observed. But I didn’t care. Maybe time away would clear my head and give me a way to deal with the grief.
The next day, I boarded the plane, trying to suppress the pain and confusion. In the hope that distance from Montreal would provide me with emotional distance as well.
The approach into Halifax was terrible. The jet hit a blizzard that bombarded the entire East Coast. It lurched and jumped during the descent. I gripped the armrests of my seat and watched snow and ice pellets as they assaulted the plane. Being inside didn’t provide any comfort. I was so relieved when we landed that I almost got on my knees and kissed the ground.
But my joy was short-lived. After I claimed my baggage, I watched with frustration at cars that crept along and snow plows that desperately fought a losing battle. As quickly as they pushed the snow out of the way, it was replaced by a fresh onslaught. I rented a car and nervously left the airport.
The drive to St. Margaret’s Bay normally takes forty-five minutes, but it took me nearly two hours. There was next to no visibility and I hunched forward at the steering wheel. As if being a few inches closer to the windshield would improve visibility. The wipers pushed away thick clumps of snow but they were replaced by new clumps almost as quickly. Several times, I watched with terror when transport trucks and snow plows barreled past me. I was helpless to do anything but clutch the steering wheel and hope they’d pass quickly.
I eventually found the exit for Jack’s house and crept up the curving ramp in fear of skidding off and into oncoming traffic. I navigated for twenty minutes along winding road until I reached the turnoff to his house.
But I cursed when I saw the driveway. Or at least the place it was supposed to be. It was buried under snow to the height of my crotch. And the drive in was nearly a half mile.
“Dammit!” I pounded the steering wheel and watched the wipers. A thick blanket of snow had accumulated outside their reach. Like two haloes.
No matter what did, I was screwed.
I couldn’t go back. No Goddammed way I was risking those roads again. I couldn’t go on. There were no motels or bed and breakfasts for thirty miles. And I couldn’t drive through Jack’s driveway. I doubt a four-wheel drive could have. So I certainly wasn’t taking a mid-size car through that wall of snow.
I couldn’t call Jack. There was no cell service out there. Even if there was, Jack certainly wasn’t coming to my rescue in a Jag.
I sighed. I knew what I had to do as I pulled on my thin leather gloves, wrapped my scarf tightly around my mouth and nose, and fastened the top button of my overcoat. I gave a sad look to my cotton slacks and the thin rubber overshoes which protected my loafers.
Reaching in the back seat, I pored over my overnight bag to see if there was anything that I absolutely needed. But I knew there was only one thing I needed. To set out on foot and get to the warmth of Jack’s house and the fine Scotch which undoubtedly waited for me.
Gritting my teeth, I drove the car to the edge of the road. As far as it could possibly go without tipping into the ditch. As I turned off the engine I hoped that no careless driver or snow plow would come along and strike it. Checking my attire one last time, I gritted my teeth and opened the door.
It moved about a half inch before it
jammed against the snow outside. I swore and heaved my full body weight against it. Several times. Finally, it gave enough that I could squeeze myself out. I cursed in pain and frustration as my body slowly edged out of the car. Blistering cold winds and ice pellets pounded my face. The howling in my ears was almost deafening. A button from my overcoat jammed against the car door and I flailed wildly until the button popped off. My body popped out of the car and I fell to the ground.
I scrambled on my hands and knees. The sting of bitter cold shot through me. Gloved hands plunged into shoulder-high snow, and ice seeped in at the wrists. I wailed but it was barely audible, masked by the howling fury of the wind. I lamely pushed myself to my feet and trod forward. One slow, giant step at a time as my legs sank deeply into each new footstep.
Ice pelted and stung my face. I couldn’t keep my eyes open for long, and crystals formed around my eyelids. I trudged on while my cheeks and forehead burned with bitter cold.
I hoped to God that I was heading in the right direction. Each step brought me closer – or father away – from Jack’s door. I just didn’t know. But I had to go on. At one point I turned around to locate the car in hopes that it would help me get my bearing. But in the darkness and the flurry of the blizzard, I couldn’t see it. I gritted my teeth and pulled my near-frozen scarf closer to my chin. It was wet and dank-smelling from constant exhaling. My nose was numb and I peered through the night. Desperate to see some sign of life.
When it felt like I had been walking for two hours, I fell to my knees and looked around. There were trees on either side of me, but they appeared to have been thinned-out by man. I hoped this was a sign that I was still on the driveway. A sign that I wasn’t going to die of exposure.
I began to rub the snow off the ground with gloved palms. I scraped in frenzied sweeping motions that stung my hands with frozen stabbing knives. All I saw was white ground. I pulled a glove off and felt around. Even though the gloves offered little real protection and my fingers were numb, I writhed in pain as cold shot through my fingertips.
“It’s…gotta…be…here…keep…digging.” My teeth chattered and I expended valuable energy by speaking. But I didn’t notice or care.
Suddenly I felt something rough. Traces of hope seeped into my mind and I grasped it with what was left of my dexterity. I pried and pulled, yelling all the while, until I produced a piece of gravel. It was a small, dead piece of jagged rock, but to me it was the Hope Diamond. I was on the right track. I replaced my frozen glove and struggled to my feet.
A new problem presented itself. I wondered if I was still pointed in the right direction. I desperately tried to recall the last time I’d been there. Does this road wind or does it go straight? And if it winds, then which way? My mind scurried but I couldn’t remember. I looked around. Snow and powerful gusts of wind bombarded my face.
Briefly, I thought about turning around and going back to the car. At least there was warmth there – as long as the gas lasted. Would it last long enough to idle all night? I don’t know much about those things, but at that point it seemed like the better alternative. And that’s when I saw it.
Out of the corner of my eye and to the right. I caught a glimpse of what might have been a light. I had no idea how far it was or what challenges faced me between here and there. But it was enough for me to dig deeply into my being for renewed energy. I trod forward in the most ridiculous-looking run you’ve ever seen. Almost exactly like someone trying to run underwater.
“Jack…I know…he’s there…” I gasped through chattering teeth and frozen lips.
“It’s gotta be it. That’s Jack’s house. I know it.” I expelled wheezing gasps of precious breath while I loped as best I could. I broke through a grove of bushes and trees. Branches whipped my face. They stung like lashes from a Cat-O’-Nine-Tails. But I didn’t care. I just trudged onward. When I emerged from the trees, the behemoth towered over me.
Even Mother Nature, the night, and the furies of the blizzard couldn’t mask it. It was huge and loomed angrily over everything it surveyed. Against the haze of blowing snow and ice, and the darkness of night which surrounded it, this thing stood tall and foreboding. As if it was blacker than black itself.
A searchlight – like the ones you see at Hollywood movie premieres – shone brightly in front of the house. That was the light that I’d seen through the trees. The only light. Even in my diminished state, I thought it odd that there wasn’t more coming from something that large.
I shook off random thoughts. My survival instinct took over and I made for the spotlight’s beam and prayed that the entrance was nearby. I was correct.
I stared at towering black doors. They were easily fifteen feet tall and black as pitch. Black like the Gates of Hell.
They were oddly-shaped, too. Instead of being rectangular, they began at the bottom and ended at the top with curves. They looked like side-by-side sarcophagi. At eye-level there was a pair of brass knockers. Giant things that were serpents in the shapes of rings. Entwined and apparently feeding on themselves. Their mouths devoured their tails.
I looked for a doorbell but there was none. So I grabbed a knocker with a numb hand and pounded repeatedly. As much as it stung, all I could think about was the warmth and shelter that waited on the other side of those doors.
But I was wrong. Had I known what waited for me behind those doors, I would have risked the elements and my life to return to the car.
Chapter 56
This is the malt
That lay in The House that Jack Built.
Just when I thought that I had come so close, only to freeze to death on the front steps of Jack’s house, the door opened with a squeal that pronounced itself loudly. Even over the blaring of the wind. I knelt prostrate, grasping snow and ice with frozen hands.
I shivered and mumbled when somebody tugged at my coat. I was being lifted to my feet. My face was numb and my eyes were swollen and almost frozen shut. So as I was helped through the doorway, I saw a dim shadow of whoever held me while I struggled to shuffle my feet. I was dragged through a dimly-lit hallway and deposited on a chair in front of a roaring hearth.
My eyes focused a bit as warmth and sensation came back to my extremities in stinging waves. I made out Jack, who carefully but firmly tugged my scarf, gloves and coat off. Throwing them to the floor, he removed my shoes and socks. Then he began to undo my pants and tug them off.
“Pervert,” I chattered through frozen lips. My eyes vaguely remember him smiling.
“Stop messing around. You need to get these off right away. Hang on.” He grunted as the pants came off, but not without a struggle. Then he tugged at my shirt until I was naked and shivering. Except for frozen briefs. He began to tug at those too. I snarled and slapped his hands away.
“Piss off! You are so close to hypothermia. If you’d been out there another 5 minutes, you’d be dead.
“Besides,” he chuckled, “it’s not like I haven’t seen it before. Remember the other night?” I sighed though chattering teeth as my clammy hands grasped my shoulders. My skin was so cold. Jack was right about the hypothermia. I nodded and gave up the struggle. He pulled the briefs off.
“Hang on.” He left the room and my senses started to come back. I looked around. It was dark but for the huge fire that raged. The chair was a couple of feet away and its radiating heat felt good. Really good. Shadows flickered on the walls and through them I saw faces watching me. I suddenly questioned that I was alone in the room. I shivered and sat up.
Squinting, I realized that I was looking at paintings. They covered every inch of wall. Mostly large, Elizabethan-looking portraits of faces I didn’t recognize. The room was decorated with lavish furniture. I looked at my chair and then its mate, which sat on an angle with mine. The armrests were ornately detailed. Even in the dim firelight they appeared to be made of rich, dark wood. Tiny intricacies in the woodworking had me in their spell when Jack returned carrying a large blanket. I reached out hungrily when I saw it. A
s if he handed me a glass of his finest 40-year old Scotch.
“Here. Priority number one.” He handed me the quilt and I eagerly wrapped it around my body. The soft material sidled up to my clammy flesh and I sighed as its soft warmth began to envelop me. Jack left again.
Now that my body temperature began to rise, I was less disoriented and became more conscious of my surroundings. Everywhere I looked there was fine antique furniture, a statuette or a lavish-looking carpet. Even the room’s fixtures and moldings were adorned with painstaking carvings. Symbols which were foreign to me. Images of seraph and centaur, god and demigod. Each image was unique, entwining itself amongst floral patterns or odd-looking characters that looked Arabic or Greek in origin. I shivered. My skin still felt deathly cold. But the dream of warmth was no longer just a dream.
When Jack returned, he came bearing the other thing for which I was so desperate.
“…And here’s priority number two. Drink up. And don’t sip. It may be my best, but I have lots.” He winked and handed over the glass. My trembling fingers still struggled to get their feeling back as they grasped the glass just enough so I wouldn’t drop it. I stared down at the golden liquid, which was devoid of ice or water. Perfect. It shimmered in the firelight like rays of sun that beckoned me toward their warmth. Shakily raising the crystal to my mouth, I placed my cracked lips on the rim of the glass and tilted it.
The Scotch stung like swarms of tiny wasps when it touched my cracked, bleeding lips. But I didn’t care as the warm liquid passed over them and onto my tongue. Instant warmth spread through my mouth. I let its heat permeate my tongue. I rolled it around for a second or two and let it slide to the back of my mouth. I swallowed and the warmth quickly spread to my throat and esophagus. I sighed and smiled.
“There. That’s much better, isn’t it?” I muttered some intelligible response and nodded. Jack sat across from me and looked at me through dim light. His legs were crossed and he looked rather in character for the surroundings. He sported black Gucci slacks and a black dress shirt that probably cost more than all my shirts combined. For a moment I wondered if he owned any clothes that weren’t black.
The House that Jack Built Page 36
