“Yes. Yes I do.” I sighed and closed my eyes. What was real, what was not? What did I believe, where were the lies? I didn’t know, but I was physically, mentally and emotionally exhausted. It was easier just to get it over with and agree with him. I took a long drink of beer. Didn’t stop until it was finished. I slammed the bottled on the counter with defiance and resolution. All the while, Jack sat and watched me. I gestured toward the sandwiches.
“Bring those. I need something stronger than beer.” Jack smiled.
“That’s my boy.”
He always stayed one step ahead of me. I couldn’t deny it and I couldn’t shake it. Jack, no matter how much I hated it, had my number and he used it frequently. Slippery as one of those hookers I screwed at my place in Montreal, there was no way I could glean fact from fiction. It frustrated and bothered me.
I suppose if it had been ten or fifteen years earlier I’d have called the Police and shared my suspicions with them. But I had no proof and even if I had – please don’t hold it against me – I don’t think that I would have turned him in. For all his nasty irreverence and his Marquis de Sade style of friendship, he had grown on me, and our bond went far deeper than mere words could ever explain.
Denial was always easier.
So I drank with him that night, although the mood was somber and sullen. We sipped Scotch and spoke quietly, and then I went to bed. I slept with the usual gang of reckless demons and felt relief in the knowledge that I could go home tomorrow. I couldn’t take another day with Jack or his big brother. That’s what the house represented. It was nothing more and nothing less than an enormous extension of Jack’s ego.
Size does matter.
When morning came I jumped out of bed like a child on Christmas Day. The knowledge that I was getting out of there energized me and I was ready to make it to 2 PM. My flight left at Four and I didn’t want to take any chances that I might miss it.
I made my way downstairs and only got lost twice. When I found him in the kitchen he was laying out my breakfast. As if he knew exactly when I when I’d awake, and that I’d get lost twice before finding the kitchen.
The aromatic scent of fresh coffee greeted me and he was serving a breakfast with sausage, Eggs Benedict, home fries and waffles with strawberries and freshly-whipped cream. It never occurred to me to ask him who did all the cooking. I knew it wasn’t him, so I supposed that his manservant took care of all that. I dug in busily and after three helpings, I smoked three cigarettes while he watched and smirked.
“Are you sure you want to leave today?” I puffed on a smoke and thought about the question. As much as I enjoyed these moments – such as the breakfast that was set out before me – I laughed at the suggestion that I might consider spending a minute more than I had to. I couldn’t stomach another night in this place. I nodded.
“Yeah, I should get back. I have a lot to do.” A lot of grieving to do. Jack nodded and sipped his coffee, playing with the pack of smokes that sat between us on the island.
“Okay. I’ll take you to your car. When do you want to leave?” I looked at my watch. It was just after one. I didn’t have to leave for another hour and a half, anyway.
“An hour?” Jack smiled and stood up. He gestured to the entrance of the kitchen.
“Great! Then I can still show you a few things before you leave!” I nodded and looked at my empty mug of coffee with regret. I was about to be subjected to another hour of this. But I knew that by 9 PM I’d be safely home. Alone to contemplate, deliberate and sob to the tune of Scotch melting ice. The thought of my quiet fortress eased the pain of the sacrifice, so I stood and left my coffee and the warmth of the kitchen for the cool eeriness of the hallways.
He guided me through the halls in feverish haste. Since I was leaving shortly, he wanted to get in as much as time allowed. As he hurried me from room to room, acquisition to acquisition, I wondered why the fuss. I was only flying back to Montreal and had no doubt that I’d return to this place, even though the thought didn’t have any appeal. But he seemed determined to share things with me before I left.
And so he showed me an original Dali, a half-finished sculpture that was purported to have been Michelangelo’s last work before he died, and a portion – two pages – of Dante’s manuscript for the Inferno. He hurried me from room to room, and for the first time since I had been there, he ignored lesser pieces and focused on those that had some kind of significant value. At least where conversation was concerned.
The hour passed by quite rapidly, and while Jack described the artistic value of a bust of Socrates and why it was an integral part of his collection, I peered at my watch and interrupted him.
“Jack, that’s amazing. But I have to go.” I lifted up my arm, as if he could see my watch through the dim light that permeated the room. He quickly nodded, irritated that he couldn’t finish the story, and gestured toward the exit. I knew he was irked by the sudden interruption of his focused, even narration. But I could endure this no longer. Waiting for an hour at the airport with a drink in front of me was a most sublime thought at that point. Jack sighed.
“Okay. Collect your things. I’ll meet you at the front of the house in fifteen minutes.” I nodded and made a hasty retreat for my room. Quickly collecting my things and depositing his clothes on the bed, I thanked the fates which allowed me to leave that place without repercussion. I felt a little guilty about Jack. After all, it was New Years’ Eve. While I wanted the Hell out of here, I sensed the loneliness that surely he must have felt. Alone in this gigantic house with naught but a mute manservant for companionship. It didn’t matter though. Regardless how he felt, I’d be thankful to get the Hell out of there. In many ways, I felt like my life depended on it.
I met Jack at the front of the house. He stood with breath that puffed large clouds of mist into the air. He sported a bomber jacket and warm woolen gloves. As I approached he gave me an irritated look. I barely noticed though, for I had a chance to see the house in daylight.
I craned my neck as I looked up at it. It was a deep, smoky pinkish-gray on the outside, The front was devoid of windows. I pointed it out and Jack informed me that the house only had windows on the west side. Oddly enough, the west side faced a wall of trees and the forest beyond.
We walked over and he showed me. The windows numbered thirty-three in total, all different shapes and sizes. They were not set in uniform rows, either, but skewed in odd patterns amongst the intricate stone facade.
The implication of a house having windows that only faced west was not lost on me. In the morning, when the sun rose, the only direct sunlight which could have reached the house was first blocked by trees, and even after they broke through, the sun vainly cast its rays at solid walls. By dusk, weakened and impotent rays were cast impotently upon the house’s west face as the evening sun dwindled into night. The windows were of almost no use whatsoever, and I asked Jack: ‘why?’
“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.” He laughed and slapped me on the back but I glared at him. I didn’t appreciate the humor. I thought about the message she left. The one he listened to and then erased while I was engaged in a foursome. He shook off my angry look and gestured toward the solid rock face of the house.
“Astrid’s design was very specific. I had to follow all her instructions.” I was still fuming over his prior comment. And years of biting my tongue, I suppose. Combined with all that I’d seen and experienced over the past several days, it finally caught up with me.
“Why? Why did you have to follow her instructions? Are you fucking nuts? Some Druid bitch designs a multi-million dollar monstrosity and it’s not enough that you had her design it under some clandestine ritual. Noooo…you actually went and built the motherfucker!
“Have you seen this thing? I mean, have you stopped and really taken a good, long look at it? It looks ridiculous! It’s a Goddammed cathedral conceived in the bowels of Hell! Look at that,” I pointed at one of the windows on the west face. It was just high enoug
h that it was out of reach. But it was formed in some shape that had no partner in the laws of geometry. It zigzagged in manic curves that seemed to chase themselves. The glass appeared black, and I wondered if you could even see out from the other side.
“What the HELL is that? That is not a window, Jack. That’s an insult to architects everywhere! And then there’s that…”
I jabbed an angry finger toward obscene carvings that flowed through the rock face – pink granite from the Côtes d’Armor. They twisted and writhed. Every square inch – from the ground to the topmost portion of the wall – was etched with bizarre images and characters. They were disturbing little graphics of cherubs sodomizing goats, people running other people through with spears, fingers and phalluses being shoved in the strangest places, and inanimate blood which seemed to flow even as it was frozen in pink granite. Surrounding every spare inch of the images were finely inlaid symbols and characters that had no meaning to me. I had no idea what they were, and if I had to describe them, I’d say that they looked Satanic.
While I jabbed my finger toward these symbols that seemed to flow and move, I had to look away. For some reason, watching them made me dizzy. And while I had only just noticed that the entire façade of the house was covered with this abomination, I can be forgiven, since it was only noticeable from close-up.
“What, in the name of all that’s holy, is THAT?”
I stopped, realizing even now just how totally obscene the house was. A bleak winter sky loomed over the structure, a dark storm that encroached upon us. A random, misshapen creature, the lines of the house snaked wildly as they petered into the distance.
In my mind’s eye, I remembered the first time I’d seen it. When it was still a mass of iron beams and it was difficult to imagine what it would look like. In my wildest imagination, I’d never have conceived it to look like this. Now that it had a skin I had a chance to feel the twisted and ridiculous evil that this thing contained. The outer walls seemed to ripple in places. In others, it suddenly darted out and then curved back again, almost as if it had a will of its own. I pulled my overcoat around me and approached him with a resolute face.
“What did she say in the message, Jack?”
Jack stared at me without emotion. He looked calm, while mist stopped pouring out of his mouth and nose. The bones on either jaw writhed in rage while I spoke. His black eyebrows furrowed over blacker eyes as he stared me down. He didn’t respond to my question. He just stood there.
“WHAT DID SHE SAY IN THE FUCKING MESSAGE?”
After I screamed, the words had enough sense to scurry away into the woods. I looked around as if it would help my hearing. But for the sound of his car idling thirty feet away, there was nothing. No random proof of life to come to my rescue. There was only crisp, deathlike silence.
Billowing puffs of condensed breath flowed out of my mouth like a car exhaust – steady and without cessation. Now that I had spoken my piece, I regretted it, for I knew how imbalanced he was. For a brief moment, I wondered what really happened to Elizabeth and whether I would see my townhouse again.
“Get out.” He didn’t embellish the sentiment. Just turned away from me, walked over to the Jag, reached in and turned it off. Without looking at me again, he walked up the stairs to the house and slammed the doors behind him. The sound broke deathly silence like the doors of a crypt that closed behind me.
I stood and shivered, but it wasn’t the cold that had me trembling. After the resounding wail of the doors faded into wintry graves, I was left with a howling winter breeze, an accusatory sky and a half-mile trek to contend with. At least it’s daytime, I thought to myself in the hope that it would ease my mind. Jack’s countenance had me entirely unsettled, and while I thought about knocking and apologizing, I thought only briefly.
I didn’t look back as I trudged hurriedly through the snow. Even though I knew it was a totally irrational thought, I felt it peering into my back. I shivered while I half-ran, craving the moment when I got into my car. Jack had finally gotten a plow to come and clean out the driveway, and I was shocked when I reached the car in mere minutes. God, I had trudged through the snow that night for forty-five minutes. I must have been going in circles. One wrong turn and I‘d be dead right now.
The plow had cleared the snow from my rental car, so I only had to dust off the windshield. I started it up and let it idle for a few minutes.
I thought about what he said. What the fuck are you saying? You honestly think that I had something to do with this? I felt a pang of anguish touch my heart when I thought of her, and everything came back to me in a well of sorrow. I clenched my jaw and thought about the state I’d just seen and the look in his eyes. As if I tried to find the answer in those eyes. But all I saw were two black coals which had lost their glow a long time ago. They were cold and devoid of that irrepressible charm which I’d once known.
They beckoned to me. Beckoned to understand them, beckoned to forgive and forget. But I was beyond understanding, forgiveness was out of my purview, and I would never forget. I felt no compassion, no empathy, no consideration for anyone but myself and the misery with which I knew I must live.
I thought of the blood that covered his body the day after he assaulted the two girls, and the look on his face when he fell in love with the Icarus amulet. I thought about the house and the strange disease which encompassed him when he spoke of his acquisitions.
I thought of his performance outside my townhouse and the day that Elizabeth was murdered.
Easy, mate. This can only be touched by me.
Lacking the ability to fully understand what I should have known well, I shook my head and drove away. As I did I wondered about the unicorn.
Where did the statue reside, in the giant crypt that he manufactured?
Chapter 59
This is the dog
That worried the cat
When I got home, there was a business card lodged in my door.
It greeted me like a process server with divorce papers. I tugged it out of the door frame, only mildly surprised when I saw that it was from the Montreal Police. Claude LaPointe, Inspecteur. The tall one with the pock-marked face. I shrugged and stuffed it in my pocket. I was too tired to care.
I fumbled with the keys for several moments. The streetlights were bright but shadows permeated the crisp winter night. I finally found the right one and with a click, the door opened and I was presented with the emptiness that was my life. I dropped my things in the hallway and threw the door shut with a slam. I sighed.
“Happy New Year.” My words faded into the darkness like they never planned on coming back.
This is what’s left. An empty house with empty feelings, surrounded by empty reminders of what could have been. It felt hollow and I didn’t like it one bit. Why do I feel like my entire life has been a lie? Why is she gone? I didn’t understand, but I didn’t care to understand. All I wanted was a stiff drink and the swiftest possible way to forget everything. Him, her, me. Everything. I was going to do whatever it took.
I poured a drink and wondered when I had become so naïve. Hah! That’s a joke. I was naïve the day I was born. I couldn’t see the answers, even though they were laid out before me like a five course meal. All the place settings were there. Everything was obvious and accessible in its appointment. So why the Hell was I so blind to the obvious? Why was I oblivious? I sat and pondered for a long time. Whenever I began to think about her and her voice – which still resounds in my head and my soul like a death chant – I changed the topic and thought about Jack.
I pondered his obsession. His madness. He had squandered his fortune on a gigantic, obscene monstrosity and he had filled it with meaningless symbols of times passed. Yet he revelled. He was ignorant of the wide, suffering, intolerable world outside. He survived while I toiled to make it to tomorrow. I lived an insufferable existence while he sat atop his gargantuan distortion like a king on his throne. I tried to understand where the justice was in that. But there was
none. Only a sobering realization that while he was surrounded by all that he ever craved, she was dead and I was alone. It wasn’t fair.
While I lamented I drank more Scotch and listened to music. The only things that never betrayed me. The phone sat on the table in front of me, for I placed it there when I got home. But as I stared at it I knew that no-one was going to call. There was no-one left. I spent the night until I passed out, agonizing over my life and everything that had happened to lead up to this. My ordeal.
I awoke with a start at 4:36 AM. Moonlight shone on my face and I pulled myself into a sitting position. Even from my perch, I could see snow, gently falling on the outside world. I placed a hand on my chin and watched the snow fall for about an hour before I fell back into sleep. A fitful, troubled, torturous sleep.
***
Needless to say, when I was rudely awakened at 9:48 to the sound of pounding at my door, I wasn’t receptive to it. I jumped as the irritated rapping permeated my brain and rolled over on my side. I briefly considered not answering it. But it was repetitive and unrelenting, so I finally struggled to my feet and stumbled to the door.
I threw it open with an attitude that whoever banged on my door better have a good Goddammed reason to interrupt my hangover. I have to admit, the two cops who faced me probably had a good Goddammed reason.
Without smiling or speaking I nodded and gestured for them to come in. I closed the door and followed them into my living room, finger-combing my hair as I sat down on the couch. I took a pack of smokes and tugged at one until it came out. They watched me as I placed it between my lips and searched for a pack of matches. Finally, I found one and lit the cigarette. After a moment I exhaled and looked at them.
“Happy New Year. To what do I owe the honor?” I was sarcastic and ambivalent, and I didn’t care anymore. They looked at me with dull, expressionless eyes and remained silent. I took another puff and flicked ashes in the tray that sat on the coffee table.
The House that Jack Built Page 39
