The land of dead flowers: (A serial killer thriller)

by Natasha A. Salnikova

  “What did he want from you, Mrs. Porter?” Morris couldn’t listen to any more literature talk or plot description, so he interrupted.

  “Nothing, Morris. I met him accidentally. He just wants to know about the town. He is writing about Watervliet in his new book. See? My friend didn’t believe me. She thinks a famous writer wouldn’t drive around a place like this and talk to strangers. He does, though. He does, yes. Max Stevenson does. And he’s so down to earth, Morris. So nice. You know, he had a difficult childhood. His—”

  “What else did he tell you?”

  “What?” The woman looked offended and sad again. He wanted to grumble and he stopped her. Yes, Wilma, people actually had things to do. “That was it. I invited him to come back.”

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean, why? He needs help and I want to help him. He wants to know about Watervliet, and who knows better than me? I’ve lived here my whole life. Well, you have too.”

  Morris wanted to say who wanted her, this old rag, but managed to control himself.

  “I see. Well, be careful, Mrs. Porter. You can’t trust people just because they’re famous.”

  “Stop it, Morris. I can see he’s a good person. He doesn’t want anything from an old lady like me. I don’t have anything. I offered. He didn’t ask! He didn’t even want to come in, but I insisted.”

  “I just wanted to warn you, that’s all. As a neighbor. Don’t tell him. Not a big deal. You were friends with my mother.”

  “Of course, Morry.”

  The m0emory of his mother made her remember his old nickname.

  “You have a good day, Mrs. Porter.”

  “You do the same. Don’t worry about me. No one wants to harm me.”

  Morris nodded, waved his hand, and turned to his house.

  “Old rag,” he hissed as he closed the door. “Witch. Who needs you? He’s sniffing around to learn about me. Wait a minute.”

  Morris stopped in the middle of the room. Angelica. This snotter mentioned Angelica. So he knew? Could he know?

  Morris gaped about the room, not believing in anything, trying to understand where he could have slipped. He had never been so scared and mad. Never before had his heart beat so fast.

  CHAPTER 28

  Max didn’t go back to New York right away. Instead, he decided to drive around Watervliet. The town looked so much like Ocala, where he grew up, minus the palm trees. He had gotten used to Manhattan’s constant buzz, to its inexhaustible, motley crowd on the streets, its life. This town, in comparison, was dead. He saw a few people going in and out of the local grocery store and market, a few old cars driving to and from the gas station. The time of day suggested they had been at work, but Max doubted the streets would be busy in the evening. The road went up and down, the houses went from brick to Victorian, but he had driven from one end to the other in a short time. He couldn’t tell, because he didn’t pay attention, gaping around, trying to understand, to observe. He reached a small pond or a lake, stopped near it, and left the car, bundling up in his coat.

  The water was frozen, and the ice was topped with snow. Dry grass and naked bushes surrounded the lake. Max thought it would be beautiful here in the summertime: greens and blues. With buzzing insects and swimming ducks. Angelica loved to spend time here with her mother. He had seen them here in his first dream, making garlands from wild flowers. Max noticed every detail so he could describe it later. He remembered it though, as if it wasn’t a dream, but he had actually seen it. He had been here, enjoying the smell of fresh grass and hot air. In the winter, they skated here.

  Max felt strangely melancholy. He wanted that conciliation, pacification, certainty. He wanted those smells, flowers, sounds. When his body started to shake from the cold and his legs screamed for mercy, he got in the car and headed home.

  On his way back, he pulled out his cell phone and called his aunt. Out of respect and gratitude, he called her on holidays, birthdays, anniversaries. He couldn’t say that she was delighted by his attention. When his cousin mentioned that he had become a popular author, she started calling him. Only, instead of being excited about his success, she demanded to know how parents like his raised a son like him. Things like this didn’t happen. If not for her, he would have be a janitor or a bum. She wanted to know how much he had paid to get published because she didn’t believe he had talent or luck. She said that she glanced through one of his books and couldn’t believe that he had written it. She said she didn’t read things like that. She talked about her son, and how wonderful he did at his job as a store manager in Costco. About her daughter, who married a rich man and gave birth to a girl. Max didn’t interrupt her; he couldn't remember saying anything at all. His aunt didn’t care if he was still on the line or if he had hung up. She needed to talk, to humiliate, and to demand acknowledgment.

  Before, Max had gotten upset with her when they had lived under one roof, but he never showed it. All his energy and aggression went into his books: reading and writing. Now he listened to her with pity, understanding that it was the only way for her to feel better. He pitied her and didn’t take any of her words to heart. Those times were over. He grew stronger because of his parents and her, but he wasn’t petrified of life. He became successful, despite the circumstances, and only called the woman to maintain ties because she had sheltered him, clothed him, and fed him. The woman who had great kids, and who allowed Max to feel himself as a part of a family for the first time in his life.

  He called her now because he had a question that she might know the answer to. She probably would try to blame him for her unaccomplished life, but this time if she insulted him, he planned to hang up. He wasn’t in the mood today.

  “Max?” She sounded surprised. “Wow! I didn’t expect your calls anymore. That’s what happens: you give a person everything, save his life, and he treats you like garbage. You’re lucky to get a call on your birthday.”

  “Aunt Ally, I wanted to ask you something,” Max said in a calm voice. Her words didn’t touch him.

  There was a pause on the other end. Max had never asked for anything.

  “Of course. As soon as you need something you remember your aunt who raised you.”

  She overestimated her contribution to his upbringing, but Max let it go as usual and returned to the subject that interested him.

  “I wanted to ask if we have a relative named Wilma. Wilma Porter? That’s all I know. Oh, she had a daughter, Angelica. The girl disappeared years go. The woman lives in Watervliet.”

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I met this woman accidentally and thought she looked familiar.”

  “I don’t know anyone by that name. What about her? Did she say she’s your relative? She’s a liar. She recognized you and wanted to get something. You’re on TV all the time. My daughter brings magazines, reads your books. You should call her sometime, but you’re rich now, got your nose in the air. You don’t need us anymore.”

  “I talk to Alain often. With Clancy too. We email each other all the time.”

  “Yeah, right. Like I don’t know. Alain also tells me that, stands up for you, and you …”

  “Aunt Ally, I need to go. Sorry.”

  “Sure. Now he has to—”

  “You have a good day.”

  Max turned off the phone without a hint of guilt, and plopped it on the passenger seat. It had taken him years to grow an iron shield around his heart and not feel guilty or like he owed her something. His childhood complexes had been left behind.

  He bought flowers for Anna on his way home. He felt guilty. For his standoffishness, secrets, and for choosing his work over her. He didn’t even notice her most days and Anna was his real family. She supported him in everything; she was his confidence and success. He started to get used to it and take it for granted. It was because somebody else appeared in his life. Angelica. A fictional character. Fiction? Really?

  Anna looked surprised when he gave her the flowers.

  �
��What have you done, Stevenson?”

  “Nothing. I just love you. I’ve acted like a jerk lately.”

  “No. Not like a jerk.”

  Anna put the laptop on the coffee table and went to the kitchen, where she found a vase and put the flowers in it. Max dropped his boots and coat off, and pressed the button on the coffee machine to brew some latte.

  “What did you do today?” Anna asked.

  “I went to Watervliet.” Max answered honestly this time.

  “Okay.” Anna readjusted the roses and put the vase on the table.

  “I met a woman,” Max said, regarding the flowers, thinking of what to say. He didn’t know what to say and wasn’t sure he should say anything. It felt like he gave a treasure to a stranger, but Anna was his family. He shared the most intimate with her. Why was it different now? “In Watervliet. She lives on the same street as the architect from my dream house.”

  With his side view, he noticed that Anna had turned toward him, leaned her back against the table, and folded her arms on her chest.

  “Do you know her daughter’s name?”

  Anna shook her head.

  “Angelica.”

  Now Max looked at his wife. She had a strange expression on her face. Like she wasn’t surprised by what he had said, like she expected it.

  “What happened to her?” Anna asked.

  “Why do you think something has happened to her?”

  “I just assumed, that’s all.”

  “Hmm. She disappeared. Went to the store and never came back.”

  “When did it happen?”

  “The woman … Her name’s Wilma. Wilma Porter. She said it was more than thirty years ago.”

  Anna whistled. “So long ago. I thought it was recently.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Why was she quiet for so many years?”

  “What are you talking about?” Max stood to turn off the beeping coffee machine, but Anna did it first.

  “Ann, I can do it.” Despite years of marriage and continued attention, sometimes he felt uncomfortable being cared for, especially when his memory brought him back to his past, filled with ignorance, blame, and insults.

  “I’m making some for myself anyway. Are you hungry?”

  “I got something fried on my way home.”

  “Healthy lifestyle, Mr. Stevenson?”

  “It had vegetables inside. Potatoes. What do you mean she was quiet for so many years?”

  “Nothing, really.” Anna ran the back of her hand over her forehead then took out two cups and filled them with coffee, making perfect foam on top. She didn’t look at her husband while doing it. “I’ve thought a lot about these things that are happening to you. These strange dreams, people you see. You know, I don’t take all this stuff about ghosts seriously, but I’ve read more than you on this subject. It’s interesting.”

  “So?”

  A black cup landed in front of Max, a blue cup on the other side of the table. Anna sat down with him.

  “I was thinking. Who is this girl? Angelica? I think she isn’t a fictional character and your dreams are her work. She wants to tell you something. Maybe she wants to tell you what happened to her.”

  Anna sipped her coffee, stuck her tongue out, and waved her hand in front of her face. “Hot.”

  “You’re saying …” Max paused, chuckled. “You’re saying that this girl communicates with me from the other side? That’s what you’re saying?”

  Anna stood, drank some water from the fridge, and sat down again.

  “I don’t know, Max, but you have to agree that we are dealing with some really unusual phenomenon. We can find an explanation and we already have, but … who has the same dream repeatedly? Or visions of people? I’ve never heard of this in real life. Want some candy?”

  “Huh?”

  While Max adjusted to the switch in subject, Anna took out an open chocolate bar from the refrigerator and returned to the table, sticking a piece of chocolate in her mouth.

  “I thought I knew Angelica’s mother,” Max said.

  “She probably appeared in one of your dreams,” Anna said with her mouth full.

  “It’s possible, but where does the architect fit in here? I saw his house first.”

  “Maybe this woman and the architect were lovers. Maybe he’s Angelica’s father.”

  “No, that would be ridiculous. Sorry. He’s younger than she is. He could be her daughter’s lover.” Max looked at his wife, shocked by his thoughts. She shrugged, blew on her coffee, and took a sip. Then another one.

  “Does it change anything?” she asked. “It just proves that she shows you those people who were close to her.”

  “I don’t believe he was her lover.” Max took a piece of chocolate, and twisted it thoughtfully between his fingers before sending it to his mouth.

  “You didn’t deny that you could be talking to the dead.”

  Max chewed the chocolate, looked at his wife’s calm face, and tried to understand what she wanted to accomplish with this conversation. What if she didn’t believe in what she had said and just wanted to tease her husband? Make fun of him. It wasn’t like her. She wouldn’t laugh at him.

  “I didn’t say anything about talking to the dead,” Max mumbled.

  “Then how can you explain this? I don’t doubt anything you say, but we have to find some answers.”

  Max thought about this version and accepted it. It was the only one that explained what was happening, but he didn’t expect anyone to believe him.

  “Maybe you should go to a psychic or someone who talks to dead people.” The last words Anna said staring into her cup.

  “Are you serious?” Max really didn’t know what to think.

  “I don’t know.” Anna shrugged, glanced at her husband. “I don’t know, Max. I’ve never encountered anything like this. You, as far as I know, haven’t either. I think we should ask someone who understand this stuff.”

  “I don’t trust them.”

  “Me neither, but I am worried about you. I mean, seriously worried, Max.”

  “Why?” Max leaned back in his seat. Suddenly, his desire to share with his wife changed to irritation and regret. “You think I’m going crazy?”

  “No! Of course not. I told you, I don’t have a dollop of doubt that you have those dreams. I know you don’t make them up. It’s just that you’re so taken with this book, like never before. I think you see it yourself.”

  “I’m taken by this book, yes. So what? I don’t understand, Ann. What are you worried about?”

  Anna studied her husband’s face for a few seconds. “More coffee?”

  “Ann, don’t change the subject.”

  “I’m not. I just don’t know what else to say.” She picked up both cups and carried them to the sink. “A new Supernatural episode is on TV tonight. I want to watch it. What about you?”

  “No. Anna, what did I say?”

  “Nothing, Max. Everything’s fine.” She went to the door.

  “Come on, babe. Really. Are you upset about psychics? I can go if you insist.”

  “It has nothing to do with psychics. Everything is fine, Max. Relax.”

  Anna left the kitchen, but Max couldn’t possibly relax. Because nothing was fine. His wife was upset with him, but as usual, she closed up and pouted instead of telling him the reason. Now he had to beg her to forgive him for any sins, even imagined. Today though, Max couldn’t think about this situation. He brought his laptop from the bedroom to the kitchen, turned the coffee machine on, and opened the file titled “Angelica.”

  CHAPTER 29

  In the morning, Max settled at his computer before taking a shower or having breakfast, right after Anna left for work. A terry robe over his naked body, and a cup of espresso, that was all he needed. He described Angelica’s school years, which weren’t anything special. She had been a shy girl growing in a loving family. Her mother forgave her father and let him come back to live with them. He never gave his wife a r
eason not to trust him again.

  Angelica had two best friends, and she spent evenings and weekends with them when they didn’t have homework or afterschool activities. They even went to the movies without their parents when they turned twelve. Watervliet was even smaller at that time, and the people knew each other. Kids walked the streets without adult supervision and felt safe. There weren’t as many cars. If the kids went too far from their houses, their neighbors brought them home.

  Max wrote about Angelica’s days in school, and how she felt about the most handsome boy in her class. He flirted with her friend. Angelica liked the boy, but still played with dolls. She would never admit it to her friends or they would laugh at her. She was too big for dolls. She made clothes for her dolls and dreamed of becoming a fashion designer. She was interested in boys because it was time, or so her friends thought.

  Max wrote with gusto—a condition he hadn’t experienced with his writing before. He always enjoyed the prose. It became work with time, but work he liked to do. Now, he was flying. He didn’t stop to think over a word, phrase, or plot development. Breaking free from the confines of letters made him smile. He was in harmony with his mind, no conflicting feelings as it used to be. No doubts. He cared about his characters being deep. He thought about their motivations, logic, and believability of their actions. He thought about the twists and turns in a plot. He watched all the weapons shoot and pulled out pianos from the bushes. None of that bothered him now. Max wasn’t worried if anyone read this book. He didn’t care about its target audience, his old fans, or his editor’s opinion. The only thing he was afraid of was separation from his protagonist. He also was afraid that the joints in his hands would give up.

  At one point he stopped. Angelica had been arguing with her girlfriends by the movie theater. For some reason, instead of continuation of the scene, Max saw nothing. A black wall that didn’t let him peek into the future. It scared him. He blinked at the screen, looked for a splash of inspiration in his mind, and couldn’t find it. The wall.