Dead Voices

by Rick Hautala

  “What do you mean ‘not that serious’! Jesus Christ, Frank! Someone ... someone desecrated my daughter’s grave, and you’re telling me it isn’t serious?” Slouching against the car seat, she buried her face in her hands.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Frank said soothingly, wishing as always — that he could say the right words to her. “It’s just that — you have to keep in mind that there’s quite a bit of other work these detectives have to do. Even something as ... as horrible as this is classified only as a misdemeanor by the state.”

  “You mean to tell me that performing a black-magic ritual over my daughter’s grave is like a ... like a Goddamned speeding ticket? Jesus!”

  “All I’m trying to do is explain why Harris and Lovejoy can’t put all of their time into investigating this,” Frank said. “There are plenty of other more serious crimes committed that they —”

  “How can you say this isn’t serious?” Elizabeth burst out. Her voice was raw and broken. “What are you talking about? Someone dug up my uncle’s body, for Christ’s sake! They cut off his left hand, and now they’re doing some kind of ritual over my daughter’s grave, and you try to tell me it isn’t serious!”

  If it hadn’t been pouring rain, she would have gotten out of the car right then and walked away, no matter how far she was from home. A numbing chill was gnawing at her gut like sharp, animal teeth. Deep muscle tremors rumbled inside her like an earthquake; she didn’t dare move, and she knew that if she looked at Frank she would completely dissolve.

  “What can it ... What does it mean?” she asked. Her voice warbled faintly as she fought to control it. She stared blankly ahead at the rain-slick road.

  Frank wanted to be sympathetic and tell her comforting lies, but he knew he couldn’t. This was the part of police work that he hated the most — being “professional” when a close, personal friend was involved.

  “What it means is, there’s at least one honest-t0-Christ class-A wacko in town or nearby who’s doing shit like this,” he said, forcing his voice to stay measured and even. “And there’s no doubt in my mind that he’s directing it right at you. “

  “But ... why?” Elizabeth asked. Her eyes were wide with fear and shock as she turned to him.

  “That’s what I want to find out,” Frank said. “Who’s doing it and why.”

  “You keep saying ‘he.’ How do you know it’s a man?”

  “From the evidence — the footprints we lifted that night out at the cemetery and some other clues, Harris is fairly certain there’s at least one man involved — possibly two — but there’s really no way of knowing conclusively with the evidence we’ve gotten so far. But I want you to think about it a minute. Is there someone — anyone — you can think of who might be mad enough at you to do something like this?”

  Elizabeth gave her head a quick, tight shake. “The only one I can think of is Doug, but he wouldn’t —”

  “I know you got upset with me the other night when I suggested he might be involved, and I’m not saying it isn’t him, but can you think of anyone else who could have ... well, enough hatred for you that he — or she — would be trying to terrorize you this way?”

  Elizabeth’s breathing came in short, shallow gulps. The tips of her fingers were tingling as thoughts and fears collided in her mind. She was gripped with the sudden fear that she was going to pass out.

  “Someone is doing this, and I’m not entirely convinced it’s because he honestly believes this black-magic bullshit really works. I think it’s just as likely he’s doing it to try and freak you out, maybe so much so that you’ll —”

  “Go crazy,” Elizabeth said raspily. “Or maybe kill myself or something. “

  “Maybe,” Frank said, stroking his chin thoughtfully.

  “You said this ... this Hand of Glory had to be that of a hanged man, right?” Elizabeth said. She knew she was a breath away from completely shattering.

  Frank grunted and nodded.

  “Did you know that my Uncle Jonathan killed himself?” Elizabeth said. “I just found out this last week. My Aunt Junia told me that they found him hanging from a rafter in his barn.”

  “Jesus H.,” Frank said. “I never knew that. I mean, it was — how long ago? I remember when he died, but we were just kids — what, nine or ten years old? I’d never heard he killed himself.”

  “Neither had I until just a few days ago,” Elizabeth said, a slight measure of control returning to her. “He didn’t leave a suicide note or anything, and the family kept it pretty much hushed up. I mean, all my life, I never even had an inkling.”

  “So — who would know something like that?” Frank asked.

  Elizabeth shrugged. “I dunno. I suppose just my family-you know, my mother and father and aunts. The police must’ve been told, too, bur they must have helped my family keep it hushed up. I suppose there might be something in some old records or something, maybe a police report that anyone who might be interested could look up.”

  “That’s not unreasonable,” Frank said. “Especially in a small town like Bristol Mills, where everybody seems to know everybody else’s business. But you’d think there would have been at least some gossip about it.”

  “None that I ever heard,” Elizabeth said. “That must rule out Doug, because if I didn’t know, he certainly couldn’t have.”

  ‘‘I’m not going to rule out anyone until I find out who did it, and can prove it,” Frank said. “But you know — all of this is getting us nowhere fast. I mean, as cruel as it sounds, what we’re talking about isn’t going to amount to a hill of beans for either your uncle or your daughter. What we’ve got to be concerned about is your safety, because if this is directed at you ...”

  Elizabeth held up her hands in a gesture of helpless frustration. “I don’t even know what we’re looking for! I don’t suppose whoever’s doing it is going to start sending me little pieces of paper with black dots on them as a warning or whatever, is he?”

  Frank looked at her until she was forced to look away. He wished that the tiny voice whispering inside his head, saying that maybe Elizabeth was the one doing all of these weird things, would just shut up; but it wouldn’t. If he looked at this objectively, it seemed entirely plausible that she had become so distraught over first losing her daughter and then getting divorced that her mind had snapped. She was, after all, seeing a therapist. Maybe she was the one who was full-tilt-boogie “looney tunes.”

  Clearing his throat, Frank said, “You know, I’ve also been wondering if your therapist, Roland Graydon, might be involved.”

  Elizabeth couldn’t have been more stunned if Frank had fired his # revolver at her, point-blank. She stared at him wide-eyed, not really believing what she had heard.

  “You’ve got to be kidding!” she said, after a brief burst of laughter. “Graydon? What the hell are you talking about, Frank?”

  “I’m talking about who I think might be doing all of this — for whatever twisted reason.”

  “You can’t be serious!” Elizabeth said. Frank shrugged as he nodded. “I couldn’t be more serious.”

  “That’s a pretty irresponsible allegation,” Elizabeth said. “I met the man for the first time in my life just a couple of weeks ago. Anyway, all of this began happening before I started seeing — Hey, wait a minute! How the hell did you even know I was seeing a psychiatrist in the first place?”

  Frank said simply, “I met him with you that night at Booksmith, remember? And since then I’ve done a bit of research on him. It wasn’t hard to discover that he’s a therapist, so I figured you were seeing him professionally.”

  “So you’ve been checking up on me behind my back?”

  “Look here, Elizabeth. You may not think so, but I honestly believe you’re in some kind of danger. I don’t know for sure who’s doing it or why, but there’s been too many things falling into place here.”

  Elizabeth snorted with laughter that didn’t come at all close to breaking the tension in the cruiser. �
�You’re starting to sound like a paranoid, Frank,” she said. “Maybe you should make an appointment with Dr. Graydon for yourself.”

  “I plan to talk to him, all right ... just as soon as I can. And if I get enough evidence, I’ll nail him.”

  “I don’t see how you can even suggest that he’s involved!” Elizabeth said, tom between laughter and an explosion of anger. She wanted to lash out at Frank.

  Maintaining a low, steady voice, Frank said, “I can suggest it because, in doing an area survey; we did get a description of a car in the area of Oak Grove that night. It matches Graydon’s car. “

  “You mean someone got the license-plate number and everything?” Elizabeth asked, trembling with rage.

  “No — but the make and color are a match. The car was parked in a vacant lot out on Route 22, right next to an old fire road that comes up from behind the cemetery. Coincidentally, it’s fairly close to where Henry Bishop found Fraser’s body. Barney Fraser obviously was murdered, and I’m not entirely convinced Henry’s death was an accident, either.”

  “I thought cops didn’t believe in coincidences,” Elizabeth said, unable to disguise her sarcasm.

  “We don’t,” he said, “but we also don’t pretend there aren’t connections when. We see them.” Glaring at her, Frank shook his head with disgust and continued, “Look, Elizabeth, if you want to be blind to all of this, then fine — but I think you’re a damned fool not to look at it for what it is. Sure, I don’t have enough proof to truly suspect anyone. But let me ask you this-how much do you really know about this Dr. Graydon?”

  Elizabeth sighed deeply. “Well, I certainly know he isn’t the type who would get involved with any kind of black-magic bullshit.”

  “How do you know that? Tell me, what exactly is the type?” Elizabeth shrugged, speechless.

  “See,” Frank went on, “you don’t even know. You have no idea. I’ve been checking into this stuff some, and one thing I’m finding out is that no one can know for sure who’s involved. All I’m saying is, there’s a lot of weird shit going on, and you can never tell. You can’t judge this Dr. Graydon’s or anyone’s personality superficially as either being or not being the type.”

  Elizabeth tried to push aside the uneasy thoughts Frank’s words stirred in her. Snickering, she jabbed at Frank and said, “Come on! Take me home. I’m already late for supper. If I listen to very much more of this, I’m going to start suspecting even you might be involved! After all, if we’re looking for connections — coincidences, if you’ll allow me to use the word — you were the one who discovered what was going on out there both times.” She stroked her chin thoughtfully and glanced at Frank from the comer of her eye. “How do you think that looks?”

  “Okay, fine; go ahead and make light of it if you want,” Frank said, totally frustrated.

  “I’m not making light of it,” she replied earnestly. “Keep in mind what you keep telling me; all of this seems to be directed at me!”

  “And I’ll tell you something else — whether you like it or not, I’m gonna keep on watching you and checking out everything — and everyone — I have to until I find out who’s doing it ... and why!”

  Elizabeth laughed again, louder this time as she lightly gripped Frank’s arm above the elbow. “Somehow,” she said, even as her stomach twisted with a cold dread, “I just knew you were going to say that.”

  PART TWO

  Look!

  The dead have risen!

  These creatures are all inferior to us,

  and what you see is only smoke and shadow;

  so then raise your eyes!

  — Autobiography of Benvenuto Cellini

  Methinks that what they call my shadow

  here on earth is my true substance ...

  Methinks my body is but the lees of

  my better being.

  — Herman Melville

  ELEVEN

  Séance

  1.

  The rain that had begun the day before was still pouring down on Friday night when Elizabeth and Junia left Elspeth in the care of Mrs. Saunders and drove up Route 302 to Raymond to meet Claire DeBlaise. As they drove, the glare of the streetlights made the slanting sheets of rain look like drifting snow, while hammer-fisted gusts of wind buffeted the car, making it difficult for Elizabeth to keep straight on the slick surface.

  After turning right off Route 302 onto Route 85, they drove a few miles to the right-hand turn onto Egypt Road. What an appropriate name for the road a psychic lives on, Elizabeth thought with a faint stirring of humor. After driving a mile or so down the road, Junia tapped her lightly on the arm and said, “That’s her house, there on the left.” Elizabeth should have felt relief that the drive was over, but a deep, cold tension coiled up inside her when she thought about what she and her aunt proposed to do tonight.

  Slowing for the turn into the driveway, Elizabeth’s first thought as she looked up at the house was that it wasn’t at all what she had been expecting. At best, she had imagined Claire’s house would look like the house from Pyscho, but it turned out to be a pleasant little ranch with a two-car garage connected to the house by a breezeway. The outside light was on, and there was someone waiting in the doorway as they got out of the car and hurried up the walkway. The downpour drenched them during the short walk to the breezeway door.

  Like her house, Claire DeBlaise was not at all what Elizabeth had been expecting. Aunt Junia had told her Claire was a young woman. Elizabeth had assumed she meant younger than herself, which could still mean she would be considerably older than Elizabeth. Elizabeth had built up a complete stereotyped image of an elderly woman, maybe in her sixties, most likely with long, thick, curling black hair, several pounds overweight, with fleshy jowls, thick pancake makeup, and hooped, Gypsy earrings. As she and Junia crowded into the entryway out of the storm, Elizabeth thought the sprightly woman with bright blue eyes and fiery red hair who greeted them might be Claire’s daughter.

  She realized her mistake when the woman smiled and extended her hands in greeting to Junia. “I’m so glad you could make it,” Claire said, gripping both of Junia’s hands and shaking them. Her voice had a pleasant lilt, as if she were singing her words. “And in such weather! I was waiting for a call to say you were going to cancel.”

  When Claire gave Junia a warm embrace, Elizabeth noticed that the woman’s hands looked unhealthily thin and pale; the skin was almost translucent, and the sprinkling of freckles seemed to hover in the air above the surface of her skin.

  “And this is your niece, Elizabeth, whom you told me about,” Claire said, standing back and giving Elizabeth a quick once-over. “Welcome to my home.” She stepped to one side, watching and smiling warmly as Elizabeth helped Junia take off her dripping raincoat.

  “Here, let me take both of those for you.” Claire said, holding her hand out for Elizabeth’s coat as well. She hung them on a coat rack. “I can put on some coffee or tea if you’d like.”

  In spite of the bone-deep chill she felt, out of nervousness Elizabeth shook her head and said, “None for me, thanks.”

  “No, thank you,” Junia replied.

  “Well, maybe later. As soon as you’re comfortable, we can begin in the sitting room. I call it that,” she added, addressing Elizabeth directly, “because seance, in French, means ‘sitting.’ “

  “Oh, I didn’t know that, “ Elizabeth said, nervously shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her hands were trembling. Casting a wary glance at Claire, she flushed with embarrassment that she was letting her nervousness show.

  And what have I got to be nervous about? she thought as she looked around the dimly lit house. After all, we’re only here to try to contact my dead daughter!

  “Well, let’s make ourselves comfortable, then,” Claire said, starting down the hallway toward the living room.

  Elizabeth glanced at her aunt, but Junia apparently either didn’t notice her tension or else chose to ignore it. Casting her eyes downward, Elizabeth foll
owed along behind.

  Although from the outside, Claire’s house had appeared thoroughly modern, Elizabeth at least wasn’t disappointed in her expectations about the inside. The living room, she saw, was filled with either beautifully restored Victorian furniture or else perfectly detailed replicas. A gorgeous hand-carved clock tick-tocked on the mantel and scroll-footed couch, mahogany end tables, and heavy oak bookcases made the living room seem slightly crowded but comfortable. Being inside Claire’s house was like being instantly transported back to the nineteenth century. Even the air smelled curiously old fashioned but not stale or dusty.

  After passing through the living room, Claire paused in front of a double doorway. Then, with a sweeping hand gesture, she swung the doors open and indicated that they had arrived at the “sitting room.” She stepped back to allow Elizabeth and Junia to enter first.

  “Oh, my ... this is beautiful,” Elizabeth said, unable to resist the charm of the Victorian decor.

  “Why thank you,” Claire replied, nodding as she watched and gauged Elizabeth’s reaction.

  Elizabeth’s preconceptions about the house were confirmed even further. In the center of the room was a claw-footed oak table covered by a lacy white tablecloth. Surrounding the table were seven chairs, all made of dark wood, with thickly padded seats. The windows were draped with heavy curtains that had just a hint of a design worked through the dark blue material, and the wallpaper was an old-fashioned Victorian “mirror” design. Two wall sconces with tiny bulbs shaped like candle flames bracketed an ornately framed picture of a British pastoral landscape from the last century.

  Claire gently closed the double doors behind them. The latch made a faint click which, to Elizabeth’s mind, had too much of a sound of finality. The heavy drapes on the windows deadened the sound of the rain beating against the house. As Elizabeth and Junia walked slowly toward the table, their footsteps on the carpeted floor hissed unnaturally loud.