Dead Voices

by Rick Hautala

  In block letters was the single word: THERAPIST.

  Frank shook his head and watched, perplexed, as Harris wrote something else on the paper below the word.

  “See it now?” he asked. Using the same word, Harris had simply added a space between two of the letters. When Frank looked at the paper again, he read the words: THE RAPIST.

  “That’s cute—real cute,” Frank said coldly. He found little humor in Harris’s word game because it related so directly to the threat to Elizabeth. “Why don’t you tell me something useful.”

  “You want something useful?” Harris asked, arching his eyebrows. “Here’s a little tip for you. They always go back to the scene of the crime . . always”!

  “Christ, you’re full of wisdom today.”

  “Well, Melrose, if you’ve got anything I need to know about this Graydon character or about why anyone might be messing around out there in the cemetery, now’s the time to spill your guts. Otherwise”—he made a causally dismissive gesture with his hand— ”be careful the doorknob doesn’t bump your ass on your way out.”

  Frank pushed back the chair and stood up.

  “Thanks for the entertainment,” he mumbled, as the steady click-click of Harris’s typewriter resumed. Once he was out into the hallway, though, what Harris had said about criminals returning to the scene of the crime struck him as possibly profound. Maybe that’s exactly what he should delve into—every possible reason someone might have for doing anything to Caroline’s grave. It might go all the way back to the night of the accident. The place to start would be at the Portland Public Library, where he could check out the newspaper accounts of what had happened that night.

  2.

  Aunt Junia was washing dishes at the kitchen sink when Elizabeth knocked on the screen door and then cautiously entered. She tiptoed, just in case Elspeth was napping in the living room.

  “Elizabeth!” Junia exclaimed. “What on earth . . . ? We sure have been seeing a lot of you lately.”

  Shrugging, Elizabeth smiled weakly.

  “Well, don’t just stand there in the doorway like a stranger. Come on in. I’ll put on the coffee pot.”

  Elizabeth walked over to the kitchen table, slid out a chair, and sat down. “That isn’t necessary,” she said. “I just—” She clapped her hands together and rubbed them nervously. “I don’t know. I was just—feeling like I needed someone to . . . to talk to.”

  “What’s the problem, Elizabeth?” Junia said. She dried her hands on the dish towel as she came over and stood behind her niece. Without a word, she began rubbing the back of Elizabeth’s neck. “My goodness! Your neck muscles are all bunched up. What’s got you so worked up?”

  Elizabeth tried to turn to look up at her aunt, but the pressure Junia was applying to the back of her neck prevented that, so she just lowered her head, closed her eyes, and tried like hell to enjoy the massage.

  “If there’s something bothering you, you should talk it out with your mother,” Junia said. “I always thought you and she got along just fine.”

  “We do . . . or did. I dunno,” Elizabeth said. She let her head bob around loosely as Junia’s surprisingly strong fingers kneaded the wire-tight muscles and tendons. She imagined feeling each individual vertebra pop back into place. “It’s just that—” She finished with a long and deep sigh.

  “Well you can talk to me about it, if you want,” Junia said. “There, is that enough?” She stopped the neck rub and went to sit down opposite Elizabeth. The concerned, loving expression on her face cut through Elizabeth’s blues-at least a little.

  “Where did you ever learn to do that?” Elizabeth asked as she rotated her head, feeling an undeniable relaxation.

  “I have to massage Elspeth’s back several times a day,” Junia said. “The doctor showed me where the nerve centers are and how to work them. But you didn’t come over to talk neck rubs.”

  “No—I didn’t,” Elizabeth said, shaking her head. Already, she could feel the tightening begin again, as though someone were inserting slender steel rods in between her shoulders and running them up her spine, right into her brain.

  “So tell me,” Junia said, leaning forward with an expression of deep worry on her face.

  “I don’t know where to begin,” Elizabeth said, raising her hands in a gesture of helplessness. “I mean, it’s all so . . . confusing.”

  “Why don’t you start by telling me what happened yesterday,” Junia said kindly. “We can work our way back from there.”

  “Even that’s so—so confused,” Elizabeth said. Tears were building up in her eyes, and she told herself—commanded herself—to control them. Don’t break down now and get Junia all upset, she told herself.

  “Well then . . . how about if we talk about what you want to do next?”

  Against her will, Elizabeth felt warm tracks of tears run down over her cheeks. Her throat was constricted, and she was surprised that any words came out at all when she opened her mouth.

  “I have no idea,” she rasped. “I mean, my whole life’s such a mess. First I lose Caroline—then my marriage falls apart. And now I—I’m positive coming back home was a mistake.”

  “How can you say that?” Junia asked. “Elspeth and I have been overjoyed to see you, and I’m sure your parents—even your father, in his own tight-lipped way—are happy as clams to have you around.”

  “Oh, I know—I know,” Elizabeth said. Her voice was low and husky from the emotions she was choking back. “But you know, seeing Frank and this . . . this other man—”

  “What other man?” Junia asked.

  Elizabeth stiffened and looked at her aunt, suddenly fearful of how much or how little she should reveal. In the privacy of her own thoughts, knowing everything she knew, she couldn’t sort things out, so was it fair of her to expect Junia or anyone else to help her deal with things if she didn’t tell all?

  “I didn’t want to mention this to you, mostly because 1 didn’t want you to be upset, but I’ve been seeing a therapist—a psychiatrist in South Portland—ever since I got home. Before that, even, 1 was seeing someone in Laconia.”

  Junia nodded silently, allowing Elizabeth to continue at her own pace.

  “Actually, I’ve been seeing a therapist since right after the night of the accident. You know—to help me deal with . . . ” Her voice trailed away, and she was unsure whether or not she should tell Junia about her attempted suicide. “. . . To help me deal with everything that’s happened,” she finished lamely.

  “That’s understandable,” Junia replied mildly. Elizabeth sniffed and wiped her nose with the back of her hand. Then, looking squarely at her aunt, watching her, trying to judge her true, unguarded reaction, she decided to tell her everything.

  “Especially after I ... tried to kill myself last spring.”

  Junia’s eyes widened with surprise, but only for an instant. “I can understand that you were distraught by what happened,” she said. “But I hope—I pray—you don’t feel that despondent ever again. After losing my brother that way—” She tried to say more, but her face paled and her voice shut off with a strangled gasp.

  Elizabeth’s lower lip began to tremble uncontrollably as she stared into the warm, comforting eyes of her aunt and saw fear and deep pain there.

  “I don’t think I really wanted to die—not really,” she said. “But after I lost Caroline . . . I mean-Jesus! 1 sure felt like 1 wanted to! Ever since that night!”

  “I hope you realize that the important thing for you to do is to keep on living,” Junia said. “I think that’s what Caroline would want, too, don’t you?”

  “Oh, I know that,” Elizabeth replied, her voice no more than a gasp. Tears were streaming down her face, now, and she reached blindly for a napkin from the holder on the table and began wiping her eyes with quick, hard strokes.

  “But that’s all in the past,” Junia said. “And no matter what we think or feel, it’s gone. I’ve always thought the most important thing is the future. Let
the past be. You can choose to remember it fondly or to get over the painful parts—whatever. But you can never let it ruin your future. So let’s talk about that.”

  Elizabeth took a shuddering breath and stared down at her hands, tightly folded in her lap.

  “What do you plan to do from here?” Junia asked.

  All Elizabeth could do was shake her head. She wanted desperately to tell her aunt everything . . .

  —Tell her about Frank Melrose and the incredibly confused and conflicting emotions she felt about him; that he, at least, seemed earnest and sincere about wanting to start up their relationship and see where it would lead; that she wanted and needed to feel a man’s love but didn’t know if she would even recognize it or ever fully trust it when or if she ever did find it.

  —Tell her about Dr. Roland Graydon and the absolutely bizarre proposition he had made to her, that—through necromancy, black magic—he wanted to raise Caroline’s spirit so that Elizabeth could talk to her daughter and tell her how sorry she was that she had to die; that reading about the “black arts” late at night and terrifying herself was one thing, but that in the clear light of day, such things—even such seemingly silly and harmless things as the séance with Claire and the more frightening voices she and Eldon had recorded—seemed mere delusions, the products of unstable and possibly dangerously unbalanced minds.

  —Tell her about the nightmares and the twisting guilt, the dark thoughts that still circled around in her brain like sleek, hungry sharks, just waiting to snag her and pull her under; that, in actual, cold, hard truth, she was tired of living; that she had absolutely no faith in herself and saw no hope for the future, and that she probably would be better off dead!

  But she couldn’t tell Junia that; she couldn’t say any of it!

  Covering her face with her hands, she wailed, “I have no idea what I’m going to do,” then collapsed forward onto the table. Her sobs were muffled by her hands, and she was only distantly aware that Junia had come over to her again and begun patting her reassuringly on the back. The warm tears flowed, filling her hands, while Junia stood beside her, simply muttering, “There, there, dear . . . there, there . . .”

  3.

  Sitting in the darkened research room at the Portland Public Library, Frank carefully read through the Press Herald and Evening Express accounts of the accident that had killed Caroline Myers. After the third time through, he concluded that there was nothing new to glean from the articles. He was ready to pack it in and head back to Bristol Mills when Baker, the research librarian, asked him if he had thought to check the obituaries for both people who had died that night.

  “Both people . . . “ Frank muttered, feeling an uncomfortable twinge. All along, he had been focusing only on what had happened to Caroline that night. He had completely forgotten that someone else—Sam Healy, the man driving the Buxton town snowplow—had also died. Frank zipped ahead on the microfilm until he found the funeral announcement for Wednesday, February 15, 1988.

  “Son of a bitch! Son of a fucking bitch!” he whispered, reading and then rereading the brief write-up on the death of Sam Healy, of Bar Mills, Maine. He couldn’t believe the immense implications of one sentence near the bottom of Sam’s death notice.

  SAMUEL R. HEALY

  BAR MILLS—Samuel R. Healy, 42, of Hollis Rd., died Monday night while driving a Buxton town snowplow, as a result of injuries sustained in an accident involving a stalled car on Route 22 in South Buxton.

  He was born in Portland, son of Paula and Jack Healy, and was a 1966 graduate of Bonny Eagle High School.

  He worked for the highway department of the town of Buxton and, prior to that, served with distinction in Vietnam as a Marine. He was an avid hunter and a member of both the Sebago Gun Club and the NRA.

  Surviving are his wife, Donna B. Healy, now living in Bristol, Rhode Island; one son, William K. of Sherman Oaks, California; and his uncle, Roland Graydon of South Portland, who raised him following the death of his parents in 1954.

  A memorial service will be held at 10 A.M. at St. Luke’s Church in Hollis Center. Burial will immediately follow at Evergreen Cemetery, Bar Mills.

  Fighting a cold surge of panic, Frank read the funeral notice a third and then a fourth time, just to make absolutely certain his eyes weren’t tricking him, before he got up from his chair and signaled to Baker, waving at him to come over.

  “Yeah—?” Baker said, leaning down close to the microfilm machine. The green glow of the screen gave his face a ghastly hue.

  “How can I get a paper copy of this-in a hurry?” Frank asked. He was surprised at how shaky his voice sounded.

  A cop is never supposed to feel panic or be afraid, he told himself, but he was already imagining the obituary that would run for Elizabeth if he didn’t warn her in time . . . if it wasn’t already too late!

  “Just this page?’ Baker asked.

  Frank nodded.

  “Just get it on the screen and press this button on the side,” Baker said. He did the operation as he was describing it. From inside the microfilm machine. gears started grinding. “Costs a quarter a page. Honor system. You can pay at the desk before you leave.”

  “Great. Is there a phone nearby I can use?” Frank asked. He glanced around the reference room, fighting back the urge to grab the photocopy. run out to his car, and speed back to Bristol Mills.

  Baker considered for a moment. then asked, “Is this official business?”

  Frank hesitated, then nodded. “Uh. yeah-I’d guess it is.”

  “Then use the one at the reference desk,” the librarian said. “You have to dial nine to get an outside line. but I—” Whatever else he had to say trailed off as Frank dashed over to the desk, snatched up the handset, and hurriedly dialed a number from memory. On the third ring, a woman’s voice on the other end of the line said. “Hello.” He knew instantly that it wasn’t Elizabeth.

  “Hello. Mrs. Payne,” he said, forcing calmness into his voice. “This is Frank—Frank Melrose. I’d like to speak with Elizabeth if she’s around.”

  As Frank. was speaking, Baker picked up the paper copy of the page from the machine and walked over to the reference desk to hand it to him. Frank glanced at it quickly and silently nodded his thanks. With his free hand, he dug into his pants pocket for a quarter, which he placed on the desk next to the phone.

  “She’s not home right now,” Rebecca said. “I would think she’s still at work. You might want to try her there. She’s got a job down to Hardy’s, you know—”

  “Yes, I do. Would you do me a favor and ask her to call me and make sure she does? She can either leave a message for me at the police station or on my answering machine at home. I really have to get in touch with her this evening.”

  “It sounds quite urgent,” Rebecca said.

  “Oh, no—not really. But I do have to talk with her about something,” Frank said. He hoped he was successfully masking the panic he felt.

  “You know something, though—” Rebecca said. “When she left for work today, she said something kind of funny to me . . . ”

  “What was that, Mrs. Payne,” Frank said, his shoulders tensing. ‘

  “Well, she said she didn’t want to take any phone calls, and that if anyone called while she was out, she didn’t even want to know about it. I thought that was kinda strange at the time. Don’t you?”

  “Yes I do,” Frank replied. He knew that Elizabeth was intent on avoiding him, and was suddenly fearful that this could cost her her life. “I’d appreciate it if you’d make an exception in this case.” Before Rebecca could comment that it indeed sounded urgent, Frank said, “Thank you very much,” and pressed the button to disconnect the call. Looking at Baker, he asked sharply, “Is there a phone book around here?”

  Baker opened the bottom desk drawer and took out the directory, and Frank practically grabbed it out of his hands and started flipping through the pages until he found the number for Hardy’s Hardware. His hand was shaking as he hurriedly
dialed the number. As much as he wanted to push aside the feeling that it might already be too late, he couldn’t ignore the icy cold that had blossomed in the pit of his stomach. When Jake answered, Frank wasted no time.

  “Jake, this is Frank. Ihave to talk to Elizabeth. It’s urgent.”

  “Wish I could help you,” Jake replied, “but she waltzed in here this morning and just up ‘n’ quit on me. I ain’t seen her since—I’d say since ‘round eight o’clock this momin’.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Frank said. “Son of a motherfucking bitch!”

  “Yeah, I know,” Jake said. “I mean, I don’t hold it against her or nothin’, but I would’ve appreciated at least a few days notice. I’m pretty shorthanded ‘round here as it is, this time of year.”

  “Wish I could help,” Frank snapped. “Look, if by chance you see her, tell her to call me at the station, okay?”

  “Sure,” Jake replied. “What’s this all ab—”

  “Gotta go. Thanks, Jake.” Frank said. He thumbed the hook, then dialed the police station.

  “Good afternoon. Bristol Mills police,” said a voice. Frank instantly recognized Mark Curtis, the day-shift dispatcher.

  “Mark—this is Frank. Have there been any calls for me today?”

  After a slight pause, Mark replied, “Nothin’ on the incoming sheet. You expecting something important?”

  “Look, I don’t have time to explain it all, but I’m expecting a call from Elizabeth Myers—write that name down and tape it to the phone. I can’t tell you how important this is. If she calls, I want you to find out where she is and tell her . . . tell her to get her fucking ass over to the station right away.”

  “Should I use those exact words?” Mark asked. A lilting chuckle colored his voice.

  “I’m not shitting around, Mark. This could be serious!” Frank yelled. “If she calls, tell her I’ve found out something about Graydon that she has got to know right away.”