The remains

by Vincent Zandri

  Molly goes up to the front door and tosses me another one of her irresistible John Wayne ‘Move ‘em out’ waves. She sets her right hand on the old blackened knob and, shifting her shoulder like a running back about to take on some linebackers, shoves the door open…

  “Rebecca,” Michael barks. “What is this place?”

  But I couldn’t answer him yet; couldn’t find the words inside my brain or my heart. I didn’t have it in me to speak. Instead I looked at the trees and the house and I saw it all in my mind like it was only yesterday: our entry though the front door into the dark home, the spider-webbed interior, the horrible stench that I tasted more on my tongue than I smelled though my nose.

  Lifting my left hand, I touched the home with my fingertips, running the pad of my index finger along the five red-brown letters that made up the word ‘Smell’, each individual letter tattooed along the side of the house like graffiti.

  “Smell,” Michael read, the word pouring like acid off his lips.

  He could see the word clearly. It told me that Franny no longer felt the need to hide their titles. The lack of subtlety told me that Franny was screaming at me now. On Monday, when no one but me could recognize the word in his painting, he’d been whispering. Now that everyone could see the word, he was screaming. Screaming for me to use my senses, to pay attention, to watch my back.

  “What. Is. This. Place?” Michael repeated.

  I swallowed. He knew all about my secret. He knew exactly what this place was. He just needed to hear it from me; from my mouth.

  “It’s the house in the woods,” I said. “It’s where Whalen took Molly and me.”

  Confirming his worst fear, Michael cocked the painting over his head and threw it across the room.

  Chapter 37

  It was up to me to calm Michael down. It didn’t matter now how much I tried to preserve the happiness of the previous night, Franny’s painting, his warning, had ruined the moment.

  My ex-husband was sitting on the edge of the couch, hands pressed against his face, muttering something about tearing Franny ‘a new one.’

  “It’s not his fault,” I exclaimed. “Franny is simply doing what Franny does. I know without a doubt now that he’s talking to me Michael; not tormenting.”

  Michael lifted his head. He was sporting a three day shadow to go with his mustache and goatee.

  “Then why does it feel like torment?”

  I made my way to the painting and picked it up off the floor. Unzipping my art bag, I slipped the painting inside, out of sight, out of spinning mind. I fully intended to personally deliver it to Harris, just like I fully intended to reveal the texts.

  Michael wiped both eyes with the backs of his hands.

  “What’s going on here, Bec?” he insisted. “Why would Franny drop the painting off to the apartment instead of leaving it at the art center? That was the whole point behind your taking a couple of days off.”

  “I don’t know,” I exhaled. “But I’m about to find out.”

  Drawing in a deep breath, I pulled my towel tighter over my chest. I walked barefoot into the bedroom to get dressed. After that, I was going to call Robyn and find out why she gave Caroline and Franny permission to make a surprise drive-by to my home.

  Chapter 38

  Michael stood by my side while I speed-dialed Robyn’s number and waited for a pick up. For the third time in a row I was greeted by her answering service.

  My pulse picked up. This was so not like Robyn.

  The fact that Franny and his mother made the effort to deliver the fourth painting directly to my door told me that Robyn had not showed up to open the art center that morning. Otherwise Franny would have simply left the fourth painting there for me.

  There was only one thing left to do. I dialed the number for the center. I waited for a pickup but instead got the answering machine and my own digitally recorded voice.

  “ You’ve reached the Albany Art Center. No one is available…”

  My call waiting kicked in.

  Pulling the phone away from my ear, I took a look at the number displayed on the readout. The number did not immediately catch my attention. But the caller ID did

  Albany Medical Center.

  With trembling fingers, I clicked over to receive the call.

  She spoke to me in a hesitant whisper, almost like she was being held hostage. The whisper and the hesitancy were both punctuated with sobs.

  Robyn’s mother, June.

  “Rebecca,” she cried, “I… have… some…”

  She let the sentence hang, as though to complete it was simply too painful.

  Michael was staring at me. His shadowy face had gone pale. He opened his mouth as if to say something. But I quickly raised my open hand and pulled my eyes away from his, stopping him cold.

  “June,” I begged. “What’s happened?”

  I tried to keep my voice steady, even. I’d known Robyn’s mother almost as long as I’d known Robyn. I’d never heard her so upset, so devastated.

  “Albany Medical Center,” she exclaimed. “ICU. Please come.”

  I dry swallowed.

  “Is she alive, June? Is… Robyn…alive?”

  “She’s alive,” June whispered.

  Then she hung up.

  Wide eyed, Michael gazed expectantly into my face.

  “Something bad has happened to Robyn,” I explained. “I have to go.”

  “You get your stuff together,” Michael said. “I’ll wait for you out in the truck.”

  He took me by surprise. There had been a time in our lives when no emergency, big or small, would have kept him from his daily word quota. As he gathered his jacket and beret and headed out the front door to his pickup, I had to ask myself, who is this man?

  Acting on instinct, I picked up Franny’s ‘Smell’ painting from up off the floor, tucked it under my arm, and exited the apartment by way of the back door.

  Chapter 39

  The Albany Medical Center ICU was brightly lit. It was filled with doctors and nurses competing for floor space with the portable gurneys, monitors, hand carts, wheeled IV units, desks, counters and chairs.

  The nurse at the counter pointed Michael and I in Robyn’s direction. Like all the beds in the unit, hers was hidden behind a sea blue curtain. From beneath the curtain I could make out June’s sneaker-covered feet, and the tattered cuffs on her gray slacks. The feet were planted stone still and unnaturally on the vinyl tiled floor. A gauze bandage had been tossed on the floor not two or three inches from her feet. The bandage was stained with blood.

  My heart was pounding so fast I was having trouble keeping my balance. Michael took hold of my arm. I reached out for the curtain. But I wasn’t sure if I possessed the strength to pull it aside.

  “Rebecca,” Michael whispered.

  “It’s okay.” I swallowed. I slid back the curtain.

  Her face was swelled and bruised, her eyes puffed up and closed shut; her lips bruised and blistered. I didn’t dare look for any missing teeth.

  Robyn’s beautiful face.

  It came as a relief that she’d been sedated. What in God’s name would I say to her? What could I say?

  A clear plastic tube had been run up her left nostril. Her left arm and hand were positioned atop the bed beside her, palm up. An intravenous line was needled into her vein. Hooked to the hospital bed’s plastic railing, a translucent plastic bag collected the catheter drippings.

  Robyn’s mother hadn’t shifted her gaze from her daughter’s face when I pulled back the curtain. But somehow, she knew it was me.

  Michael slid his hand down from my arm to my hand. He held it tight, his warmth doing nothing to quell the coldness in my palm. Together we stood shoulder to shoulder at the foot of the bed.

  “She called me just before she left,” June said, her words meant for me, but her eyes still locked on Robyn’s. “It must have been her third blind date in a row.” She shook her head bitterly. “I warned her, told her she was seeing
too many men; too many strangers; that it would all catch up with her one day.”

  I recalled Robyn bragging about a stockbroker. But now I knew she’d been lying. That she’d been seeing more men than just the stockbroker. That she’d been playing with Match. com like it was some kind of game that didn’t involve real people; real strangers.

  The tall, brown-haired, middle-aged woman sniffled, fighting back the tears as best she could. But I knew it had to be a losing battle. She inhaled and set her right hand on Robyn’s forehead, running trembling fingers down through dirty blonde hair.

  Set beside the bed was a vital functions monitor. There was the steady, mechanical up-and-down green line that represented Robyn’s heart rate. It reminded me of the one that had been attached to Molly before she died.

  “Early this morning,” June went on, “I was woken up by a phone call. It was the police. They’d responded to a 9-1-1 coming from the Cocoa Motel near the airport. They found my Robyn curled up on the motel room floor. She was beaten, bleeding, half unconscious… my poor Robyn.” She paused, hesitating, crying. “Two of her ribs are broken, plus one finger on her right hand. A clump of hair was pulled out of her head.” She choked on the next words. “What kind of animal does something like this, Rebecca?”

  I knew full well what kind of animal did that. Why was it so hard to believe in a benevolent God but so easy to believe in the presence of real evil? Robyn was the reason; the evil things that had been done to her.

  “What about the police?” I said. “Do they have any clue who could have done this?”

  Michael squeezed my hand, as if I’d just asked June if the cops suspected Whalen.

  She dried her eyes, turned slowly around to face Michael and me.

  “Robyn was able to give a decent description before they sedated her.”

  “Cops get a name?” Michael pressed.

  “It’s a young man, posing as a salesman on a business trip. Makes contact over an online dating service like that computer “Match” thing, arranges a date, flies into town, wines and dines, gets the date to bed. Then he does something like this.”

  She turned back to her daughter and ran an open hand over her body as if to better demonstrate her point.

  “The police establish any kind of trail, June?” Michael continued probing. “Any kind of a lead on his whereabouts?”

  “He’s already flown out. He’s operating under so many aliases they don’t know where to start.” Biting her lip, she looked over my shoulder at Michael. “Albany Police claim that it’s an FBI problem now. That they’ll get to him soon enough.”

  “I know they will,” I whispered. But I wasn’t sure I believed it.

  Soon enough…

  June tried to plant a semblance of a smile on her face.

  “The police said that it took some guts for Robyn to cooperate the way she did, especially with that animal still out there; that the reason this man is able to get away with so many attacks is that most of his victims are too ashamed to come forward, approach the police.”

  “Or too scared.” I deduced, feeling a boulder-sized lump in my throat. Once more my eyes caught the monitor; the thin, never stopping up-and-down green line.

  June stood up straight.

  “Rebecca,” she said, “can I talk with you privately?”

  Michael let go of my hand.

  “I’ll go get some coffee,” he offered, stepping around the curtain.

  After a few weighted seconds I could see that June was crying again. I went to her, put my arm around her, my eyes peeled on the ever still Robyn.

  “What is it?”

  “My baby,” she whispered. “My Robyn. She didn’t use protection. Rather, he…”

  I knew what she was trying to say. It hit me like a sledge hammer to the stomach.

  “They retrieved seminal fluid during an internal,” she explained, before bursting into tears.

  Just what was Robyn thinking?

  I couldn’t help but think that she had been sleeping with lots of men while using nothing to prevent pregnancy or worse, contracting some horrible STD. But then, what if this creep forced it on her before she had the chance to even speak of protection?

  “Have the doctor’s run any further tests?” I begged.

  At first, June said nothing. Then she set her cold wet hand on mine.

  “Robyn is six weeks pregnant.”

  Chapter 40

  At my urging we drove from the Albany Medical Center in the direction of the South Pearl Street precinct. We might have been riding in silence but my thoughts screamed at me. My mind kept shifting from the horror of Robyn’s rape to the shock of her pregnancy. Was it possible that she had no idea about it? I’d never before been pregnant. But I did know that by the time six weeks went by you had to be suspecting something. Your body went through changes. Your inner voice spoke to you. I could only wonder just who the father was? The stockbroker? Or someone she met weeks before him? I wasn’t entirely sure of the timeline or the course of events in Robyn’s dangerous love life.

  I spoke up as we approached State Street and asked Michael to make a pit-stop at the school of art on the way to the police. In light of Robyn’s condition and Whalen’s unexpected homecoming, I wanted to leave a note on the front door explaining that the place would be closed for the rest of the week due to a personal emergency. I also wanted to change the answering service message to reflect the same message.

  When it was done, I got back in the truck and Michael pulled out onto the main road, heading further into the city. When we arrived at the APD, I carried the new ‘Smell’ canvas in with me. We learned that Detective Harris wasn’t in, but that same gray-haired watch commander was at the counter to greet us. He said that if we wanted to wait, Harris would be back within the half-hour. I knew then that I should have called the detective, let him know we were coming. But it was too late now.

  The precinct smelled bad. Not altogether different from that sewer-like smell I recalled from the house in the woods. The watch commander must have noticed our sour faces because he pinched his own nostrils together, said, “Plumber’s on his way. Old cast iron pipes in this building just can’t keep up with the flow anymore… If you know what I mean.”

  I nodded.

  “Tell you what. Jack’s Diner is just across the street. Excellent home cooking, real good coffee. Why don’t you wait for Harris there? When he comes back, I’ll have him give you a call right away.” The big man smiled.

  “Sounds good, Sergeant,” Michael said.

  “Course it is,” the gray-haired cop said, waving his hand rapidly in front of his face, as if it were possible to wave away the stench. “Stay here much longer you’ll lose your cookies.”

  I asked the watch commander if I could leave the painting behind.

  “Sure thing,” he answered. “We could use a little culturing around here.” Then he said, “Hey John Grisham, you got a new book comin’ out?”

  “Workin’ on it,” Michael said, not without a grin.

  We departed the APD, headed across the street to the diner where we sat ourselves in a corner booth that overlooked South Pearl Street and the red brick police station. Michael ordered us coffee and toasted hard rolls with butter. I managed to drink the coffee, but only picked at the hard roll.

  We sat and waited for Harris’s call.

  And waited.

  When my cell phone chimed, it nearly made me jump out of the booth.

  Taking charge Michael picked up the phone, answered. While he listened, he laser-beamed his eyes into mine.

  “Right away, Detective,” he said, hanging up.

  Sliding out of the booth, he stood, slid a five and two ones from his pocket, tossed them onto the table.

  “What did Harris say?” I asked.

  “He wants to see us now. He’s got news.”

  I felt my pulse race.

  Whalen.

  “This time we tell him about the texts. Agreed?”

  “That’s
why we’re here.”

  Chapter 41

  Just like yesterday when we first met with him inside his private office, Harris politely asked us to sit. Only this time, instead of seating himself behind his desk, he perched himself on the desk’s edge, one foot hanging off, the other planted firmly on the floor. Today he was wearing a tan blazer over a white button-down, no tie. The bulge under the left breast pocket told me he stored a pair of reading glasses inside the interior pocket. He crossed arms over chest. Over his right shoulder I could see that the previous calendar day had been neatly X’d off in blue ballpoint. The precinct still stunk like a sewer. But no one mentioned a word about it.

  “The paintings,” he began to explain. “Thus far the Albany labs see nothing to indicate Whalen had any kind of contact with them whatsoever. My guess is that the only people to lay hands on them-besides present company of course-is your student, Francis, perhaps his mother, maybe your partner, Robyn. But no Whalen.”

  When he said the name Robyn, I felt a tug in my stomach. I wondered if he was aware of the overnight attack on her at the Cocoa Motel. I wanted to ask him about it. But not yet.

  “I’m not surprised,” I said. “Although I am somewhat relieved.”

  Harris raised his eyebrows.

  “You suggesting Francis could have somehow been working with Whalen?”

  I shot a glance up at Michael where he stood beside my chair. His eyebrows were raised just like the detective’s.

  I shook my head.

  “Not a chance,” I insisted. “Franny would never do anything to hurt anyone. He also knows right from wrong and Whalen is definitely wrong.”

  “Francis having direct contact with Whalen would certainly answer the question of how the artist is able to paint your memories.”

  The tug in my stomach intensified. I felt like all the oxygen in the room had been sucked out through the vents, leaving only the foul odor.