by Tim McGregor
Mockler went back to his car to wait out the tedious part as the crew took over from here. Alone, his thoughts instantly returned to Billie. He wondered what she was doing that very moment. The urge to call her was immediate but it was late and he didn’t want to wake her if she was asleep. She’d had a hell of a day as it was, digging her mother’s bones out of the earth.
As much as his heart went out to her for what she had gone through, he couldn’t quell the thoughts of how she had felt in his hands back in that dingy little motel room. He kept getting flash memories of it throughout the day. The way her skin felt against his or the curve of her hips in his hands. The way she had kissed his mouth or the soft spot under her ear. At one point he had gotten carried away and sunk his teeth into her left shoulder. It had left a mark on her. Was it still there?
He felt flushed recalling the moment. There had been a little shyness, a blush of reticence, as there is with any new lover. Rather than getting in the way or being awkward, it had simply added to the moment. If anything, it was endearing. Afterwards they had stretched out over one another in that steamy room and chatted about nothing. Food, movies, family, gently teasing one another. He could sense Billie needed that, a break from all the awful reality that had weighed so heavily on her over the last two weeks. A sudden and overwhelming urge to protect her from anything had sprung into his throat, almost choking him. Billie had picked up on his emotional hitch but she hadn’t asked any questions. She laid her palm flat against his cheek and her eyes softened as they peered into his. He looked away, afraid he was going to cry.
A cold breeze broke his reverie as the wind blew in from the open field, the smell of damp earth and old hay carried along with it. Like most, he was no stranger to self doubt and second-guesses. They needled at him now like a burr caught on a sleeve. How could he fall for Billie so soon after ending things with Christina? Was it just a rebound, doomed to fail? Mulling it over, he didn’t believe it was. He had felt drawn to Billie before the split with Christina. There was something different about Billie too. Or he felt different around her. Alongside the excitement and the butterflies in the belly, there was an almost odd sense of calm he felt in her presence. It was as if, no matter how screwed up the world became, everything would be all right if Billie was there.
Jesus, he thought to himself. You’re in deep. How did that happen so quickly?
Taking out his phone, he dialled her number. He didn’t have any news or anything particular to say but it didn’t matter. He just needed to hear her voice. Anticipation soured as the call didn’t ring through, an automated voice informing him that the number he was calling was unavailable.
~
The questioning from Detective Odinbeck was mercifully brief. He took Billie aside when she emerged from Kaitlin’s room and asked what she knew about the two men who had attacked her friend. Billie told him what little she knew; how Kaitlin had met the ghost-hunting team and how they had initially wanted her to join their team. To his credit, Odinbeck glossed over any mention of her abilities as a psychic.
She omitted any mention of the Murder House or the woman who appeared to be controlling the two men through occult means. She would tell Mockler when she saw him, that would be enough. The thought of him brought on an acute ache. She wished he was here.
Coming back out into the waiting area, she spotted Jen and Kyle lingering among the uniformed officers. They both looked tired and pensive. Approaching them, she spoke to Kyle. “Kaitlin wants you.”
“How is she?” His face looked haggard, the bruise over his eye still visible.
“She’s shaken up.”
Jen patted Kyle’s shoulder, urging him to move. “Go to her.”
Kyle rose and made for the corridor without another word. Jen watched him walk away. She’d yet to even look at Billie.
Billie sighed and dropped into the vacant seat next to her friend.
“What did you tell the police?” Jen asked, without looking up. “Do you know those guys who attacked her?”
“I met them once, briefly.”
“Why did they want to hurt her?”
Billie didn’t answer. Jen finally tore her eyes from the floor and turned to her. “You know, don’t you?”
“Yes.”
“And what, it’s some big secret?” Jen exclaimed. “Why didn’t you tell the police?”
“Because,” Billie said. “They can’t help.”
Jen rolled her eyes. “Oh right. This is more of your spooky nonsense, isn’t it? God.”
Billie spun around. “Why do you hate me now?”
“I never said I did!”
A few of the officers turned to see what the hollering was about. Both women shrunk in their seats.
“You could have fooled me,” Billie grumbled. “You’ve been awful to me for months now.”
“That’s not true,” Jen exhaled.
Billie felt the anger bubbling again, and the usual urge to quash it down but it boiled over fast. “My whole life went to shit in a matter of months and you refuse to listen to any of it. You just dismiss it like I’m crazy. Thanks!”
“I never said you were crazy.”
“You didn’t have to say it, Jen. It was plain enough to see.”
Both women folded their arms and locked their gaze straight ahead. A cold war chill between combatants only inches apart. Time ticked on and Billie considered getting up and walking away.
Jen broke the stalemate, her voice thin. “You told me how I was going to die.”
“What?” Billie scrambled her memory but came up empty. “I’ve never said anything like that.”
“Twice,” Jen said. “Both times you were high. We both were.”
“When was this?”
“Eleventh grade,” Jen replied. “Remember the winter we spent hanging out with Davey McKinnon? We got high like every weekend?”
“What about it?
“You would get weird when you were high. Like you were in a trance or something. There was us, Davey and his dumbass friend Carter. You went all spaced-out and told all of us how we were going to die. With weird details.”
“We all say stupid things when we’re high,” Billie shrugged. “It doesn’t mean anything.”
Jen straightened up. “You told Davey he would die in a car accident. Carter was going to die in jail, stabbed by another inmate in an argument over salisbury steak. And you said I was going to die in a fire. I’d be trapped inside a burning house, unable to get out.”
Billie rubbed her eyes. “Jen, that doesn’t mean anything. Just stoned rambling.”
“Two days after you told me that you could see dead people, there was a notice on Facebook about Davey McKinnon. He drove his car through the guardrail on Ridge Road and went over the escarpment. I freaked when I saw that. So I looked up Carter Franjic. He was killed in Kingston Penitentiary by another inmate. Standing in line in the dining hall.”
Billie felt her hands go numb. “Jen, I don’t remember saying any of that.”
“I know. I asked you about it back then. You didn’t have a clue what I was talking about.” Jen brushed a piece of lint from her knee. “You predicted their deaths. And now I’m waiting my turn.”
“Maybe it was a fluke,” Billie said, trying to rationalize it away. “Anyone could have predicted that Carter would end up in jail.”
“I had Adam install new smoke alarms in our place. And in the shop. I jump anytime I see someone light a match.”
Billie sunk lower in the chair, taking it in. Had she honestly foretold their deaths? Was divining the future something she could do? Even before the accident awoke her ability to commune with the dead? Maybe this was why her mother forced her to run the Tarot as a child. She turned her gaze slowly to the friend beside her. The fear in Jen played out in the quivering of a lip, the restless fidget of the hand. How could it be true, that Jen would die in a fire?
“Maybe,” Billie offered quietly, “I’ve got it wrong this time.”
Jen t
ook a deep breath, rose to her feet and started for the elevators. “I hope so, Billie. I pray to God you are.”
~
Josh Carlyle reeled up the concrete stairs and lurched into the filthy alley. The booming thunder of music followed him from the underground club until the door swung closed, leaving only the thud of bass leeching into the air. His brain pickled in fumes, he had managed to stay trashed for the last two days, consuming anything he could to stay that way. The last thing he wanted was to sober up. Straightening out meant remembering the reason he got wasted in the first place. The flammable liquid sprayed over the shelves of books, the match he had struck and most of all, the screams of the man as the flames ate him alive.
Ejected from the underground club for his condition, Josh stumbled along the alleyway, determined to find another party where he could continue his plan to stay numb. Off hand, there were two clubs that he could think of within staggering distance and he made for those. Catching his reflection in a dusty window, he stopped to ponder his appearance.
The make-up was a mess. The black and white grease paint that he had so meticulously applied and modelled after his personal hero was smeared in spots and dried up in others. It crackled and flaked as if his skin was peeling off. Rather than looking like his hero, the face in the glass looked more like some demented clown ejected from a carnival and chased into the wilderness.
“Fuck it,” he muttered. He’d fix it later. Or he’d just leave it alone and let it all flake off.
A bright flash of light appeared in the reflection. A small flame burst up, lighting up a face, before the the flame extinguished in the metallic clap of a lighter snapping shut.
“Hullo sunshine.”
Josh spun about and blinked stupidly at the stranger who had crept up behind him. He stood there smoking a cigarette, grinning the whole time. A venomous rattlesnake in a shirt and tie. The very man Josh and his crew were looking for when they trashed the bookshop.
“You’re the arsehole who likes to play with matches, yeah?”
Already swinging, the rage burned away the fog in Josh’s head, picturing the Englishman’s throat in his hands. His fist connected with nothing and he staggered from his own momentum. He felt a powerful grip snatch him up by the hair and hurl him forward. His face exploded into the glass of the window and then he tumbled sideways. Scrambling to get up, his guts imploded from a strong kick. Then another to the side of his head, his ear crushed under a boot heel.
He flopped onto the dirty pavement and then gasped for air as his windpipe was stomped under the man’s foot. His eyes watered, blurring the vision of the man with his boot on his neck.
John Gantry leered down at him. “Where is he?”
“Fuck you!”
Gantry stomped down harder with his heel until the man in the smeared face-paint turned purple. “Oy. Don’t pass out. What the fuck does Crypto want?”
“He’s gonna kill you, you motherfucker.”
Gantry took his foot from the man’s throat and dropped his knee hard onto his chest, pinning Josh to the ground. “Why torch the bookshop? And the bloke in it?”
Josh gnashed his teeth, spitting obscenity after obscenity, as if his rage had clouded his ability to form a sentence.
“Just like Crypto to lash out without thinking,” Gantry spat. “To cut his nose off to spite his face, so to speak.”
The painted man struggled and bucked but remained pinned. To his left were a number of broken pieces of glass from the shattered window. Gantry reached for one piece, then laid it down and chose another, larger shard of glass.
“I need you to give your hero a message for me,” Gantry said. Gripping the man’s hair to keep his head still, he pressed the sharp edge of the glass to Josh’s nose. Just shy of the ridge of bone, where the cartilage formed the tip and he began to cut. “Don’t worry about remembering the message. Crypto will know what it means.”
Gantry sawed the glass back and forth and the man’s screams echoed off the grimy windows of the alley.
Chapter 24
PRESBYTERIAN UNITED HAD BEEN shuttered since 2003 when its congregation dwindled to under a hundred souls. The property sat empty for more than a decade until a new owner took possession. The sign on its weed-choked lawn was dismantled and the windows painted black. No one was seen entering or exiting the church before nightfall, this night being no different. Once the sun was down, a black Escalade rumbled up before it and men lumbered out and made their way up the church steps.
Crypto Death Machine was impressed. He’d heard rumours of the church for some time but this was the first he’d laid eyes on the interior. Everything from the floorboards to the vaulted ceiling was painted black. The only spot of colour in the place was the enormous cross suspended upside down in the chancel. A deep shade of crimson.
“I like what you’ve done with the place,” Crypto said as he walked up the aisle. His entourage fanned out near the tall front doors like sentries, their faces painted to a man in the style of their chieftain.
Szandor LaVey stepped down from the altar and crossed into the nave. Clad entirely in black, the church leader appeared to be nothing more than a disembodied head floating against the black interior. “Welcome,” he said. “I’m glad you accepted my invitation to parley.”
“I’ll hear you out,” Crypto warned, “but I won’t promise anything.”
“Fair enough,” Szandor said. Meeting the death metal musician halfway down the aisle, Szandor studied the man’s face. In particular the gauze bandaged over the left half of Crypto’s features. “Forgive me. I don’t mean to stare but that bandage is hard to ignore.”
“Try wearing it.” Crypto’s words were mumbled from the limited use he had of his mouth. “But, it’s part of the reason we’re here.”
Szandor nodded. “True. We share a common problem. Joining forces to eliminate John Gantry for good seems like the obvious course of action.”
“He’s slippery as fuck that one.”
“And dangerous,” added Szandor. “Anyone foolish enough to strike at him directly often ends up dead. Or worse.”
“So I’ve learnt.” Crypto leaned against a pew and folded his massive arms. “What do you suggest?”
“Do you know Gantry has a pet psychic?” Szandor snapped his fingers and one of his acolytes emerged from the darkness, handing him a tablet. Szandor tapped at its screen and presented it to the musician. “This woman.”
Crypto took the tablet and studied the photo of the woman on the screen. “Who is she?”
“Her name is Billie. That’s about all I know about her.”
A thud at the front door interrupted them. They turned to see two of Crypto’s men barge into the church, dragging another man between them.
“Sorry to barge in, Crypt,” said one man. “But I thought you better see this.”
Crypto waved them forward. The man carried between the other two staggered, his head lolling around drunkenly. “Who’s this?” demanded Crypto.
“His name’s Josh,” said the sentry. “He just had a run in with Gantry. Have a look.”
The sentry gripped the injured man by the hair and chucked his head back. Josh Carlyle whimpered as the cloth was pulled away and blood gushed anew down his ruined face.
Crypto leaned in for a closer look and whistled. “Took his nose clean off.”
“Yes sir.”
“Hey.” Crypto snapped his fingers to snag the injured man’s attention. “What did Gantry say?”
Josh Carlyle’s eyes rolled around crazily. He moaned and gurgled, blowing bubbles through the blood.
“Get him out of here.”
The sentries hauled the whimpering man away and Crypto turned to his host. “The son of a bitch is laughing at me now.”
“He won’t be laughing for much longer,” Szandor said. “But a direct move against the man is not the way to go. A lateral strike may be more effective.”
Crypto picked up the tablet again, scrutinizing the picture on t
he screen. “The psychic?”
“She’s a friend or an ally. Either way, she’s someone who can be utilized. May I?” Szandor took the tablet back, tapped at the screen again and handed it back to the musician. “This bit of footage was on the local news a few weeks ago. Have a look.”
Crypto touched the screen and watched the footage play out. A young woman ambushed by a reporter on the street. She looked confused and somewhat lost until a man bursts from nowhere to pull the woman into the shop behind them. Gantry’s attempt to hide his face failed and his detestable appearance was caught cleanly by the camera.
The video ended. Crypto’s eyes lit up. “She means something to him. Where is this place they ducked into?”
“A dress shop on James,” Szandor replied. “Called the Doll House.”
~
“You don’t have to be here, babe,” said Adam. “I told you I’d close up for you.”
Jen came through the door of her shop, ringing the bell overhead. “I know. I didn’t want be alone right now so we’ll both close up.”
She had been minding the shop alone when she’d heard about the incident at the hospital. Rather than kick out the half dozen customers inside, Adam had rushed over on his bike to take over so she could dash to the hospital. He didn’t care much for manning the Doll House but he had parachuted in before when Jen was in a jam.
“How’s Kaitlin?”
“She’s shaken up but she’s okay.” Jen joined him at the counter and looked over the numbers on the screen of the laptop. “Not bad for a Thursday night.”
“There was a steady flow of people after you left,” Adam said. “I did my best to keep up but I might have lost a few sales.”
“What do you mean?”
“There was a lot of women trying on dresses and asking me what I thought. I told them they all looked great in everything.”
Jen laughed. “Being too diplomatic?”
“Like I’m gonna tell a woman she doesn’t look good in something? I learned the hard way just to say everything looks nice.”
