Dead Silent

by Ivan Blake

  Everything about Grand Guignol appealed to Gilbert: the bloodshed, the madness, and the meaningless suffering. With the librarian’s help, he borrowed all theGrand Guignol plays they could locate and devoured them, every blood-soaked page, every nightmarish twist, until the day came when reading Grand Guignol was no longer enough for him. He had to write Grand Guignol of his own.

  To Gilbert’s delight, writing about bloodshed and madness had come easily to him. He wrote every night and cranked out play after play—about students cutting out the eyes and tongues of their teachers, sons cooking their fathers in popcorn oil, soldiers buggering their sergeants with live mortar shells. After six months, however, writing plays for his own enjoyment no longer satisfied him. He wanted to see his work performed.

  Around a campfire, out in the desert late one night, he’d gotten a couple of buddies roaring drunk and read them his work. Good thing they’d been outside because there’d been one hell of a lot of puking. But his buddies were sold on his stuff all the same. They agreed to help him stage his best play, about an Indian who’d been abused and imprisoned as a kid by the Indian Bureau and the Church and took his revenge by roasting and eating the local Indian agent and then raping and torturing a nun. Gilbert put up his own cash to rent a church basement and build the sets for the performance, a costly mistake, in hindsight.

  In the three weeks it took Gilbert’s players to prepare the show, he booked off sick from work practically every day. He also started wearing dark makeup around his eyes, and dressing in a black frock coat and top hat when he went out in public. After rehearsals and into the wee hours of every morning, he devoured Goth music and Dolli’s Goth magazines. Now that he was an author of the macabre himself, he enjoyed Goth culture, the music, the morbid poetry, and the freaky clothes. His little company of performers all took to wearing similarly grim Victorian garb and funereal makeup. To them, dressing up like Goths was one huge drunken game, but to Gilbert it signified his new destiny. Folks in Barnes had never seen the like, but with typical Native American stoicism, they tolerated the bizarre new presence in their town and even turned out to support the new theater.

  The church hall had been full on opening night, and the performance started well. Fifteen minutes into the first act, however, everything fell to pieces. The church pastor began screaming, “Blasphemy,” and during the torture scene, he leapt onstage and ran about striking cast members with his cane. Then he trashed the set and ordered Gilbert’s company off church property. Next day, the pastor launched an all-out war against Gilbert. Many in town began treating him like some kind of psycho. The diner no longer served him, the clinic’s board of management suspended him, and his landlord terminated his lease.

  But as they say, when one door closes..., because that same morning, he’d received a letter from the Burgoyne family lawyer back in Vermont informing him his dad had died. The obese old tyrant had passed away the previous October of a massive coronary. There was no surprise in that; the only surprise was how long the old bastard had taken to do it. “Huh,” was Gilbert’s only reaction, “about goddamn time.”

  The letter had gone on to explain that the lawyer was executor of the Burgoyneestate, and while debts and taxes had eaten up most of his father’s insurance and savings, there was one remaining asset of some value—the old movie theater. The building was in a very poor state of repair, having sat untended for nearly ten years, to the point it was now too dangerous to enter, and a significant liability for the new owner. Even so, the land beneath the theater had some value, and so if instructed, the lawyer was prepared to retain a real estate agent to dispose of the property forthwith and send Gilbert the proceeds of the sale.

  Gilbert had immediately written back to say, no goddamn way was the lawyer to sell the theater. The new owner had plans of his own.

  Everything had suddenly become blindingly clear, like his stars had finally aligned, like his life at last made a crazy kind of sense. All the parts now fit together perfectly. Back in Lewis, where he’d suffered two decades of humiliation and pain, he was going to open his own Grand Guignol Theater, stage his own plays, maybe even transform the tiny backwater into a center of Goth culture and the dark arts. His writing and his theater would give him the means to take revenge on every goddamn person who had ever slighted him, which meant the whole fucking town of Lewis. Lewis would never know what hit it. The place would soon be swimming in blood, okay mostly stage blood...but not all of it.

  So here they were,heading to Vermont with thirty-seven hundred dollars in the bank and five more complete skeletons in the back of his hearse, a terrific grub stake for his next adventure. They were somewhere past Amarillo, five hundred miles behind them and another two thousand to go. Gilbert wanted to stay off the main highways—not attract too much attention—so the trip wasn’t going to be quick, eight days at least, if the winter weather wasn’t too bad up north. But they weren’t in a hurry. There was no one waiting for them up in Lewis, no Christmas tree or carol sing or gift exchange back home, so why not enjoy the trip? If all went well, they’d roll into Lewis Christmas Eve and spend the night in his theater watching old horror movies, if he could get the projector working.

  What a magical way to pass the holy fucking night! Front row, popcorn, a 24 of Bud and The House of a Thousand Dead.

  Nearly dark now, but Gilbert wasn’t ready to quit for the night, not yet anyway. He wanted to push on while the road was empty. At a small pizza joint in the middle of nowhere, Dolli insisted they stop to pick up a Hawaiianand a couple of beers. They then drove out of town to find some secluded spot to eat and take a leak before continuing. Gilbert pulled off the road onto a dirt trail, shut off the radio, and shoved a tape of Gregorian chant in the eight track.

  The sun had already set, but in the last hint of daylight and the weak headlights of the old hearse, they could just make out a rusted, wrought-iron arch and some kind of sign down the track ahead of them. To stretch his legs, Gilbert grabbed a slice of pizza, got out of the car and wandered toward the sign. Tilting sideways and shot through with bullet holes, the sign read, Harmony Cemetery.

  Well, holy crap, sometimes things are just so obvious.

  There were certain to be a couple of skulls free for the picking in a burial ground as old as Harmony, and a good find might just offset the cost of a motel for the night. Then it hit him. There were going to be many more places like this—isolated and abandoned cemeteries—all across America. If they kept their eyes open and their wits about them, the trip home might prove lucrative indeed.

  Early February, 1987

  An announcer intoned, “You’re watching Rise and Shine America on NCS. And now, here again is Bryan Lower.”

  “Our next story is almost too strange to believe. The Governor of Maine has ordered his Attorney General and the State Police to investigate the bizarre case of several missing dead bodies, and by several I mean a lot of missing bodies. To tell us more about the weird goings-on in Bemishstock, Maine, we have from our Bangor affiliate, WLCS, the two journalists with the Bangor Daily Courier who broke the story, Martin Koyman and Jackie Cormier. Good morning to you both.”

  Seated side by side, Martin and Jackie smiled into the camera and said simultaneously, “Good morning.”

  “Martin, let’s start with you. How many dead bodies are missing in Bemishstock?”

  “Twenty as of last evening. But State Police suspect the final tally may be far higher.”

  “Higher than twenty!”

  “Yes, the number grows by the hour. The State Pathologist’s office is opening graves in reverse order of their burial, working backwards from November, 1985, and two out of every three graves they’ve opened so far have either had no remains in them or the wrong ones.”

  “And how far back do police intend to search?”

  “Well, the man believed to be responsible for stealing the bodies, a Doctor Ronald Meath, worked at the cemetery on and off for twenty years, so we’re talking about a lot of graves.”


  “And they think he may have been stealing corpses all that time? What was he doing with the bodies?”

  A photo of a mad-looking Ronald Meath appeared split-screen with Martin and Jackie.

  “We can’t know for sure because he died in a fire nearly eighteen months ago, but the evidence suggests he used the bodies for some sort of chiropractic experiments....and then ground them up for goat feed.”

  “And no one in town had any idea what he was up to?”

  “No. Not until a neighbor, a young man named Christopher Chandler, got wind of Meath’s activities and tried to tell people. But no one believed him.”

  On the screen appeared a photo of Chris, bandaged and handcuffed, being escorted into the courthouse by Chief Gabriel Boucher.

  “And because no one believed him, the boy took matters into his own hands?”

  “Chandler apparently confronted Meath but a fire broke out and the doctor and his wife both died in the blaze. We’re not clear exactly what happened.”

  “And yet Chandler was charged with malicious vandalism?”

  “In fact, the police chief wanted to charge him with murder. Chandler is now serving a two-year sentence in the South Portland Detention Center. Last week, the Governor set aside his conviction.”

  “And so now he’s ordered an Inquiry into the conduct of the Bemishstock Police, and the Chief in particular.”

  “Yes. And the State Bar Association has launched a review of the judge who conducted the boy’s trial. And several families of the missing dead are now suing the funeral parlor, the police, and the town. So a lot of people want to know what happened in Bemishstock.”

  “Are the Chief and the Judge telling their side of the story?”

  “The judge is on paid leave and the Chief is on extended medical absence. Word is he’s gravely ill but no one will say what he’s suffering from. Coincidentally, another figure in this story—a teacher whom the boy also tried to tell about Meath—died recently, and again, the nature of his illness has been kept a secret.”

  “So is Chandler still in juvenile detention?”

  “Yes, but not for much longer.”

  “Jackie, I understand you’ve been speaking with Chris Chandler. What’s he saying about all this?”

  “Not much. Just that Meath had to be stopped because, and these are Chandler’s words, ‘Defilers of the dead deserve retribution.’”

  “Defilers of the dead...?”

  “Yes, and that he wants to get his own life back on track.”

  “So when Chandler’s released, does he plan to return to Bemishstock?”

  “I doubt it. He knows he wouldn’t be welcome there.”

  “The town doesn’t see him as a hero? Why not?”

  “Maybe some people do, but Bemishstock is a divided town. This affair erupted at a terrible time for Bemishstock. The last large employer in town closed its plant for good just last week. Some say the company was looking for an excuse to leave, and the scandal provided it. And a lot of people blame the boy for causing all this embarrassment. Others were resigned to hard times in Bemishstock long before this story broke, and they don’t fault Chandler. A few even see new economic opportunity in the story. A couple of business people are talking about marketing Bemishstock to tourists as the town of the missing dead.”

  “Jackie, I understand you played a big part in breaking this story.”

  “Martin gave me an incredible opportunity, but the job’s not done. There are still many unanswered questions.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like what happened to the last corpse Meath stole, a young woman named Mallory Dahlman. Only a few parts of her corpse were found in the ashes of Meath’s barn, but most of her remains are still missing. And who has been attacking Chris Chandler? He was badly hurt the night of the fire, but he has been repeatedly reinjured in the year since his arrest. If you saw him today, he’s still in the same terrible condition he was in the night of the fire. And Mallory Dahlman’s brother, Rudy, was horribly beaten that same night. No one was ever charged with his attack even though the two incidences were obviously linked.”

  “Jackie, this is one amazing story for a student to work on. You must feel very fortunate.”

  “Bryan,” Martin interjected, “I’m delighted to say that Jackie is a student no longer. She’s coming to work fulltime with The Courier, and she’ll stay on this story until we have all the answers.”

  Late February, 1987

  Rose DuCalice hated the telephone, so impersonal, not being able to see into someone’s eyes.

  “Bernard, you can’t be serious.” Through all the years, and everything they’d endured as siblings, they’d remained not only close but the very dearest of friends.

  “Rose, we both know the Paget family. Grasping, only out for what they could get. And the Burgoynes, they’ve always been dangerous. You know better than anyone the grandfather was a thief and the father a madman. If the son is now sniffing around the cemetery, it means trouble. Besides, the Burgoyne boy can’t possibly be right in the head after the childhood he endured. If the Pagets and the Burgoynes have now made common cause, this could go very badly for us. I want you to have protection.”

  “Then hire a security company or something.”

  “You know we can’t do that. That would attract far too much attention.”

  “But you seriously believe that a boy just out of prison will be any help at all to me?”

  “This boy, yes. Besides, he wasn’t in prison. He was in reform school, and his incarceration was unjust.”

  “The boy was involved in the deaths of two old people, and now you want him to keep an eye on me? Wasn’t it poking around in other people’s business that got him in trouble in the first place? So what’s to stop him poking around in our business?”

  “I’m counting on it.”

  “You want him to know the truth?”

  “I want him to help...and I think if he finds out the truth....”

  “How did you hear about him?”

  “From an acquaintance here in New York, Nigel Harrow, a retired lawyer. I’m selling some of his sister’s paintings at my gallery. Amazing pieces. I was watching the news one day and saw Nigel. He was speaking on behalf of the boy. I told Nigel I’d seen him on TV, and he told me the boy’s story and how he needs a place to hide from the press for a couple of months while he finishes some correspondence courses, and the Maine inquiry wraps up. So I said we might be able to help.”

  “What do you intend to tell the boy?”

  “I don’t plan on telling him anything. Just that he’ll be cottage-sitting.”

  “And guarding the dead?”

  “I think he’ll find that out soon enough.”

  Chapter 2

  Sunday, March 1

  Through the gloom and the freezing drizzle of a bitter March afternoon, Bemishstock looked more miserable and depressing than ever. Main Street was a single lane of muddy slush and filthy snowbanks. Three months on, there were still vestiges of Christmas everywhere, which only reinforced the atmosphere of despair. Colored lights, dislodged by winter gales, dangled unlit and ice-encrusted from the street lamps. Several abandoned shops still had pathetic decorated Chamber of Commerce Christmas trees in their windows. And the few shops that remained in business still had their Boxing Day Sale signs on display. One store in particular told the whole sad tale. It had a brightly-colored, hand-painted tableau of gifts, elves, and reindeer in the window, and a large banner above the glass that read, Best Holiday Wishes, then, Biggest Boxing Day Sale Ever, on a sandwich board frozen into a snow bank, and finally, Closing after 57 Years, plastered across its door. The shop was now locked and dark.

  With the help of the State Police, Chris had slipped out of the South Portland Detention Center very early on a dark and cold Sunday morning and managed to board a Bemishstock-bound bus without the press camped at the main gate getting wind of his release. No one on the bus had paid him the slightest attention a
nd he’d disembarked in Bemishstock in complete anonymity. Besides, he wasn’t going to be in town long, just long enough to see Gillian, visit Felicity’s grave, and make good on a promise he’d made himself many months earlier. Gillian had picked him up at the station in the old Buick, and they’d spent several wonderful hours together. They’d visited Felix’s grave, had dinner with her mother and grandfather and discussed next steps. Around two o’clock, she’d dropped him at the bus station in time to catch the midafternoon bus back to Portland with a promise that she’d visit him as soon as he was settled in his new home.

  He’d watched her drive away, then immediately changed his ticket for a later bus and set off down Main Street.

  The few people who passed Chris gave him not a glance. Heads down against the chill wind, they emerged from the gloom and hurried on without ever looking up at the gaunt figure who hobbled toward the river. Having Chris Chandler back in town was the least the people of Bemishstock had to worry about.

  Main Street ended at the banks of the Roan River, at a point where the current cascaded over a cliff edge and into a gorge. For more than a century, the river had been corralled in its race to the sea by the Bemishstock Power Plant, but not now. The dam down in the gorge, floodlit night and day for as long as anyone in town could remember, was now dark. Over Christmas, its ancient generator had been lifted out and hauled away for scrap, and the river now tumbled free into Adinack Bay.

  The last structure on Main Street before the river was a gray-brick, featureless two-story building. Its only windows were on the upper floor, and the enormous weathered letters painted across both the bricks and the glass were barely legible as Balzer Trucking. Along the right side of the building, squeezed between it and the river, was a dirt lane to a large fenced parking lot out back. The lot was filled with logging trucks and the rusted wire gate to the driveway was padlocked. A large notice on the gate read, Bank Auction March 10.