by Ivan Blake
His dad didn’t give a crap about school but Gilbert had still gone each day. Of course his grades had been pathetic, but as long as he’d caused no trouble, his teachers paid him no mind and kept passing him. Besides, by the time his grades actually started to count for something, he’d already made up his mind he wanted to be a soldier, and who the hell cared what grades a soldier got?
Gilbert had enlisted the day he turned eighteen. Some local girl had agreed to help his father out after Gilbert left; she’d probably robbed his dad blind, but so what? Anyway, the theater somehow remained open for a few more years. Then one day, his dad had simply locked the place and retreated to his projection booth to watch his films alone. Some time later, a mountain of fat, he’d died of a massive coronary.
So now Gilbert owned the place, and he was having a blast. He loved the paint job on the outside, although the dickhead in the hardware store said it would never last because they’d painted it in the rain. Gilbert didn’t care, the place looked good for now. He’d also spent a small fortune on lights and sound equipment for gruesome special effects. The stuff was state of the art and would have audiences screaming bloody murder. But Gilbert’s plays needed more effects and more effects meant more cash, a lot more.
The inside of the theater also needed fixing up, as Dolli kept reminding him. Not too much fixing though because he wanted audiences to be uncomfortable, even scared, sitting there in the dark with spiders and rats and dust all over them. There were a couple of structural issues he had to deal with, and several of the largest holes in the carpets and seats had to be patched.
And of course, he had his performers to pay. Well, not pay exactly. Somehow he’d fooled them into thinking they were doing important artistic crap. He’d talked to them about the beauty of death, the cleansing quality of pain, bringing a message of healing sorrow to the masses, crap like that, and some like squeaky Wanetta and pathetic Wolfram had bought it. The others? Well they liked the drugs and the music. But they all needed food and costumes and spending money if they were gonna stay.
So how was he to raise more money? There were a couple of options. First, the huge cemetery across the road. He could raid it. In the past week alone, he’d seen two funerals there. Downside? The place was very public. Second, there was an old colonial-era graveyard up near Cathy’s Pond. He’d been out to have a look and had already found one skull tangled in the roots of a toppled spruce. Besides, the old graveyard was a cool place. He remembered visiting it as a kid and scaring himself stupid. Downside? The cemetery was small and on Monsegur land, and old lady DuCalice was a bitch about her family privacy. Then there was his third option, ‘repurposing’ someone’s skeleton, a lovely phrase which meant taking a skeleton before its owner was finished with it. Kind of like what he’d done with that kid out in the desert that time. Downside? A lot more risk and mess involved than in option two, but a far more plentiful supply, as long as they went out of town to find stock.
His conclusion? Probably try option two first—the old DuCalice cemetery near Cathy’s Pond—but then fall back to option three if two didn’t work out. All right, he’d check out the graveyard tomorrow with Dolli and the twins. Now he needed a plan for the renovations.
* * * *
As if through cotton wool, Chris heard a voice call out to him, “All right, Mr. Chandler, your lolling about ends now,” and a jolt of excruciating pain shot from his wrist up through his arm and into his brain, then vibrated in his skull like jelly on a snare drum. He cried out and opened his eyes. Daylight poured into the room.
“Ah good, you’re awake,” Rose DuCalice said. “I can’t waste any more of my day on you.”
He looked around in confusion. “Where am I?”
“One of the front bedrooms, the one with the biggest bed.”
Chris peered around the magnificent room, at its elegant plaster cornices, gilt-framed paintings, enormous leaded windows and its mahogany and scarlet silk furnishings. Mrs. DuCalice explained she’d cleaned Chris’s wounds then given him a bath and a draft to help him sleep.
“I’ve been asleep?”
“For nearly eighteen hours.”
“Eighteen hours!” Chris gasped. Then it hit him. “Wait, you gave me a bath?”
“You were filthy.”
“So...so why am I still naked?” He struggled to pull a sheet from beneath himself.
“Because,” Mrs. DuCalice replied as she arranged the bedcovers over him, “I put a salve on all your wounds and had to wait until it dried. And I put your filthy clothes in a bag in the bathroom.”
“You bathed me and tended my wounds...and you’re all right?”
“Shouldn’t I be?”
“It’s just that until now, anyone I...befriended...usually got hurt.”
“By your demon you mean, the one I saw attack you.”
Chris tried to sit up. “You saw her? You actually saw her? No one has ever seen her before…and lived.”
Rose DuCalice had been pottering about, putting away clothes from Chris’s backpack and suitcase and wiping out the wash basin. But she stopped to ask, “Your demon is a she?”
“Mallory...her name is Mallory.”
Rose sat down at the end of the bed. “How could you possibly know a demon’s name?”
“Because we used to go out and then she killed herself, and because she died hating me, she’s stuck here with only one purpose—to hurt me and anyone close to me.”
A shadow passed across Rose’s face. “You mean you’re to blame for this girl killing herself?”
“No, it wasn’t like that. Mallory was very cruel. She’d hurt lots of people. And she wanted me to help hurt others, but I refused. I don’t think she intended to kill herself. I think she intended to fake a suicide attempt as a way to get me under her control, but something went wrong.”
“All right, let’s say for the moment, you’re the injured party, how often does this Mallory attack?”
“Every second day. More frequently if I do something that really upsets her.”
“Every second day! That would explain why you’re such a mess. It’s a wonder you’re not dead.”
“Sometimes I’m able to divert her attacks by pretending to like someone...then she attacks them instead of me, and I get a day off.”
“So if you faked liking other people all the time, you wouldn’t get attacked at all?”
“Maybe not, but I wouldn’t do that. I only do it to people who deserve it.”
“Deserve it, according to you.”
“Okay, yes.”
“Promise you’ll never pretend to like me.” Rose smiled. “Are all Mallory’s attacks as bad as the one I witnessed?”
“This one was pretty tame. Mallory’s been taking it easy on me recently, like she’s getting bored. She’s certainly not that nice to others.”
“That fellow up in Maine the other day, she did that?”
“Yes.”
“And you made it happen. Why?”
“Because he killed his son.”
Rose stared at Chris, like she was trying to read his heart. “Do you know why Mallory doesn’t simply kill you?”
“I don’t. Maybe because if she kills me, she’ll be entirely alone and without purpose.”
“So how did you learn all this stuff about her spirit being trapped here?”
“From her…and her father. Mallory followed his faith and he explained all this in a letter after Mallory died. She’s trapped here until we can perform something called a cleansing death. It’s a ceremony to wipe away the anger that killed her. Trouble is, I don’t know the proper prayers.”
“So why didn’t she attack me when I helped you?”
“Not sure. Maybe she needs time to recharge after she’s kicked the crap out of me.”
“Or maybe it’s this,” and Rose drew from her pocket a small silver case like a pencil box or sewing kit.
“What’s that?” Chris asked.
“Nothing.” She put the box away again.
“But it occurs to me I might be able to help you. Not to get rid of your demon—we’ll have to do some research on that problem—but I may have a way to protect you from her attacks.”
His thoughts immediately flew to Gillian. “Really? How?”
“If I’m going to help you, then you have to help me. You see, I have a big problem of my own, and it involves the dead as well.”
Chris stood in the parlor’s bay window with a blanket wrapped around himself, looking out over the lake and the hills beyond. “Cathy’s Pond. Who was this Cathy? Another relative of yours?”
Rose walked back into the parlor carrying a plate of sandwiches. “No,” she said. “The name was originally Cathar Lake. The people who settled here, my family and a dozen others, were from the south of France, a region once known as L’Occitan for the language they spoke. They were persecuted for their Cathar faith and driven out of L’Occitan, or Languedoc as it’s called today. The remnants of their community wandered across France for centuries, then made their way to New France, and finally here.”
Rose fell silent for a moment.
“And they set up a village across the lake somewhere?” Chris asked.
“Yes, where you see that dip in the tree line. Not much there now, just a clearing and a few mounds of stones covered in moss and gorse and juniper. Several dozen people lived in the village at one time, but all moved away when the granite quarries opened. Some, like my family, moved into the new town of Lewis, others left the state altogether. Even if they did leave, however, folks from the original families still wanted to be buried back here. That’s as true today as a century ago. If a member of our Cathar family dies anywhere in the world, they’re brought back here to be interred in the original village cemetery.”
“And that’s the cemetery you want me to keep an eye on,” Chris said. “So, what’s this problem?”
“Someone has been tampering with the graves.”
“Tampering?”
“Removing bones.”
“And you know this how?”
“Because I’ve seen one of the spirits mourning beside her grave.”
“You saw her spirit?”
Loon alert!
“In the same way I saw your Mallory.”
Okay that was a good point.
“And how do you know she mourns?”
“Because a defiled grave causes its soul great suffering in Paradise.”
“I read that somewhere.” Yes, in Protection of the Dead!
So is Mrs. DuCalice saying she’s also read the Mortsafeman book? Which would be way too much of a coincidence for comfort.
“She’s suffering so terribly, it’s awful. She’s sitting beside her grave, weeping. You’d think her heart had been torn from her breast.”
“She? You know this spirit?”
“Rixende, Rixende Donat. She was such a beautiful woman, so full of joy, the dearest friend anyone could ever have, never had a bad word to say about anyone. She died trying to save a child who’d fallen through the ice on a river downstate. The child lived but Rixende was caught in the current and drowned.”
“When was this?”
“Winter of 1703.”
“You talk like you knew her personally.”
“I...I know her story. I hate to see her in such pain. We have to do something…get her stolen skull back somehow.”
“Not sure how we do that.”
“We’ll talk about that later. For now I need you to make sure no one else’s remains are taken. You must watch the graveyard. Tell me if you see anyone else poking around.”
“Sounds simple enough.”
“There’s a complication. Some people in town are trying to organize a Festival, a Goth Festival, with horror films, a Goth Rock concert, horror plays, and they want to run a ghost tour across my land to the graveyard. I suspect the organizers tampered with Rixende’s grave.”
“Who are these organizers?”
“The freak who owns the movie theater for one. He’s trying to turn it into a playhouse. And the Mayor.”
“The Mayor, huh.”
Great. Another battle with an entire town.
“He’s a blowhard. I’ll deal with him. All you have to do is keep an eye on the graveyard night and day and tell me immediately if anyone comes snooping around.”
So, guarding another graveyard.
What is this? Do I have some kind of sign on me like Dead Watcher for Hire or Graveyards R Us?
“I’ve got to get back to town,” Rose continued. “When you’re feeling stronger, come by and we’ll set up an account for you at the bank.” Rose stepped away from Chris. “I thought letting someone stay in this house was a mistake, but it might work out after all.”
“I hope so too. After I’ve eaten, I think I’ll walk to the cemetery to clear my head.”
“Try to see Rixende.”
“How do I do that?”
“Look at the movement in the air, see between the waves, try to see the shades between the shades, and speak gently to her, let her come to you. Say kind things to her, tell her how much her friends miss her, how we’re trying to help. And say my name, Rose...Rose DuCalice.”
Her friends miss her? What friends?
“Meantime, I’ll do what I can about your demon. This might work out after all.”
* * * *
The young woman who’d met Jackie at reception ushered her into a small office marked Senior JDO. “Senior JDO? What’s that mean?” Jackie asked.
“Senior Juvenile Detention Officer,” the receptionist answered. “He used to be called Guard Commander but the new name is supposed to be more, I don’t know, nurturing or something. Anyway, have a seat. Commander Abrahms knows you’re here. He should be back from the infirmary any minute.” She left the office, shutting the door behind her.
The room was utilitarian at best, small with a single window, off-white walls covered with shift schedules, photos, bulletins, and job postings. The floor of the office, like everywhere else in the Center, was brown linoleum, the color of dung, and the furniture, what there was of it—a desk, three kitchen-style chairs and a filing cabinet—was all gray metal.
The door opened and in came Commander Abrahms according to the name tag on his chest. Wearing a drab green uniform the color of pond scum, Abrahms was maybe six feet tall, with closely cropped gray hair and a chiselled face, and the biggest gut Jackie’d ever seen on any human being, male or female. She’d nearly asked, ‘Boy or girl?’
“Thanks for seeing me, Captain.”
He dropped down onto the chair behind the desk with a loud grunt. “My secretary said you’re looking into the murder of that Balzer fella up in Bemishstock. Not sure why you wanted to see me, but I can save you some time. Don’t know squat.”
Jackie smiled sweetly and said, “Actually, I’m looking into several similar attacks, not just Balzer’s. Do you know the name Rudy Dahlman? He was the kid who was attacked the same night that Chris Chandler confronted the chiropractor in Bemishstock. Then, of course, there’s Chandler himself. And now there’s Balzer.”
“Still can’t help you.”
Jackie smiled again, shifted in her seat, looked Abrahms directly in the eye and said, “But I expect you can help me understand what happened to Chris Chandler while he was under your supervision.”
The implication was obvious.
“Look, young lady, you’re not the first to suggest my staff may have had something to do with the attacks on the kid, but I can assure you, we did not.”
“Not just on Chandler. I understand there were at least a dozen severe injuries while Chandler was in your care. One kid had his scalp torn off, another had his eyes put out. Another had both feet crushed—”
“Enough. I know every case far better than you because I’ve been involved in every investigation, and I can assure you, not a shred of evidence linked my staff to the attacks.”
“But surely your staff saw something! In fourteen months, Chandler had both arms broken
, his buttocks slashed, his ear drums perforated, two teeth knocked out—”
“Again, enough.” The Commander was not accustomed to being grilled. He looked like he might explode.
Jackie wasn’t about to relent. “No one has ever been held responsible for any of the attacks. So what the hell has been going on? Are your guards actually blind, or just willfully so?”
Abrahms sat in silence, seething.
“Look, Commander, I’m going to write something. Our readers want to know how so many people could have been maimed and crippled on your watch. The story is just too incredible for words.”
“You don’t know the half of it,” Abrahms muttered through clenched teeth.
“What does that mean?”
“Christ,” Abrahms muttered. He unlocked a drawer in his small desk and removed a video tape. “Follow me,” he said as he marched out of the room.
Jackie followed the Commander across reception to a room marked Mechanical, unlocked the door with a key from a ring on his belt, and stood aside to let Jackie enter first. Once inside, he locked the door behind them.
“Is that necessary,” Jackie asked, suddenly feeling quite vulnerable. Abrahms did not reply.
The room was windowless and lighted by a single fluorescent fixture. Fuse boxes, pipes and shelves of cleaning products covered the walls. Cartons of toilet paper, file folders, and ring binders cluttered the floor. And in one corner stood a modest audiovisual editing suite also buried beneath boxes of files. Jackie recognized the equipment from a work term she’d spent at a TV station in Orono.
“Sit here,” Abrahms ordered as he pulled a chair up to the suite. “What I’m going to show you will make no sense, and if you ever write about it, I’ll destroy the tape and deny it ever existed. Now watch this, and shut the fuck up until it’s done. Understood?”
