Dead Silent

by Ivan Blake

  Turmoil was written all over Chris’s face.Jackie figured he was probably trying to work out how to tell the Monsegur family the bad news about their cemetery. Okay so he was broken up about the damage but she couldn’t just sit here for the rest of the day while he moped. She had to get something out of this trip—something she could actually use—to make her effort and expense worthwhile.

  “Chris,” she said. “The ghost who’s hurting you, is it the Mallory girl? The one who killed herself?”

  Chris stared at her like he’d forgotten she was there at all. After a moment he said softly, “What does it matter? You can’t report any of this. You’d end up working for some tabloid.”

  “I’m just trying to understand what the hell’s happening. Ghosts who weep? Ghosts who attack old boyfriends? What does it mean?”

  He sighed and slumped back in his chair. “Okay, but I don’t really understand much either. In Mallory’s case, her being here has something to do with her dad’s religion. He’s out in Indonesia somewhere, place called Tana Toraja, and he cast some kind of spell after Mallory died.”

  “Spell? Like a witch’s spell?”

  “A Torajan priest’s spell, part of their local beliefs apparently. Anyway, I’m sorry, Jackie. I don’t want to talk about this now. I’ve got to figure out how to tell the Monsegurs what’s happened to their graveyard, and it makes me sick. I’m going to my room to lie down, so you’ll have to leave.”

  “Leave?”

  “You can’t stay here.”

  “But it’s too late to drive back to Montpelier tonight. The roads aren’t safe—they’re probably slippery.”

  “Your problem, not mine. I never invited you,” Chris said as he headed for the stairs.

  “Couldn’t I sleep right here on the couch?”

  Chris frowned at her, then relented. “All right, but you leave first thing in the morning.”

  Jackie watched Chris limp upstairs. No ‘goodnight,’ no ‘sweet dreams.’ He was trying so hard to be the tough guy. God, he was fascinating. He acted all dark and cold, and disinterested, but the sight of the specters’ suffering in the cemetery had brought him to tears.

  She pulled off her jeans, sweater and bra; she’d sleep more comfortably on the couch in her t-shirt and panties. Then she realized the house was getting colder by the minute, and went in search of a blanket. In the library, she found a huge afghan.

  From the books and maps Chris had spread out on the library table, it appeared he was into some serious historical studies: the Albigensian Crusade, the extermination of the Cathar faith, the cult of Mary Magdalene, and so on. Jackie had two degrees and hadn’t touched anything so heavy duty as this reading material.

  She returned to the parlor, wrapped herself in the afghan, and curled up in the old leather chair. She listened to the floorboards upstairs squeak and groan as Chris prepared for bed. The creak of the old boards punctuated Chris’s painful gait.

  It struck her how Chris’s injuries only made him more fascinating. The pain he must have endured in the detention center, and the courage he’d shown through the Bemishstock affair were remarkable. She had this urge to tuck him away somewhere secret, wrapped in cotton batting, to stop anyone from ever hurting him again.

  Okay, so now she was being stupid. Chris Chandler was the subject of her investigation, and as a journalist, she had to stay objective. Didn’t she? Why? Why did she need to be objective? Chris was right. She would never be able to report any of this. Ghosts weeping by their graves, the spirit of some crazy dead teenager trashing her ex-boyfriend? It was all totally nuts! No, this stuff was going to have to remain their secret, Chris’s and hers. No one else could ever know the truth. The realization she now shared a secret so bizarre and intimate with Chris Chandler defied imagination. And it gave her such a rush. Chris had actually trusted her, enough at least to show her the spirits in the graveyard. She had to repay him somehow, let him know he could trust her with more of his secrets—because, as sure as the sun rises, Chris Chandler had many more secrets to reveal, and Jackie wanted to know them all.

  “I have to tell him,” she said softly.

  * * * *

  Gilbert had arrived at the cemetery just in time to see Chandler and the girl leaving it. He’d waited until they were a safe distance ahead, then followed them up to Marymount Cottage. Unfortunately, their visit to the cemetery likely meant the theft of bones had been discovered. It amused Gilbert to realize some kid from Maine, who’d made a name for himself by finding empty graves up there, should be the first to discover the same in Vermont. Only difference here was the kid’s Vermont discovery wasn’t going to make him famous a second time. Gilbert would kill Chandler before he’d let that happen.

  At the cottage, he’d watched them go inside and then crept onto the porch to look through the large bay windows. He watched them eat, then talk, and finally part company for the evening. Then he’d watched with great pleasure as the small girl with the huge breasts stripped not ten feet in front of him, but then she disappeared, and Gilbert, who’d learned nothing very useful except maybe the DuCalice woman had another ally, had headed home.

  * * * *

  This was so unlike her, to chase someone she’d just met. Jackie’d had lots of boyfriends in high school, not because of her looks—she was no beauty and knew it—but the ‘big boobs on a small frame’ look always had its fans, and she cleaned up nicely, and was always game for a fun time. In college, she’d had one boyfriend for several years, a jock who’d been good for a laugh but not much else. When in senior year she’d suddenly acknowledged her ambitious streak, she’d dumped the jock in a flash in favor of good marks on the LSATs. Trouble was, the boys in law school were about as intellectually stimulating as accounting, and nasty and grasping to boot. They’d used razor blades to cut out the required readings from journals in the law library, hidden books on reserve from one another, and talked of nothing but the cars they planned to buy with their first fat paychecks. Jackie’d been ambitious, but they’d been obscene. So after just one semester, she’d switched to journalism.

  There was a charming naiveté among journalism students. They all believed in something, either the power of truth or the beauty of words or the need to expose the gritty underbelly of life, all rather silly, like fairies at the end of the garden or gold at the end of the rainbow, but charming all the same, especially when compared to the materialistic cynicism of law students. Writing had been a wondrous discovery for her, and she got so caught up in finding her own voice that any interest in boys vanished for the duration of her degree.

  Graduation and going to work with Martin Koyman had been like reentering adolescence. She’d been delighted and enthralled to rediscover her sexuality, all gooey and charming around interesting guys, and all wide-eyed and keen to please when they reciprocated her attentions. But Martin, lovely, crusty, chaotic Martin, had taken it upon himself to safeguard her from herself. Once he actually followed her on a date with some hunk from the sports desk, and hauled the guy out of his muscle car when the hunk’s paws got a little too active a little too soon. She’d screamed at Martin he wasn’t her father, he’d embarrassed her, and she could take care of herself, then hugged him with all her might, whispered thank you in his ear, and kissed away his tears. After that, she’d gotten down to business, snagged her job with the Daily Courier and a major national story, and most important of all, earned Martin Koyman’s respect.

  So why was she now creeping upstairs in a stranger’s house dressed only in her panties and t-shirt like some idiot groupie, about to flirt with a boy half a dozen years younger than herself? Because she hadn’t just met this intriguing young man. On the contrary, she’d been studying him for months, and with everything she learned, he’d grown more entrancing. He wasn’t like anyone she’d ever known. He was like some kind of dark knight who communed with spirits and defended the dead, punished the wicked and suffered his loneliness and pain in silence, and was so incredibly beautiful he took her
breath away.

  Two taps on his bedroom door.

  “Yes?” Chris called.

  “May I come in?”

  “What’s the problem?”

  Okay, permission enough, and in she went.

  Chris was seated in bed, naked to the waist, reading. He’d obviously not expected Jackie to enter his room quite so suddenly. “Something wrong?”

  The sight of his many terrible scars made Jackie gasp.

  “I...I think I heard something outside,” she blustered, then moved to the side of his bed. She stared down at the beautiful boy, leaning on his elbow, the muscles across his shoulders taut, the many scars crisscrossing his chest, his slender body covered by nothing more than a sheet.

  “It’s only the trees,” Chris said. “A couple are too close to the porch.”

  “Oh...okay.” She stood there, not sure what to do next, and transfixed by the sight of Chris’s torso.

  He rearranged the covers on the bed. “So...is that all?”

  Okay, it’s now or never. “No. No, it’s not. I need to tell you something.”

  “All right?”

  She grabbed his sheet, whipped it back and slipped into bed beside him. “We don’t need to tell anyone. It’s just us, and I think you’re the most interesting person I’ve ever met.”

  “Jackie, no, don’t!”

  Pulling off her t-shirt, she slid across the bed to press against Chris’s chest.

  “No, you don’t understand,” he said as he tried to push her away.

  “If it’s the Willard girl, I won’t say anything if you don’t.”

  “No, Jackie, stop.” And he gave her one great shove.

  Teetering on the very edge of the bed, mortified and confused, she clutched the sheet to her chest and whispered, “Chris, I...I’m so embarrassed.”

  “No, it’s not you! It’s her!” And he pointed to the corner of the room.

  A blue glow, the smell of something burning, something sulfurous, a swirling gray cloud, then pops and snaps of electricity, and finally, great dark eyes in the smoke, eyes burning with hate.

  Jackie only had an instant to glance toward the corner, before something cracked her across the face and grabbed her arm in a vice-like grip. She was yanked from the bed and hurled across the room to crash into a dressing table. It toppled over, spilling bottles and powders and brushes all over the floor.

  Stunned, Jackie made no move to get up. Chris leapt off the bed and threw himself across Jackie’s body. “No, Mallory,” he cried, “I won’t let you!”

  Nails raked Chris’s back. Something grabbed his leg and tried to pull him off Jackie, but he held on to her with all his might. He was then flipped over so Jackie was now on top of him. Her face twisted in pain as the skin on her back was scraped away like zest from a lemon. Chris rolled their two bodies over a second time. Again Mallory tried to haul Chris off the screaming Jackie. Mallory pummelled Chris, battered his head and twisted his legs, but still he would not uncover Jackie. Mallory seized handfuls of Jackie’s hair. A bloody strip of her scalp came away entirely in Mallory’s grasp. Jackie screamed and then fell silent. Mallory flung the strip of scalp across the room and began battering Jackie’s face. “No,” Chris cried out, “No more,” and the attack ended as suddenly as it had begun.

  * * * *

  Chris felt Jackie stir beneath him. Her arms crept around his chest. She clung to him and sobbed. Even though her lacerated back was pressed against the rough, cold wooden floor, and scalp bled profusely, Chris dared not uncover Jackie for fear Mallory’s attack might resume at any moment. Jackie’s naked breasts were pressed against his own bare chest. He could feel her erratic breathing, and heart racing in her chest, but still he dared not move.

  Gradually, Jackie’s breathing slowed and her skin began to feel clammy against him. He lifted his head away from Jackie’s neck to look into her face. She was barely conscious, white as a sheet, and her skin glistened with perspiration—all signs of shock.

  He rolled away slowly, and then ever so gently, picked her up and carried her to the bathroom. There, he balanced her unconscious body on the edge of the tub with one arm, while he rinsed the lacerations on her back with the other. He sponged her torso with a damp warm cloth and gently patted her face. He pulled her hair forward to examine the wound on the back of her head. Mallory had ripped away a strip of flesh perhaps two inches long from just above Jackie’s hairline. Fortunately, the damaged scalp would not be visible beneath the rest of her long dark hair. The wounds to Jackie’s psyche might not be so easily concealed.

  Chris needed to treat Jackie’s wounds and numb her pain before she came to. Rose had left a large jar of her salve for Chris’s own wounds on the counter by the sink. He managed to open the jar and steady Jackie at the same time. He covered her bloody back in a thick layer of the remarkable ointment, then moved her hair to either side of her damaged scalp and lathered the wound in salve as well. Finally, Chris carried the unconscious girl to his bed, pulled back the covers and placed her on her chest. He returned to the bathroom and tended his own wounds. When he was done, he went downstairs to prepare a cup of Rose’s sleeping draft before Jackie came to.

  “What happened?” Jackie asked, her voice barely a whisper.

  “Mallory.”

  “But why?”

  “Because she believes we’re close. She attacks anyone she thinks is important to me.”

  “So...that’s your secret power? A girlfriend who hates your friends? That’s got to suck. Ooh Christ, my back hurts.”

  “Here, drink this. She raised her face from the pillow and managed to sip several drops from the steaming cup.”

  “I’m so sorry, Chris. And I’m so embarrassed. What an idiot I am.”

  “Painful lesson learned.”

  * * * *

  Gilbert got back to town after midnight. The hike in a freezing drizzle had been difficult and long, and all the way back, he’d grown angrier and angrier. It was obvious people were screwing him over at every turn. Idiots like Shadow and Tetana were constantly mocking him behind his back and were too preoccupied with their own crap to give the theater their full effort. Dolli was forever on his case about money and organization. Paget wouldn’t shut up about publicity and the money he’d invested. The DuCalice woman was a constant thorn in his side, bad-mouthing him to everyone, blocking his ideas. And this new guy Chandler was obviously playing him for a fool, lying about his name and pretending to care about the festival when he had no intention of helping. And now Paget expected him to enlist Chandler? Not going to happen!

  He was a hundred yards from the theater, walking across the park in the dark, when he spotted Paget’s kid, Crimson, in the alley by the theater, sneaking out the stage door. There’s another person who was probably screwing him over. Was she stupid? Didn’t she realize he’d guessed long ago what she was up to? Of course he knew she was spying for the DuCalice woman. How long was he going to have to put up with these fuckers sabotaging his dreams before he took steps?

  Geraldine had just emerged from the alley when Gilbert called her name. She froze. He nearly laughed out loud at the look of horror on the girl’s face as he emerged from the darkness. She stood waiting helplessly as he crossed the street.

  “Crimson. You’re up late.”

  “I...I have this cold.”

  “So why are you outside?”

  “I thought I’d try the market for some cold medicine.”

  “The market closed at eleven.”

  “Oh, right.”

  “Come, Crimson, walk with me.” Gilbert put his arm around the girl’s shoulder. “I’ll ask Dolli if she can find something for you.”

  “I don’t want to be a bother.”

  “No, of course not.”

  Gilbert could feel her trembling through her coat. At the stage door, Crimson grabbed the handle, but then Gilbert put his hand on hers, and held it firm.

  “Are...are we going in?” Geraldine asked.

  “Yes, of
course. It’s just...well, I wonder if we could talk first?” The kid was obviously terrified. This was such a riot. “Crimson, I think I can trust you, right?”

  “Uh.”

  “And you’d be straight with me if I asked you a question, correct?”

  “Uh...I think so.”

  “So tell me, are members of our company...you know...critical of me? Do they say things behind my back?”

  “Well…”

  “I won’t be angry. You can tell me. I really need to know. A good leader needs to know what’s on the minds of his troops.”

  “Well, a couple of people are...a little concerned.”

  “Concerned?”

  “They say you can’t run a theater. Things are totally disorganized. You’re always jumping from one short scene to another, and we never practice an entire play.”

  “And who are these people?”

  “Well...Doctor Shadow, and Lady Twilight, and Lassa...I’ve even heard Dolli...”

  Goddamn Shadow, again. Something had to be done about him.

  “And what do you think, Crimson?”

  “I...I am a little worried. It’s three weeks to opening, and we haven’t actually rehearsed any show from beginning to end.”

  Gilbert stared at Crimson, speechless for a moment, then smiled. “Crimson,” he asked quietly, “are you a playwright? No, then you can’t know how important it is to get all the nuances right, the consistency of voice, from one play to another. I need to hear the different pieces, first one and then the other, to make sure my style and my voice truly reflect my vision. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, certainly. After all, you’re the artist.”

  “Thank you, Crimson. Oh, one more question. I saw Chris Holcomb, you know, the young man helping Rose DuCalice. Turns out his real name is Chris Chandler. Anyway, I saw him with a new girl today, small, with big breasts like yours.”

  He reached out and fondled Crimson’s breasts. She looked mortified, violated, her face flushed, but she didn’t move. He was doing it to remind her he held all the cards, all the power.