Dead Silent

by Ivan Blake

  “I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re such an idiot,” she whispered. “I so want to hold you.”

  “Well...maybe you can...”

  “What do you have in mind?”

  “You’ve met Rose DuCalice. Do you remember the last time you were here and Mallory attacked me, and Rose said she might have something to help me? Well, she did. This.” And he pulled the amulet from beneath his shirt.

  “A pendant?”

  “Yes. And I think it works.”

  “How? How do you know it works?”

  “I can’t explain now, but later, maybe we can try it?”

  “Why not now?”

  Because, he said, he had an obligation to fulfill, and four days to make good on his promise to recover the bones from the theater and to make up for letting them be taken in the first place.

  “So you’re saying...the Mortsafemen are back in business?” Gillian grinned. “Can I come?”

  “No, God no. The theater people are nuts! Wait here. Besides, I’d love it if you read some stuff I’ve been writing for one of my courses. And after I get back, maybe we can...you know.”

  “Yes, maybe we can.”

  * * * *

  “Everyone! I need your attention!” Gilbert called out.

  From the middle of the theater, where he was scrubbing upholstery, Chris watched Manfred Arimanes roll an enormous contraption to center stage.

  “Manfred is going to demonstrate his latest and most exciting device,” Gilbert said. “It’s for the final scene of Rottingwood Asylum, and you’ll go crazy when you see it in action. Before we do, however, I want us to thank Manfred for making my vision a reality. Now, everyone, please come onstage and give Manfred a big hug, okay? Come on, you too, Mr. Chandler.”

  Members of the company put down their rags and paint brushes and wandered onstage to join the group hug. There wasn’t a lot of enthusiasm for the exercise. Chris held out his arms and feigned a hug.

  “Now, Manfred, tell us what you’ve created.”

  Manfred reminded the company how in the final explosive scene of Rottingwood Asylum, the leader of the rebellious inmates presents the institution’s former psychiatrist with a terrible dilemma. He can save one of his children but not both. Indeed, whatever choice he makes will save one child and kill the other right before the father’s eyes. Manfred had bolted together two vertical cabinets—not unlike two open coffins—side by side with one shared wooden door between them. The door was edged with iron and hinged so it could close on either cabinet. Springs pulled the door in both directions, and a winch behind the cabinets increased the tension equally on both springs. If one of the springs were released from one side of the door, then the second spring would immediately tug the door shut in the other direction. Two triggers positioned in front of the coffins controlled the release of the springs by a series of wires and pulleys. And mounted above the triggers was a large wooden box with a clock face on its front. There was nothing very sinister about Manfred’s construction, save for the many foot-long spikes protruding from both sides of the door.

  “So, it’s like this,” Manfred explained, “the leader of the inmates, Gilbert, straps the psychiatrist’s son and daughter, Wilfred and Wanetta, into the two boxes. Then he cranks this wheel.” Manfred turned the wheel and the tension in the two springs grew considerably. “The more Gilbert turns the wheel, the greater the striking force when the door closes.” Everyone heard the creaking and groaning in the wooden frame and steel springs. The anticipation was electric.

  “So then Gilbert’s character says, ‘Doctor, which kid will you save?’ If the doctor pulls one trigger, the spring is released and the door slams shut on the other box. However, if the doctor can’t make a decision,then the timer takes over and releases one spring or the other, but there’s no way of knowing which. So, shall we see if it works? Right, I chose to save the kid on the left.” Manfred pulled the left trigger, and in the blink of an eye, the spring detached from the left side of the door and the door slammed shut on the right-hand cabinet with a deafening crash. Blood ran out onto the floor from beneath the door.

  “Holy shit,” somebody muttered.

  “Christ, that’s terrifying,” said another.

  Gilbert was ecstatic. “The audience is going to love it!”

  “So you’re wondering about the blood,” Manfred continued. “Well, there’s a blood bag fastened to the side of each box and one of the nails will pierce it when the door closes.”

  “Yeah, but you won’t need the bag of blood because for sure one of us is going to get killed inside the thing,” Wolfram said. “There’s no way I’m getting in there!”

  “That’s the cool part. Come around here.” Manfred led his fellow performers behind the coffins. The back of the coffin which had slammed shut was now wide open. “It’s like this. When the door starts to close, it immediately releases a pin inside the box and the back door falls open, so if you’re inside, you simply fall out of the box before the nails ever reach you. Simple. We’ll have the curtain nearby so you can scoot under it before the audience realizes you’re safe.”

  “Then the psychiatrist,” Gilbert said, pointing to Chris, “You, Mr. Chandler.”

  “Me? I didn’t say I’d perform!”

  “But you will, won’t you?”

  There was no way in hell Chris was ever going to get up onstage in front of a bunch of Goths and speak Gilbert’s totally ridiculous words. Then again, he didn’t expect to set foot in the theater after Monday anyway, so what was the harm in saying yes to a part if it gave him more access to the hidden places and locked cupboards backstage? “What the hell, sure.”

  “Good. So as the psychiatrist, you will go completely and totally mad when you realize you’ve killed your own child. Curtain comes down. Standing ovation.”

  “Gilbert, you goddamn idiot!” Mayor Paget shouted from the back of the theater.

  “Mr. Mayor. What a pleasure to see you,” Gilbert muttered.

  “Did I not specifically say, when you talk to the press, I want to be there? Did I not say that? And yet I turn on my TV yesterday, and whose ugly face do I see? And then, you stupid piece of shit, you start a fight with the interviewer! What the hell were you thinking?”

  “I wasn’t talking about the town. I was talking about my theater. And as for the fight, I was thinking ticket sales! And I was right. Since the interview, sales have exploded. We’re up over two hundred seventy-five.”

  “I guess that’s something,” Paget muttered as he strode down the aisle.

  “And I took your advice. Mr. Chandler is here to help us.”

  From the foot of the stage, Paget held out a hand to Chris. “Well, great. Welcome, Chandler.” Chris pointed to the splint still on his wrist and waved off a handshake. “Okay. So how we gonna use you?”

  “We’re working on that,” Chris replied. “But I do have some bad news, Mr. Mayor. Rose DuCalice has said no to the haunted ride idea.”

  “That bitch, I’ll—”

  “It’s not her fault. Sometime in the past week, vandals attacked the graveyard and destroyed most of its stones. So now there’s not much of a graveyard to see.”

  “Who the hell did it? Do our cops know?”

  “Rose reported the vandalism, but the police don’t seem to be interested in finding the brain-dead idiots responsible.” He smiled at Gilbert as he spoke.

  “Well I’ll light a fire under the Chief’s ass.”

  “Actually, Mr. Mayor,” Gilbert interjected, “I’ve been thinking about the graveyard, and I don’t really think it’s much of a problem.” He smiled back at Chris. “So there’s not much to see at the graveyard, so what? All we have to do is add more scary sights along the route. My actors and I can probably come up with some pretty terrifying surprises. So if Mrs. DuCalice will still let us use the trail...”

  “Which reminds me, Chandler,” the Mayor said. “There was a story on TV this morning with a connection to you. It seems some kid
, the brother of one of the missing corpses from up your way, was found yesterday on a logging road near the Canadian border. The car had gone off the road and hit a tree, but the kid’s head had been bashed in before the accident. They think he was traveling with somebody else and the two were trying to get across into Canada. Police think they had a fight and the other guy tried to kill the kid and then crossed the border on foot.”

  “Is the kid dead?” Chris asked.

  “No, in a coma.”

  “That...that’s terrible.”

  “Terrible? Are you nuts? It’s great for us. It puts the whole Stolen Corpses story back on the front page, so when we announce you’re helping out the festival, it’ll be a really big deal.”

  “Nothing like someone getting their head bashed in to help our ticket sales,” Gilbert whispered to Dolli.

  * * * *

  Gillian was curled up in an armchair in the bay window reading a draft of Chris’s research paper on the Cathars of Monsegur. She’d never before heard of Cathars and was engrossed in their legends and tales of treasure, when a knock on the back door echoed through the cavernous house. She felt somewhat uneasy, especially since Chris was supposed to have secured the gate at the main road when he left for the theater. Whoever was knocking had to have walked. “Who is it?” she called without opening the back door.

  “Uh, it’s Jackie Cormier, from the Bangor Daily Courier. I’m a friend of Chris Chandler. Is he here?”

  Gillian was flummoxed. Part of her wanted to open the door and rip the reporter’s face off. Another part of her wanted to understand how this Cormier woman could describe herself as Chris’s friend. “He’s not here.”

  “Then could you give him a message for me?”

  Gillian was going to have to confront the bitch. She opened the door, and immediately started shouting. “I know who you are! You described me as a pathetic little innocent being harassed for no reason. Well, I’m not helpless, nor am I innocent, and since your article, the harassment is ten times worse. You’re also the bitch who scared off the priest who’d agreed to help.”

  The reporter started sobbing, well, not started, because she’d obviously been sobbing for some time. Her eyes were red and puffy, her cheeks flushed and streaked with tears. “I know,” she wailed, “It’s true! I’ve really screwed things up. I feel so awful. I’ve been crying all the way from Bangor. I had to tell Chris how sorry I am.”

  Gillian was taken aback by the woman’s remorse. “You’re soaking wet,” was all she could say.

  “It started raining right after I left my car. But it’s okay. I’ll go. Only, please, please tell Chris how badly I feel.” She started walking away.

  “No,” Gillian called after her. “You’d better come in and dry off. Then I’ll drive you to the gate.”

  Gillian took Jackie’s sodden coat, and showed her to the washroom off the kitchen, then put on a pot of tea. Jackie appeared several minutes later. She’d towel-dried her hair, stripped off her damp sweater, and washed her face. “This is very nice of you, Gillian,” she said, “after all I’ve done. We’ve met before, outside your school.”

  “Yes.”

  “Chris has told me so much about you.”

  “He has?” At that moment Gillian noticed the bruise and the many scabs on Jackie’s face. “You’ve been attacked,” she said. Her face flushed as she realized what the injuries might signify. “Who hurt you?”

  Jackie touched her face, but said nothing.

  “Mallory, right?”

  Jackie nodded.

  “So then...you and Chris...you must have embraced or something...to provoke Mallory.”

  Again, Jackie said nothing.

  “Chris said he told you about Mallory because you’d seen some video tape, but I remember thinking, how stupid. No tape could justify telling you about Torajan curses and Mallory’s attacks. Now I see, he was lying to me. He told you about Mallory because you and he—”

  “No, it wasn’t like that!”

  “And I suppose that’s how he knows the amulet works.”

  “Oh, Gillian, no, I swear! And I don’t know anything about any amulet. Mallory attacked me because I made a move on Chris, not because he did anything, which he didn’t. I was a fool. I’ve been chasing around, trying to be the hard-nosed reporter, no social life, no friends—well except for an overweight chain-smoking middle-aged curmudgeon—and then I meet this heroic young man, all dark and sorrowful and injured and incredibly sexy, and like some love-sick puppy, I tried to...you know.... But I totally shocked him, and he yelled at me to…to get out of his bed. I felt like an idiot and started crying, and he started yelling about Mallory. And then it was too late.”

  “So you’re telling me, if it hadn’t been for Mallory, he would have let you stay in his bed?”

  “No, he never showed the slightest interest in me, none, I swear.”

  “He’s still a coward,” Gillian said. “He didn’t have the guts to tell me any of this.”

  “You know him a lot better than I do, but from what I’ve seen, the last thing Chris Chandler could be accused of is being a coward. Mallory would have hurt me a hell of a lot more if Chris hadn’t used his own body to shield me.”

  “Not sure that image helps me feel much better,” Gillian said with just a trace of a smile on her lips.

  “Oh, I guess not.” The two had a brief laugh.

  Chris arrived back at Marymount long past dinnertime. He was taken aback to find Jackie’s VW parked at the gate and even more so to find Gillian and Jackie in the parlor drinking cognac like sorority sisters. The expression of disdain on Gillian’s face when he entered the room gave him cold shivers.

  “So, Mr. Chandler,” she said, “Miss Cormier here has been telling me you and she are together now and running away to Canada as soon as the Cathar bones are recovered.”

  “What? No! That’s not right! There’s nothing between us.”

  “Then how do you explain her injuries?”

  “It...It was a mistake.” Chris went to the sofa and tried to sit next to Gillian but she waved him off.

  “A mistake you felt so guilty about, you were afraid to tell me?”

  “I was dumb. I didn’t think it was worth mentioning—”

  Jackie sobbed loudly. “My love for you wasn’t worth mentioning?”

  “No, look, this is all a—”

  “Relax, Chris, we’re just teasing you. Jackie has explained everything.”

  “She has?”

  “I have,” Jackie said with a smile.

  “But you weren’t brave enough to tell me yourself,” Gillian said.

  “No, I guess not.”

  “Jackie also explained what happened with the priest.”

  “It’s the reason I came back,” Jackie said. “I feel rotten. I’m so sorry I screwed things up. I thought I could set up a meeting. I didn’t know Gillian was already arranging it.”

  The teasing hadn’t improved Chris’s temper. “What’s done is done,” he said with not a hint of warmth in his voice.

  “Is there any way I can make things up to you? You’re looking for those bones. I could maybe join the theater company as well? Two pairs of eyes are better than one.”

  “No, don’t do anything,” Chris said. “I’m on it.”

  “Okay.”

  * * * *

  From the shadows beyond the porch, Gilbert could see both women quite clearly through the bay window. Oh yeah, he’d seen the shorter girl a few days earlier. The taller, blond girl was new and clearly the more stunning, but the short girl with the large breasts was nice too, if a little butch. Hey, he wouldn’t kick either of them out of bed. The only question was, what the hell were they both doing in Lewis?

  Chapter 14

  Friday, March 13

  A soggy, overcast morning, and the last of the ice was now gone from the lane. It took all the Buick’s horsepower to prevent the car from sinking in the mud. Gillian was driving Jackie back to her own car and Chris to the thea
ter for another day of snooping. The atmosphere in the car was almost as frosty as the air outside. After the short-lived friendliness of the previous evening, the tension among the three of them had grown considerably sharper. Chris was in no mood to forgive, and Jackie had spent an uncomfortable night on the sofa again, feeling guiltier than ever for having robbed Chris of his one chance to be free of Mallory. Gillian tried from time to time to warm things up with the occasional friendly question about Jackie’s family or days at U Maine, but Chris remained cold and unforgiving.

  Conversation in the car excluded Jackie entirely.

  “So we’re having dinner this evening with Rose DuCalice,” Chris said. “I called her to say you’d be coming, as well.”

  “It’ll be nice to meet her,” Gillian replied. “She sounds interesting, and the Cathar stuff in your term paper is fascinating.”

  “So could you maybe go to her place by yourself around four? I’ll meet you there as soon as I can get away from the theater. Meet Rose at the library, and she’ll take you up to her apartment.”

  At the gate, Jackie said, “Again, Chris, I’m so sorry for screwing things up.”

  “Too late to think about it now,” Chris said as he got out to unlock the gate.

  “Don’t worry, Jackie,” Gillian whispered, “we’ll figure something out.”

  Jackie climbed out of the Buick, smiled at Gillian, and headed for her own car in the wooded pull-off. From the other side of the road, she called back to Chris. “I almost forgot. Rudy Dahlman. The police found him beaten and unconscious a couple of hours from here. They think he was trying to get across the border into Canada.”

  “I heard,” Chris replied as Gillian drove through the gate.

  “Was it Mallory?” Jackie asked.

  “What do you think?”

  “A source in the DA’s office told me they’re going to charge Rudy with Ed Balzer’s death even though they don’t think he’ll live to stand trial. Any idea why they’d think he did it?”

  “Ask them,” Chris said.

  “Oh, and Chief Boucher has died.”