Face of Evil

by George Morris De'Ath

  “So, do you remember Jason?” she asks, turning back to Dorothy. “You must have thought about him, you know, when all of this happened?”

  “I didn’t hear much about it, to be honest.”

  “Really?” Lydia sounds surprised. “This story was everywhere for months.”

  “I don’t watch the news,” the old woman replies, dismissively. “There’s so much horror in the world, what good does knowing about it do anybody?”

  “But this was someone you knew.”

  “When he was a little boy, I knew him,” Dorothy snaps, “and that little boy wasn’t a murderer, was he?”

  “What was he like?” Lydia seizes on the thread.

  “He was a good boy,” the teacher replies, defensively, “far as I remember anyway. Quiet. Not many friends, you know. Apart from that one.”

  “What one?”

  “Funny-looking child.” Her old face crinkles further as she tries to remember. “Like a little turtle. Turtle… water… Sprinkler! That’s it. Cecil Sprinkler.” She slumps back on the bench, as though the effort it took to remember has sapped all of her strength. “Another one with no friends, that’s probably what they bonded over.”

  “Do you remember anything else about him?”

  “His mother looked like a turtle too. Met her at parent-teacher night.”

  Lydia frowns, momentarily confused. “No, Jason.”

  “Oh, not really.”

  Lydia lets out an exasperated sigh. Why did you agree to meet me if you’ve nothing to say? “Well, thanks anyway.” She picks up her phone, taps the screen and slips it back into her bag.

  “Is that what your book is about?” Dorothy asks. “Jason Devere?”

  “Depends,” Lydia mutters, standing up. “There won’t be a book at all if I don’t get to the bottom of it.”

  “The bottom of what?” The old woman’s face is placid; she seems either unaware or completely unconcerned about how irritating Lydia finds her.

  “Of why Jason did what he did. Of how anyone can bring themselves to do those kinds of things.” She swings her bag over her shoulder.

  “Be careful.” The teacher’s voice sounds different somehow, with a wavering quality like a low note from a bass clarinet, and her eyes look suddenly brighter.

  “Of what?”

  “It’s dangerous to go looking for something, when you don’t fully understand what it is that you’re looking for.”

  Lydia stares at her. “I will,” she says finally.

  “No, you won’t.” Dorothy looks back towards the playing children.

  I understand how someone could strangle you, Lydia thinks. But again, she resists the urge to say it out loud. “Well, thanks for your time.”

  The old woman doesn’t respond, so Lydia walks away, her mind already turning to the only useful piece of information the teacher had given her. The next piece of the puzzle.

  Off to catch herself a turtle.

  Five

  Self-Reflection

  Lydia stares at her reflection under the harsh light of the hotel bathroom. Here, away from the carefully constructed sanctuary of home, she is forced to confront her true face. What she sees terrifies her. The woman in the mirror looks older than her thirty-something years. Much older. And weak. Her skin dull, lifeless, soft but not as firm as it used to be.

  With a soft click and the swipe of a brush she begins her ritual, cloaking every flaw with a perfect, porcelain finish. It is a form of magic, like witches from days gone by painting their faces with blood to absorb its life-giving power. She lines her eyes and fills her lashes before applying that trademark crimson gloss to her full lips.

  Next, the hair, spritzed with tonic, shaken and tossed and thrown until dry straw becomes spun gold. She drapes it over her bare shoulder, exposed by the low-cut black dress that hugs her thin figure, and reaches for a pot of ruby nail polish to touch up those sharp talons like bloody knives.

  Fine gold necklaces wind around her neck like serpents, benevolent and loose for now, but threatening to choke with one false movement. On the middle finger of her right hand, that stunning ruby ring. Tonight, it does not glint and sparkle. Rather its black core appears to absorb all light in its vicinity.

  Now the final touches. Pale, delicate feet slipped into black high heels. A minimalist black trench coat, belted at the waist. A mystery, but a plain one. Like a box of good, dark chocolates.

  Masked and ready to interrogate, Lydia pauses to admire the effect. She is beautiful, there is no denying it. Nature has blessed her with an advantage, and she is not shy to use it. Indulging in her narcissism always gave her a thrill, but this is more than that. When men want her, and women feel intimidated by her, she is in charge of every interaction from the first moment without even having to assert herself. People don’t like ‘pushy’ women, but even the brashest man will eat from the palm of a beautiful, confident woman without even realising that he is. This is what she is counting on tonight. This is her power.

  She crosses to the dressing table and taps her phone once, twice. A message begins to play.

  Hello, Miss Tune, Detective Gilbey. I just got your message. Can you meet me tomorrow night at the diner on Third and Holloway? Around eight. See you then.

  The voice sounds oddly familiar, but she can’t place it and anyway, it makes no difference to her. Lydia gazes at her own reflection. Whoever you are, Detective, she thinks, the voice in her head practically purring with pleasure, I am about to own you.

  Six

  Reunion

  Lydia drives hard, her car alternately roaring and screeching as she toils irritably through the heavy evening traffic. She curses the detective under her breath for making her endure this rush hour misery.

  A blaze of light in her rear-view mirror makes her wince and shield her eyes. The car behind her is far too close. She glares at the silhouette of its driver, at this moment in time an anonymous personification of everything she hates about human beings.

  Finally, she sees the neon sign of the diner ahead, its letter ‘i’ flickering in synchrony with the pulsing vein in her forehead. Not the kind of place that she would choose to eat, but she hadn’t known the city well enough to make an alternative recommendation. She entertains herself by passing judgement on her blind ignorance for his questionable taste, doubling down when she sees the sign on the door that reads, “Sorry, we’re OPEN.” She finds this sort of humour desperate. Pitiful. She is expecting the rusty jangle of a bell as she enters, but it still makes her wince.

  It’s a sixties-style place, soda signs and chrome stools at the bar. Juke box in the corner playing ‘Pink Shoelaces’. Anaemic, coloured Christmas lights strung about the place, and a tacky tree in the corner next to the toilets labelled ‘guys’ and ‘dolls’. Lydia glances around at the few diners already here, but none of them is a man by himself. Faces turn as she passes tables, one in particular whose eyes linger long enough to earn him a filthy look from what Lydia assumes must be his girlfriend. They’re too young to be married. At least she hopes so, for both of their sakes.

  She chooses a booth in the far corner which offers at least a little privacy, slips off her coat and settles into the soft, comfortable, red leather seat. The table is speckled grey, adorned with the usual salt, pepper, napkins, menus and packet sauces.

  A waitress in a matte orange uniform approaches, fishing her order pad and pencil from her apron pocket. “Hey, Hun,” she says in a warm, homely tone that makes her impossible to dislike, even for Lydia. “What can I getcha?”

  “I’m waiting for someone,” Lydia replies, feeling a pang of annoyance at the someone in question for being late.

  “No problem,” says the waitress, lowering her pad. Lydia notes that it is tatty, with only a few pages left. This girl has probably worked here a long time. “Just give me a wave or a holler if you need anything.” She smiles and slides off to the next occupied table.

  Lydia fishes in her bag for her phone to check her messages, but jus
t then the rusty bell rings out again to herald the arrival of a man in a beige trench coat and a wide-brimmed hat, from under which scruffy sideburns match a bushy moustache. His eyes behind wiry glasses find Lydia right away and he smiles and tips his hat as he approaches her. But then, three tables away, he stops and turns, and seats himself with his back to her. Lydia slumps and exhales in frustration. She looks up at a large, black and white clock on the wall. It is ten past seven. Five more minutes, she decides, then she is gone.

  As she begins to compose, in her head, the pointed message she intends to leave on Alex Gilbey’s answerphone, a shadow falls over Lydia. She looks up to find a man standing a few feet away, about her age give or take, short dark hair and brown eyes, sporting a brown rugged leather jacket, white shirt and loose necktie. A flicker of recognition sparks in Lydia’s brain and cascades across her face.

  “Oh!” she says, blindsided.

  “Hello, Miss Tune,” he says, smiling. “Detective Gilbey. It’s good to see you again.”

  “Alex?” she replies after a second, still in shock. “Oh my God, I didn’t even…” She slides out of the booth to embrace him. She knows that he is expecting it with his hands open out ready. Best not to deny the male this sweet embrace she thinks, especially when he is the one she plans to squeeze for information for the rest of the night.

  “I knew you hadn’t put two and two together,” says Alex, smiling even more broadly.

  “How? And why didn’t you say something on the phone?” She is annoyed with him, but more with herself for appearing so caught off guard.

  “We record every call, you know.” He slips into the booth opposite her. “I had Renee play it back for me.”

  “Renee?”

  “The woman you spoke to?”

  “Oh,” says Lydia, “yes. She’s very charming.”

  Alex laughs, and his whole face seems to light up. Lydia suddenly performs a rather girlish laugh. “Anyway, I could tell from that,” he says. “You sounded like you were talking about a total stranger.”

  “Since when did you get so intuitive?”

  “Since I decided to do it for a living,” he replied. “But hey, look who I’m talking to. The famous Lydia Tune.”

  “I’m so sorry, Alex.” Lydia flushes with subtle embarrassment. “It’s been such a long time, and I was very tired when I called.”

  “It’s okay,” says Alex, clearly enjoying her discomfort. “At least you recognise me now.”

  “Just barely,” says Lydia, settling back into the booth as her new companion does likewise. “You look so different.” She takes in his strong, chiselled features, a far cry from the skinny, awkward boy she remembers. He has kind eyes, big and bright, but a ruthless edge to his voice. Whether that comes from within, or as a result of what he does, Lydia hasn’t decided yet. He knows criminals, so he won’t be easy to trick. But he’s playful, too. Boyish. Her favourite type of prey. Flattery, as she well knows, will often get you anywhere.

  “Most people do after seventeen years,” Alex replies, looking straight into her eyes. “Not you though. You look just the same.” Lydia feels her neck tighten, the dryness in her mouth, the rush of blood in her chest. Was he trying to flatter her too?

  “What are you doing here?” she asks quickly, part curious and part buying time to regain her composure.

  “You invited me.” Alex grins, one eyebrow raised. “Did you forget already?” His eyes scan the table. “Have you been drinking before I got here?”

  “No.” Lydia smacks him playfully on the arm. Men, she knows, always respond to touch. “I meant… you know what I meant! What are you doing in Decanten City?”

  “Workin’,” Alex replies with a shrug.

  “I’m sure we had police back home,” Lydia teases.

  “Not many,” he replies, “and if you want promoting, you have to wait for them to retire or die. I had to move for the sake of my career.”

  “Guess I know how that is,” says Lydia, meeting his gaze and deliberately, delicately tucking a loose strand of golden hair behind her ear.

  “Can I get y’all something to drink?” The waitress has returned. She is very efficient, Lydia thinks. Probably spends most of her waking hours in this place. It would drive Lydia crazy.

  “Just water for me,” says Lydia. “Sparkling.”

  “JD and Coke,” says Alex. Lydia’s internal psychoanalyst gives a small, approving nod. The default move for a man in this situation would be to either order a simple beer or straight spirits. Alex liked what he liked, and didn’t care what she thought. Confidence, she is reminded, is a very sexy quality.

  “Be right back,” says the waitress, already half turned and on her way before the last word is spoken.

  “Well, this is a coincidence,” says Lydia, resting her clasped hands on the table. “What brings you to this neck of the woods?”

  “Probably the same thing took you to New York,” Alex replies. “Just wanted to get out of that boring town and see some more of the world.”

  “How do you know I live in New York?” asks Lydia, slightly more defensively than she intends.

  “Are you kidding?” Alex’s eyes twinkle mischievously. “You’re Lydia Tune, the famous author. I’ve read about you in magazines. I’ve seen you on TV, for crying out loud!”

  “Of course.” Lydia relaxes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to… I just, I still can’t think of myself as famous, you know?”

  “Oh sure.” Alex nods. “Yeah, I have the exact same problem.” He catches her eye, and they both laugh as the waitress appears again, setting their drinks on the table.

  “Y’all ready to order?”

  “Oh, sure,” says Lydia, snatching a menu and scanning it quickly.

  “Ribeye, medium rare,” says Alex, “all the fixin’s.”

  “Come here often?” Lydia raises an eyebrow. Alex shrugs playfully. “I’ll have the same,” she says, replacing the menu.

  “A girl after my own heart.”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”

  “Of course.” Alex holds his hands up in apology. “I bet you have dozens of suitors, huh?”

  “Suitors!” Lydia laughs. “I’m sorry, have we actually travelled back to the sixties?”

  “Hey, I was raised to speak like a gentleman.”

  “In Philly?” Lydia says, incredulously. “You were not.”

  “I was so,” says Alex defensively, “and you’re avoiding the question.”

  “Well,” says Lydia, coyly, stirring her drink, “I wouldn’t call them suitors so much as—”

  “Stalkers?”

  “You read about that too, huh?” Lydia is surprised, and a touch unnerved. She isn’t comfortable with her companions knowing more about her than she does them. She will have to fix that. “It’s true; I have a few… devoted fans, but nothing I can’t handle. Well,” she corrects herself, “nothing the NYPD can’t handle.”

  “I’m sure,” says Alex. “Hey, speaking of crazy, you remember our old French teacher, Miss… um…”

  “Hart.”

  “Hart. Yeah.” Alex leans forward on the table, and Lydia catches the scent of his cologne. Flowers on a summer’s day. “God, what a bitch.”

  “No kidding,” Lydia agrees, allowing herself to slip into a more relaxed state. “She absolutely hated me. Used to pick on me all the time.”

  “Don’t take it personally. Hart hated everyone. You know she once made me sit by myself for a whole year?”

  “Yes, well,” says Lydia, a glint in her eye, “that was probably for the best.”

  “Hey!”

  “You know only one person in our year passed that class?” says Lydia, seriously.

  “Really? Who?”

  “Marty Lawrence.”

  “Marty…” Alex thinks for a moment. “Oh yeah, Marty. The little kid with the giant rucksack.”

  “That thing was bigger than he was,” says Lydia. “He looked like… what’s his name?”

  “Dick
van Dyke in…”

  “Mary Poppins,” they finish together, then collapse in fits of laughter.

  “Gosh, it’s so strange how things come flooding back,” says Lydia. “The names, the faces…”

  “The smells.”

  “Don’t remind me,” Lydia warns him. “Geez, what a hellhole that was.”

  Alex nods in agreement, and they both fill the brief lull in conversation by sipping their drinks.

  “So are you still in touch with anyone else from school?” Lydia asks, momentarily.

  Alex shakes his head. “I was glad to see the back of them, to be honest.” He catches her eye. “Except you, of course.”

  “Of course.”

  “So,” says Alex, his tone indicating a shift in the conversation, “I assume since you didn’t remember who I was, that you didn’t invite me here to chew over old times.”

  “Right,” says Lydia, sitting up straight and slipping her phone onto the table to begin recording the conversation.

  “Are we on the record?” asks Alex, eyeing it warily.

  “Oh no,” Lydia reassures him, “this is just for my own recollection.”

  “Okay… so?”

  “Jason Devere,” Lydia begins. Alex slumps back in his seat, all traces of laughter gone from his face in an instant.

  “I knew it,” he mutters.

  “I’m doing some research for my new book, and I found—”

  “What did you find?” Alex interrupts, irritably. Lydia looks wounded.

  “I found out that it was you who captured him,” she finishes, coolly. In truth, she is more annoyed by his undermining her attempt to flatter him than the interruption itself.

  “It wasn’t some kind of Agatha Christie thing, if that’s what you’re after.”

  “I’m just trying to find out the truth, Alex,” Lydia says, as humbly as she can manage.

  “The truth.” Alex leans back, one arm draped over the back of the booth, the other hand nursing his drink. “The truth is we hunted that evil bastard for months and never got close to catching him. I was feeling pressure from the bosses, and people were dying. I didn’t know what to do.”