Face of Evil

by George Morris De'Ath

  “You’ve lost me.” Lydia is frowning, but less out of frustration now. Her anger has ebbed. She’s genuinely curious.

  “Well,” Jason gazes at her, his eyes bright, “you know that Lucifer was a fallen angel, right?”

  “So the story goes.”

  “More than a story.” Jason smiles. “Why do you think we’ve clung on to these ideas for so long, even while technology puts them beyond credulity?”

  “Tell me.”

  “Because on some level, we understand that they’re about us.” He leans forward, his voice becoming more urgent. “They explain us. The Devil used to be an angel, and God is capable of terrible things. A bringer of death. These are the dual, interchangeable characters upon which we imprint our image of ourselves. The Devil, evil. And God, good. They’re one and the same. They are us.”

  Lydia stares at Jason Devere, as though seeing him clearly for the first time. How did this person do those things? How is he not the monster she expected him to be? How was she managing to see this humanity in a killer who had done such awful heartless things? What did it say about her?

  “What were you asking me about?” Jason leans back, the expression on his face one of satisfaction, but not triumph.

  “Alice Redmond,” Lydia replies, the name catching in her throat. She feels like she’s doing the poor girl a disservice with this whole conversation, but has no idea what to do about it.

  “Ah,” Jason’s head falls. “Yes. Alice.” He thinks for a moment, uncomfortably, then looks Lydia right in the eye as he suddenly shifted gears, now nonchalant, or at least trying to be. “I wanted to make something terrible out of something beautiful.”

  Crime scene photographs fresh in her mind, Lydia thinks this is maybe the most revolting thing she has ever heard. More disgusting than the detailed coroner’s reports, more disgusting even than the photographs she has seen. To hear that justification, calm, defiant, righteous even. It made her feel sick to her soul.

  “You think that’s art?” she asks, through gritted teeth.

  “Sure,” Jason replies somewhat unconvincingly now, the deep growl returning. “All art is a reflection of the artist. The girl inspired something in me, and I expressed it as best I could. Just as your work is an expression of who you are.”

  “No,” Lydia replies flatly, getting to her feet. She’s had enough. “They’re just books.” She turns and heads for the door.

  “Oh, Lydia.” Jason’s voice is almost melodic as it drifts after her. “Nothing is just anything…”

  Sixteen

  New Friend

  Lydia stalks through the dark, sinful corridors of Mortem Asylum that silently scream neglect and torment as though built from the living flesh of its inhabitants. Jason Devere’s voice twists and turns in her mind, folding over and over itself like a writhing ball of worms as she battles to make sense of the wolf’s riddles.

  A shout bursts through the cacophony, ringing around the ancient building, and Lydia’s eyes snap to the source of it; exactly the place that she is heading. Gretchen’s office. She slows as she reaches the half-open door, stepping lightly to muffle the click of her heels on the floor, and comes to a halt just outside, out of sight, ears pricked.

  “This is ridiculous,” a low voice trembles. Lydia recognises the fear and disbelief it carries. From her hidden vantage, she can just make out the stout silhouette of a man.

  “No,” says another voice. Gretchen, Lydia thinks immediately. “What’s ridiculous is that you’re the one who’s supposed to be running this institution!”

  “I thought you were a doctor!” the unseen man hisses.

  “I am a doctor!” Gretchen cries.

  “You’re not behaving very rationally,” says the low voice. “I might expect this hysteria from some of the other imbeciles, but I would think you of all people might see that I am doing my best to rescue this godforsaken place.”

  “Doing your best?!” Gretchen’s voice rises with incredulity. “Tell me one single thing you’ve done to help us?”

  Lydia waits, but the man does not reply. Deciding that it would be unwise to get caught eavesdropping, she steps casually forward and knocks on the door. “Hello?”

  “Who is it?” Gretchen snaps. Lydia moves inside the room. “Oh, Lydia,” says Gretchen, her whole body relaxing. “I’m sorry; I didn’t recognise your voice.”

  “That’s quite alright,” Lydia replies, eyeing up the mysterious stranger; a large, round man in a dark, pin-striped suit, polished black shoes and round, wiry spectacles perched upon a crooked nose. What little hair he has left atop his shiny head is grey and lifeless.

  “Oh,” says Gretchen, following Lydia’s eyes. “This is Winston… I mean Mr Shade, the warden.”

  “Nice to meet you,” says Lydia pleasantly, offering her hand. Winston Shade takes his time appraising Lydia with stern, hawk-like eyes before finally accepting it. His handshake is brief, and limp. Not a sign of weakness, but of disinterest. Of a man whose substantial body is infused with an unshakable sense of his own importance. His own superiority. A man who dominates people through sheer force of will. An alpha bully.

  “The famous Lydia Tune,” he replies, evidently unimpressed. “Yes, of course. I understand you’re interrogating one of our ingrates for some… book.” He spits the final word with such disdain Lydia feels she ought to take it as an insult.

  “That’s right,” she replies, pleasantly.

  “Well?” asks Shade, impatiently.

  “Well… what?” asks Lydia, politely confused.

  “How are you getting on with it?” asks Shade, raising his voice and enunciating his words bluntly as though dealing with a stupid person.

  “Um,” says Lydia, blindsided by the man’s shameless rudeness. “Slowly.”

  The warden rolls his eyes, glares at Gretchen, and makes for the door, brushing Lydia aside with his belly.

  “I couldn’t help but overhear,” says Lydia quickly. Shade stops dead in his tracks. “I understand that Mortem has something of a troubled reputation,” Lydia goes on, choosing her words carefully. “I would hate for my book to have to reinforce that.”

  Winston Shade turns his head towards her slowly, his face a mask of supreme indifference. “Miss Tune,” he replies, “I highly doubt that anybody whose opinion matters to me would so much as glance at one of your books.” Lydia’s eyebrows raise halfway up her forehead. “I will speak to you later,” Shade says to Gretchen before striding from the room, snapping the door shut behind him.

  “Charming fellow,” says Lydia, turning to Gretchen. The doctor blinks, then laughs.

  “You don’t know the half of it,” she says, removing her glasses to rub her tired eyes. “You caught him on one of his better days.”

  “Goodness,” says Lydia, glancing towards the door, wondering with modest alarm what Winston Shade might be like on one of his bad days.

  “How did your interview with Jason go?” Gretchen asks, replacing her glasses. “Sorry I couldn’t be there.”

  “It was…” Lydia considers the question, “good. Better than the first one anyway. I think we’re making progress.”

  “I think he likes you, you know.”

  “He talked to you about me?” Lydia asks, surprised.

  “Oh, yes. Nice trick with the fire alarm by the way. Where did you pick that up?”

  “I can’t even remember,” says Lydia with a smile. “I believe it’s a trick the police like to use when they’re interviewing suspects.”

  Gretchen nods approvingly. “I might pinch that one myself.” She reaches for a heavy green coat on the back of the door and pulls it on.

  “Off home?”

  “Yeah, have to relieve the sitter and I’m already…” she checks the time on her phone, “damn, he knew I was in a hurry and he still…” she sighs through clenched teeth. “I’d better call.” Gretchen lifts the phone to her ear with one hand and holds the office door open for Lydia with the other. “Hey Laurie, I’m sorry, I�
��m running a little bit late.” She closes the door behind the both of them and fishes a bunch of keys from her pocket with which to lock it. “I know, I know, I’m sorry. I’ll be there as soon as I can and I’ll pay you for an extra two hours, okay?” She sets off down the corridor so quickly that Lydia has to break into a trot to catch up. “Okay, see you soon. Sorry again.” She hangs up and stuffs the phone into her pocket as the two women enter the elevator and Gretchen pulls the heavy metal gate across with a loud rattle and a clang.

  “Everything okay?” Lydia asks, cautiously.

  “No.” Gretchen sighs, falling back against the wall as the metal box shudders and begins to sink slowly. “I mean yes, it’s just, this is the second time this week I’ve been late home. If I lose another babysitter…”

  “Surely she expects you to be a little late now and then?”

  “Ha!”

  “No?”

  “She’s a teenager. She thinks the whole world is conspiring to piss her off.” Gretchen looks over at Lydia. “Don’t you remember being a teenager?”

  “I try not to.”

  Gretchen smiles. “Yeah? Not me.” She stares down at the ground, her eyes distant. “Happiest time of my life.”

  Lydia instinctively finds this a bizarre notion, but then she thinks about the building they’re in and what it contains, looks at the doctor with her tired face and slumped shoulders, and tries to imagine living her life. Day in, day out, working a job she clearly resents in this hell-hole of a building to support children who probably don’t even appreciate it. She shudders involuntarily as the elevator creaks to a halt and Gretchen heaves open the gate.

  Once again Lydia finds herself left behind as Gretchen crosses the reception area and pulls open the great wooden door. The frozen talons of winter night sink themselves into Lydia’s flesh before she even steps outside.

  “Are you here tomorrow?” Gretchen asks as the gravel crunches loudly underneath their feet.

  “I don’t know yet. I should start writing or Donna will be on my back again.”

  “Donna?” Gretchen looks confused.

  “My agent.”

  “How glamorous.” Gretchen fishes her car keys from her pocket and makes for a little brown hatchback that has seen considerably better days. “Well, see you then maybe.”

  “See you.”

  Lydia hears Gretchen’s car door open and close as she heads for her Mustang, then the loud, hoarse wretch of an engine struggling to start. It chokes and splutters for a few seconds, falls silent, and then tries again with the same result. She looks around, then walks back towards the stricken vehicle as its increasingly frantic owner attempts to coax it into life for the third time.

  “Battery?” Lydia asks as a miserable Gretchen winds down her window.

  “No, it had a new one last year. God damn it.” She slams the steering wheel with her wrist and grimaces in pain.

  “Want a ride?”

  “Really?” The doctor looks so pathetically grateful that it makes Lydia laugh.

  “Sure. Come on.”

  Seventeen

  Girl Talk

  The floor of Gretchen’s living room is covered with toys, books, and the occasional garish, plastic dish or cup. Lydia stands by the door in her coat, trying to decide whether to pick her way through the wreckage to the couch or stay where she is. Out in the hall, she can hear Gretchen still apologising to the teenage babysitter.

  “Sorry again. I’ll see you tomorrow, right?” The response is mumbled, and a moment later the front door closes.

  “Everything okay?” Lydia calls over her shoulder.

  “Yes, thank god.” Gretchen appears beside her and starts picking up bits and pieces of clutter and throwing them into a large, rectangular fabric container to the side of the room. “I don’t know what I would have done if she’d said no. It’s not like I can just take a day off. We’re severely understaffed as it is.”

  “Is that what you were arguing with the warden about?” Gretchen’s head snaps around to look at her, and Lydia realises she may have overstepped her bounds. She always has trouble in social situations. If Gretchen were a subject she was interviewing, Lydia would instinctively know where the boundaries were, when she could push or break them and when to pull back. Not now. You’re in her home, she scolds herself. The rules are different. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “No, it’s okay.” Gretchen sets the small stack of books in her hands down on the coffee table. “It’s just a bit… you know.”

  “Yeah.” Lydia understands. To be overheard receiving a dressing-down from your boss is embarrassing. She had accidentally robbed Gretchen of her professional dignity, and now here she was intruding on the chaos of her private life too. “I’m sorry, I should go.”

  “No, please,” Gretchen looks at her earnestly, “at least stay for dinner. It’s the least I can do.”

  She doesn’t really want to, but the poor woman’s eyes are pleading and her voice sincere, and together they conspire to melt Lydia’s frozen heart just enough. “Alright. Sure.”

  “Great.” Gretchen beams. “I hope you like reheated lasagne.”

  *

  An hour, two plates of pretty decent lasagne and half a bottle of wine later, Gretchen pinches the stem of her glass between finger and thumb and swirls the deep red liquid within gently as she talks. “So then after he left, I didn’t really have much of a choice. Mortgage to pay and two kids to feed.”

  “You never thought about applying for a job somewhere else? Someplace a little less…”

  “Nightmarish?”

  “I was going to say depressing, but…”

  “Please, I work there. I know what it’s like.” Gretchen takes another sip of wine. “I mean I do my best to keep both parts of my life separate, you know? Like, work Gretchen and home Gretchen. Doctor and mom. But the human brain doesn’t work that way. You can’t voluntarily compartmentalise stuff.”

  “It must be hard.” Lydia sips from a glass of water and resists the urge to check her phone for messages from Alex.

  “You know what the worst part is?” Gretchen sits back and looks her right in the eye. “I’m terrified that I’m going to bring some of that evil, some of the wickedness that infects that place home with me, and pass it on to them.” She nods towards the ceiling.

  “How would you even do that?”

  “I don’t know.” Gretchen shakes her head. “It sounds crazy, doesn’t it? But I swear, some days I feel like I’m carrying something around with me. Clinging to me. Something dark.”

  “If you like, I could put a good word in for you at this private hospital in New York? I’m sure with your experience they could find a place for you.”

  “Really?” Gretchen’s whole face lights up, and Lydia catches a glimpse of how beautiful she must have been before life extracted its terrible toll.

  “Sure, I’ll call them tomorrow.”

  Gretchen’s eyes drift lazily off to one side and slip out of focus, and Lydia knows why. She’s imagining another life. A better life. A parallel universe where she’s happy again. Then her smile disappears, and her face falls. “No,” she says quietly. “It wouldn’t work.”

  “Why not?”

  “I’m already underwater on this house, bills, a pile of credit card debt. I’d have to pull together the deposit for a new place, and in New York? I mean…” She waves a hand helplessly.

  “New York’s more than the Upper East Side and Carnegie Hill, you know. I’m sure we could find you someplace.”

  “We?” Gretchen grins at her. “What, are you my realtor now?”

  “I’m just saying—”

  “Thanks,” Gretchen stops her. “I appreciate it, I do. But it’s…” a strange look overtakes her face, a haunted look that Lydia has seen somewhere before. “It’s not a good time.”

  Lydia hesitates. “Something else going on at Mortem I should know about?”

  “The less you know about that place the better,” Gretchen re
plied firmly. “Trust me, if you have any sense, you’ll chalk this whole trip down to experience and go write your book about something else.”

  “That’s what he said,” Lydia mutters, rolling her eyes. “Everyone knows what’s best for me except me, I guess.”

  “Who?”

  “Huh?”

  “You said that’s what he said. Who is he?”

  “Oh,” Lydia’s hand moves instinctively towards her chest, fidgeting when she thinks of Alex, but she checks herself. “Just this detective I spoke to about Jason’s—”

  “Horrendous trail of gore and misery?”

  “Case.”

  “Right.” Gretchen’s green eyes twinkle. “Tall fella? Brown eyes?”

  “Yeah…” Lydia frowns. “How did you know?”

  “I remember him visiting Jason a lot when he first arrived. Alex, right?”

  “That’s him.”

  “He’s cute.”

  Lydia fixes Gretchen with a look, but she can’t help cracking a smile and Gretchen grins back. “Actually we went to school together, back in Philly.”

  “Small world.”

  “Yeah.” Lydia’s phone rings, and her hand shoots to her bag to fetch it out. “Speak of the devil,” she says, seeing Alex’s name on the screen. “Do you mind?” Gretchen waves an open hand, still grinning like a schoolgirl, and Lydia is torn between amusement and mild irritation as she lifts the phone to her ear. “Hey, we were just talking abo—”

  “Lydia,” Alex interrupts her, his voice strained and distant. Is that the line, or is that him? “Something’s happened.”

  Lydia’s expression tightens, her voice suddenly sharp. “What? What’s wrong? Are you okay?”

  “I’m fine, but you need to see… you need to come…”

  “You’re breaking up.” Lydia stands up, frowning. “Where am I supposed to come?”

  “The museum.”

  “The museum... where we were today?” She sounds surprised. What the hell is going on?

  “Yes. Come to the front entrance. Tell them I asked for you.”