Christopher's Blade

by Ron Ripley

  For the first time since the fight, the child smiled. He reached up, grasped Marcus’ hand and said, “You’ll be careful, though?”

  “Of course, I will,” Marcus said. “I promise.”

  Alex squeezed his hand once, then let go. He looked at Timmy and asked, “Do you want to play checkers?”

  “I don’t know,” Timmy replied with a wink. “Do you want to lose?”

  Smiling, Marcus walked to the kitchen as they set up the checkerboard. He dressed as quickly as his injuries would allow him. When he finished, he tucked a piece of iron into his pocket and put on a new pair of gloves with iron stitched roughly to the backs. His shoulder injury pained him, but not enough to stop him from leaving the house.

  Snow fell heavily in front of him, cutting his field of vision down to a dozen or so feet. As he walked around the edge of the house, passing through the narrow alley formed by the nearest neighbor, the snow slackened. Ahead of him, Marcus saw the cobblestone street, the dull glow of gas lamps bitterly fighting against the storm.

  He limped forward, pausing at the mouth of the alley and peering out to either side.

  As if I expect some horse-drawn hack to barrel along, Marcus thought wryly. Across the street were the faint forms of the other houses. Specifically, the cape inhabited by Christopher.

  Is this a wise course of action? Marcus asked himself. Should I attempt to speak with this ghost?

  Yes, he thought, answering his question. He does not seem interested in killing us. Not when there are others who occupy his attention. I need to know why. Perhaps there will be a way to negotiate with him. If not, then I will at least learn something of him. Some extra way to attack the dead man and rid us of him.

  Bracing himself for the interview, Marcus crossed the street.

  ***

  Abel clutched the edge of his desk to keep his hands from trembling. Yet as he did so, his arms quivered, and his body shook. His mind raced, threatening to run away from him. Images of the first sanitariums he had worked in leaped into his thoughts.

  Squalid, foul conditions. Men and women thrust into rooms together. Hardly any of them with enough clothing. The blind forced to live with the insane. Sufferers from congenital mental defects prey to the depredations of other inmates and the staff alike.

  Am I going mad? Is that what I am experiencing? The thought was brutally chilling. His shaking stopped as he drew a shuddering breath.

  “Explain to me again, David, what has happened here,” Abel said softly.

  “You sent out the order for the destruction of Timmy’s belongings as well as the incineration of the medium’s corpse, sir,” David said.

  Abel licked his lips and shook his head. “I would not have done such a thing. No. I disbelieve it.”

  “Sir,” David began.

  “No!” Abel screamed. Then, clearing his throat, he said, “David, I would not have destroyed Meredith’s body. Buried it, perhaps. But I would not have set it aflame or ordered it to be done.”

  A knock on the door interrupted them, and the Nurse walked in.

  “You called for me?” she asked.

  “I did,” Abel replied. “What occurred yesterday?”

  “When?” she asked.

  “After you saw me,” he said, struggling to keep his voice even. “What happened?”

  “You called Jose and the removal team in,” Nurse Schomp replied. “You were extremely irate about it, too. I can’t remember ever seeing you in such a mood.”

  Abel blinked. “What?”

  “Your mood,” she said archly. “It was foul.”

  “No,” Abel said. “Not my mood! Are you saying I called in the removal team?”

  She nodded. “I didn’t think I was difficult to understand. Yes. You did. You specifically told them to destroy Timmy’s belongings. They were to take extra care and to be certain everything of his was destroyed. His locker, equipment. Everything.”

  “What about Meredith?” Abel demanded.

  “The medium?” Nurse Schomp asked. When Abel nodded, she added, “Yes. You wanted her body cremated as well. You were afraid of her becoming noxious. I told you we could keep her on ice for a few more days, but you were adamant. Your exact words, if I remember, were, ‘Sooner rather than later. I do not wish for her spirit to linger if, in fact, it is.’”

  Abel slumped in his chair. He looked down at his hands, wrung them for a minute before he said, “Thank you. Thank you both. I shall want to speak with you again. Perhaps, later on, this evening, but most likely it will be in the morning. I will need a report on Jane and her attempt to acquire the escaped subject.”

  David and Nurse Schomp exited, leaving Worthe in silence.

  Sobbing, he sank down in his chair and wept for his loss.

  Chapter 28: Coffee Time

  Marcus didn’t bother propping the door open when he entered Christopher’s house. He sat down on the floor and waited.

  It took only a few minutes for Christopher to appear. The dead man held his bayonet and smiled at Marcus. “You shouldn’t be here.”

  “I know,” Marcus agreed. “I would like to speak with you.”

  The dead man squatted down, stabbing the tip of the bayonet into the floor. “Why?”

  “I want to know more about you,” Marcus said truthfully. “We are to be neighbors, after all.”

  “If I don’t kill you,” Christopher added.

  Marcus chuckled. “True. Very true. If you can keep from killing me, then we shall be neighbors.”

  Christopher nodded, smiling. “You accept death.”

  “I have very little choice in the end,” Marcus replied. “I will either be dead, or I will not be dead. For now, what more is there?”

  Christopher worked the bayonet out of the floor and pointed it nonchalantly at Marcus. “Were you a soldier?”

  “I was,” Marcus said.

  “Did you fight?” the dead man asked.

  Marcus smiled tightly. “I did.”

  “I can tell,” Christopher said in a soft voice. “I can always tell. There is something about us. Isn’t there?”

  “Yes,” Marcus agreed. “It is a different way of seeing the world.”

  “Alive or dead,” Christopher said, nodding with gusto. “We know how the world truly is.”

  “Is that why you carry the bayonet?” Marcus asked.

  Christopher grinned. “Yes and no. I carry the bayonet because I learned to use one in the Army. But I didn’t kill with one until after the war was finished. There is an undeniable pleasure in thrusting cold steel into a woman. Twisting and turning the blade. Pulling it out. The teeth are beautiful, are they not?”

  The dead man held the weapon up and a faint bit of light from one of the gas lamps outside reflected in the steel.

  “So beautiful,” Christopher whispered. A rapturous expression settled on his face. “The first woman I killed was a librarian. She was entering her apartment. I had tracked her for days. From the library to her home. A little bit at a time. She walked the same way, without any deviation. You should have seen her expression when the steel slid into her stomach.”

  Christopher sighed happily. Marcus fought back the bile rising in his throat.

  “She tried to bite through my palm,” Christopher continued. “I pressed it against her mouth to keep her silent. I needn’t have worried. None of her neighbors cared. She lived in a terrible part of town. Her salary was hardly enough to keep bread on the table. Anyway, she died relatively quickly. I was still learning, you see.”

  “How many did you kill?” Marcus’s voice was far calmer than he felt. Rage seethed within him. He hated the dead man, yet as Christopher continued to speak, the hate was tempered with pity.

  “I don’t remember,” Christopher said gently. “Terrible, isn’t it? I have flashes of recollection at times. But only those. I remember my last kill, when I was still alive. She was the worst.”

  “Why?” Marcus asked.

  “Why?” Christopher repeated. Anger
filled his voice. “Why! Because she suffered the most! My sister suffered the most!”

  With a howl, the dead man stood up and threw himself across the room at Marcus.

  Despite the comfort of the iron in his gloves, Marcus struggled against the first impulse of fear as it swarmed over him. He twisted as far as he could out of the path of the dead man, thrusting his uninjured right arm out and passing his gloved hand through Christopher.

  The iron instantly disrupted the ghost, causing the dead man to vanish. Marcus knew it was only a slight reprieve and he struggled to gain his footing as Christopher manifested a short distance away. It was then Marcus saw the bayonet was on the floor between them. While there was a sense of hatred pulsating from the dead man, Marcus knew the bayonet would not be involved.

  I’m a soldier, Marcus realized with sudden clarity. And I do not hide my face from him. Not like Worthe’s guards. He won’t use it on me. It’s a sign of respect.

  He nearly laughed, but he had to choke back the sound as Christopher moved forward.

  “I gutted her,” the dead man hissed. “Do you understand me? I didn’t just stab and twist and pull. No. Of course not. I did it right. I cut her belly open and took out everything hidden away. As she lay dying, I flayed the skin from her spine. I couldn’t stop myself. It was there, and it needed doing.”

  Christopher stopped and stared at Marcus.

  “Do you understand me?” the dead man demanded. “Can you? There are some things which need to be done. Killing is one of them.”

  “Why your sister?” Marcus asked, taking a limping step towards the front door.

  The question jarred Christopher, causing him to turn his head away as he answered, “I don’t know. Because she was a woman? Could it be so simple? Was it because she was there and no one else was? I don’t know. But I remember her dying. You’ve seen a bad death before?”

  “More than my share,” Marcus said grimly.

  Christopher nodded. “So many ways for a soldier to die.”

  The dead man sank down to the floor and sat beside the bayonet. He stared at it, and without lifting up his head, Christopher said, “Go. For my sister’s sake, go. When we meet again, I will show you the meaning of pain.”

  Marcus turned his back to the dead man and fled the house.

  Chapter 29: A Right and Ancient Ritual

  In his private study, Abel sat on the floor. He added mineral water to a thick paste in an off-white mortar and pestle, carefully grinding the paste into a thin gruel. His lips were pursed as he whistled a nameless tune, and he paused to add water again.

  The door to his study opened, forcing Abel to look up. David and Nurse Schomp entered the room. Their faces were emotionless.

  “Ah,” Abel said cheerfully. “I was hoping to speak with both of you. Nurse, I would like you to begin preparing a number of stimulants for me. Over the next week, I am going to make life difficult for Timmy. I don’t want to miss anything. David, please, open up contract negotiations with Alfor Security Options.”

  “The Balkan firm, sir?” David asked politely.

  “Yes, exactly,” Abel said. He dipped a finger into the gruel, lifted it up and tasted the concoction. Abel winced slightly, picked up a pinch of salt and dropped it in before adding another splash of water. “Now, make sure we get enough for three full shifts, with extras. Also, I want you to acquire enough tents for them until such time as we can build permanent barracks.

  “Yes, sir,” David said, nodding. “Sir, I have a question regarding Christopher.”

  “Go ahead,” Abel replied.

  “Could we confine him, sir?” David asked. “His ability to overcome the fence is difficult to counteract.”

  “No,” Abel said, shaking his head.

  “Sir,” David began.

  “That is the end of it, David,” Abel said sternly. “I need him to roam freely. Any sort of inhibition may negatively affect subsequent interactions between him and Subject B. I will not permit it. No, make certain the patrols are increased in size. Also, rewrite the standard operating procedures for the patrols. No contact with Christopher. Well, you know how to write them. I won’t pretend to tell you your business. Once you’ve finished with it, I want you to look into a house in Connecticut I would like purchased and brought here. You will find all the details in a dossier I’ve had prepared for you.”

  David nodded and exited the room quickly, leaving only the Nurse and Abel.

  “You’re not feeling well,” she said after several minutes of silence.

  “Quite the contrary, Nurse,” Abel said, chuckling. “I feel magnificent. Truly, truly magnificent. I am focused. I am driven. The veil has been drawn aside, and I can clearly see my own future.”

  A ghost of a smile flitted across the Nurse’s face.

  “Ah,” he said with a wink. “I’ll not tell you.”

  He sampled the gruel again, nodded, and poured it into a tall glass standing beside him on the floor. Carefully, Abel wiped the lip of the glass clean.

  “To our continued good health,” Abel said happily. He lifted the glass to his lips and drank the mixture down quickly. Abel coughed and spluttered, almost dropping the glass to the floor.

  “Are you all right?” Nurse Schomp asked.

  “Quite,” Abel said hoarsely. “It didn’t go down as smoothly as I hoped it would. Then again, what can one expect?”

  “What was it?” the nurse asked, eyeing the glass warily. Thick sediment remained at the bottom of the glass and clung to the sides and lip.

  “An old and ancient recipe,” Abel said.

  “What were the ingredients?” She peered at him shrewdly, as if she suspected him of some hideous act.

  “Now, now,” Abel said, smiling. “Nothing sinister, I assure you. The ingredients were all on hand. A bit of this and a bit of that from the kitchen. The primary ingredients were a little more difficult to get a hold of. But since the pyre wasn’t cleaned yet, they were at least accessible.”

  “What were they?” The nurse’s tone was cold.

  “Meredith’s ashes,” Abel said. “I need her close to me. Ingestion is an excellent way, don’t you agree? Now, she’ll always be a part of me. My body will absorb her nutrients, and we will be joined together until I too shed this mortal coil.”

  Abel got to his feet, picked up his glass, and ignored the expression of dull horror on the nurse’s face.

  ***

  Joyce sat in the tent with the corpse and ate quietly. Snow still fell heavily, leading her to wonder how many inches might eventually accumulate.

  Doesn’t really matter, she told herself, washing down a bite with some water from the dead woman’s canteen. I have my snowshoes. What does matter, though, is making sure they don’t send someone else after me.

  In the soft light of a battery-powered lantern, Joyce examined the various electronics she had found. A pair of cell phones rested on the dead woman’s chest. On the tent floor was an iPad protected by a heavy case. Joyce suspected each had its GPS locators on, which meant she would be foolish to bring any of the devices with her.

  No, she thought, the only real question right now is deciding whether or not I leave the batteries in.

  Without the batteries, and with the items broken, Worthe and his hunters would be forced to locate the last successful point of transmission. Joyce wanted to know where it had occurred, but all the electronics were passcode protected.

  I’m certainly no hacker, Joyce thought. She picked up one of the phones and turned it over in her hands. If I don’t yank the battery and pull it, they’ll be able to find her body. Then they’ll send more people after me.

  “Won’t they?” Joyce asked, pushing the dead woman. The flesh was unyielding. Rigor mortis had begun to set in. “Yeah. They will. I’ve been pretty lucky, what with you and the others being stupid. I don’t think the next group will be.”

  Joyce pulled a protein bar out of the dead woman’s bag, tore the packaging open and took a bite. She winced at t
he bitter, faux chocolate taste, but forced herself to eat it.

  Decisions, decisions, she mused.

  When she finished the bar, Joyce dropped the wrapper onto the corpse, her decision made. She picked up the phones, opened the cases and removed the batteries. The SIM cards followed each breaking easily between her fingers. Taking care of the iPad required a little more effort. By the time she was finished, two of her fingers were bleeding, and she had used every expletive she could think of.

  In the end, all three devices were disabled. She added the dead woman’s food to her own supply. The weapons, she left behind. As she exited the tent into the heavy snowfall, she collapsed the shelter. The weight of the snow pushed it swiftly to the ground, and in moments nothing remained except a vague shape.

  A good wind might reveal the tent, Joyce thought. Or, if they bring a cadaver dog out, they might find the body.

  Joyce pulled her scarf up over the bottom half of her face, tugged the hood of the parka down lower, and moved away from the tent. The sky was beginning to lighten. For the first time in days, Joyce’s leg didn’t bother her terribly. It would later, she knew, but for the moment, she moved across the snow easily. Her snowshoes were snug upon her feet, the air smelled of snow and pines.

  Smiling, Joyce sought salvation.

  Chapter 30: How to Win Friends

  The storm was over. Alex stood outside with Elaine and Philip. With the dead around him, Alex felt curiously strong. He smiled at Elaine, who happily returned the expression.

  “My men do not wish to do this,” Philip said, the dead man’s voice filled with frustration.

  “Why?” Alex asked, surprised. “I thought they liked to fight.”

  Philip grunted. “They do. They like it more when they know they will win.”

  Alex laughed, and the Huron chief looked at him askance.

  “Why the laughter, young one?” Philip asked.

  “We all want to win,” Alex said, grinning. “Who wants to lose?”