Mask of Flies (30 page)

“I’ll live,”
Detective Lewis said.

“Listen Tony,”
Douglas looked at the ground, apparently off put by Tony’s episode.
“I think we have seen enough. We’d like to do a walk around of
the entire facility, see if there is anything out of place, maybe
talk to a few more people. You okay with this?”

Tony nodded with his
back still balanced against the wall.

“Thanks. Go home and
get some sleep—you’ll feel much better.”

The two detectives walked back
towards the foyer, and the opportunity never presented itself to tell
them about Marsha, transformed and horrible, in the kitchen last
night. Now this seemed out of the question because they thought Tony
was acting out of delirium.

Tony made his way
back to his office in a fog; the clock read past noon; the past two
days have been a strain of consecutively awful hours. A part of him
thought that maybe he was delirious—he truly was beyond
exhausted—and hearing something that wasn’t there, considering
the circumstances, was not an impossibility. But Marco claimed to
hear the same thing. Tony finally chose to abandon the process of
thinking about this. He needed a hot shower and some sleep; he needed
to get away from the place for a while.

Jim wasn’t inside his
office, so Tony left a sticky note on his computer screen: “Taking
the rest of the day off. Call me if you need anything.” As he
compressed the adhesive to the computer screen, Kaja entered the
doorway.

“What you do in
here?” She paused for a second, looking Tony up and down. “You
look like a shit.”

“No kiddin’, I’m
leaving a note for Jim. I’m taking the rest of the day off. I was
here all night and been showing the detectives around for most of the
morning.” Tony was not in the mood to deal with Kaja. Her snide
comment, the tone of her voice, and her overall miserable energy
culminated into a cocktail of glibness much too potent for Tony to
stomach at this point.

Kaja’s expression was
one of dread. “Nobody ask you to stay overnight. I cannot run whole
place by myself with all craziness. My hands full with these
temps—they are mostly incompetent.”

“This whole thing is
scary,” Tony said. “I’m scared, you’re scared, we’re all
scared. Nobody is asking you to take on this problem yourself. I’m
going home for some much needed rest. I’m hearing shit, seeing
shit, I’m completely worthless and delirious at this point. You
would be doing me a real fuckin’ solid if you shut your trap and
did your job.”

Her tight lipped frown
changed into a loose O of disbelief. She didn’t say a word and
walked out the door.

Tony grabbed his
overnight gear and his coat from his office and headed out the door.
Driving towards his apartment, the 290 was clear and freshly salted.
Around his neighborhood, the snow was piled so high on the side of
the roads that it completely hid most of the single story structures.

Walking into his apartment, his cat,
Maddy, rubbed against his leg and began to purr. She had cleared out
both food and water from her bowls, so he refilled them. He ripped
his soiled clothes off and just tossed them onto the ground. In his
bed and was asleep in a matter of minutes. He awoke himself a few
times, in the twitchy sleep normally reserved for insomniacs and meth
heads, the kind where the nerve synapses have a hard time shutting
down completely, causing arms to flail and legs to kick on their own
accord. But deep sleep eventually took him.

His hands felt the
grain of the unfinished wood table, across sat Rick. Around them
crowded tables seated with faceless figures, covered platters sat as
centerpieces. Bricks arched up the domed ceiling; vast cabinetry
clung to the great wall behind him, completely full with various
colored bottles. It wasn’t wine, judging by the odd colors and
illuminations that flickered from the glass; something lighter. Tony
faced an outer wall, constructed out of glass, which served as a
great window, providing a view of infinite waters. The blood sun sunk
into the earth.

Rick wore a powder blue
tuxedo with a frilly cravat, perhaps on his way to a wedding in
Vegas. His light hair transmuted black, slicked it clung to his
skull, looking like a leach rested on his head. Something was wrong
with his mouth—black string threaded through his lips in a rough
crisscross.

A mustachioed waiter,
with pale and deep set eyes, came from around the corner balancing a
platter, and then set it down on the table. “
Bon
appetit mon Cherie
” he said.

Rick upraised the cover; inside it
was the Jane’s head, sitting on a bed of lettuce, fancily garnished
with radishes carved like roses. The head’s eye opened and began
singing in Rick’s voice.

There’s
a hole in my bucket, dear Lias, dear Lias
There’s a hole in my
bucket, Elias my dear

Nobody picked up the
second part, and the head repeated, droning the same two lines.

Outside the windowed wall, the sky
darkened with heavy cloud cover, wind whistled and howled. The ground
shook. Dinner wear rattled on the tables. A woman seated next to the
window screamed. Looking outward, Tony saw a tidal wave pull down the
horizon. He lunged from his chair and maneuvered as quickly as
possible through the tightly arranged tables and panicked diners. He
made it halfway towards the wall of bottles when he heard the glass
crack and shatter. Not the sea water, but tar filled the room. It
swallowed everything.

He awoke, drenched in
sweat, to the sound of his cell phone vibrating on the nightstand; it
fell to the floor and continued to spasm. The sinking dread, that
peculiar despair, a specific byproduct of night terrors returned
after so long. As a boy, Tony often had dreamt of being trapped in a
falling elevator. A man in a dark overcoat manned the floor buttons;
he said they would travel through the center of the earth, emerging
unborn
. He had always
woke up before meeting the center. And Tony often wondered what would
happen if he hadn’t.

Lumbering, half asleep,
he pulled himself out of bed—the cold made him want to stay in,
tucked underneath the covers until spring came around. His phone
illuminated, showing a missed call from Mr. Haynes. It was 6 p.m.,
Tony had only rested a few hours, but he wouldn’t be able to return
sleep until he knew what Jim wanted. He returned the call, not really
having a choice.

Jim grumbled after a
few rings.

“Just returning your
call,” Tony said groggily, his voice rusted from sleep.

“What the hell is
going on with you, boy? You walk out of here without talking to me,
not to mention spouting off to Kaja—leaving me to deal with her.”

“I’m sorry.I may
have gone a little too far with Kaja.”

“The detectives said
you were acting erratic when you took them around. Said you claimed
to have heard Soblinski’s voice inside Ms. Kingbird’s room. This
true?

Tony didn’t know how
he was going to explain himself to Jim, finding the words in his
current state seemed like an impossibility. “I heard something, and
it sounded like Rick’s voice. Marco had told me that he heard the
same thing; he thought she was mimicking Rick’s voice somehow.”

“The detective lady
said she was standing right next to you and heard nothing.” Jim
sighed and then grumbled something incomprehensible into the phone.
Tony pictured him running his fingers through his mustache. “I
don’t know what to do with you, this place is going crazy, but that
doesn’t give you license to do so. I’ll chalk this up to the
stress. Take some vacation time and get your shit together . . . Oh
yeah, do us all a favor and don’t say anything else to the cops.”
Jim Haynes hung up on him.

“Yes sir.” Tony
said to the dial tone. He had other plans for his eight hours of paid
time off he earned each month but was happy to escape the facility
for the time being. Through the doors of Oak Leaf lurked a living
nightmare. He tried to cast it from his mind for now, but the image
of Marsha’s pulled frame pervaded.

Where
is Thumbkin?
The homeless man, Abe, thought up such
nonsense; his presence rattled around and emerged from nowhere, like
wreckage of a ship drifting to the shore. Pushing his meddlesome
voice out and away was tiresome work for Russell.

If
he was up your ass blowing bubbles, you would know it.

Thumbkin—Rick’s
address was listed in the White Pages, simple enough; one thought
that originated from his host that wasn’t quite idiotic. Russell,
inside Abe, walked and walked, into the village of Williamsville, all
while hoping Rick hadn’t died in the crash on the Rainbow Bridge.
But before finding Rick, he had to bear with his diseased vessel
first: The host’s meager frame needed food and warmer clothes—the
tattered rags wouldn’t do in the increasingly frozen weather.
Tapping the puddle knowledge within Abe, Russell found another usable
idea: dumpster diving.

The dumpster behind a
large grocer—Wegman’s on Sheridan Drive—was ripe for the
picking, plenty of slightly spoiled items to gorge on. There was a
whole birthday cake that read
Happy
Berthday Sam!
, close enough for Russell. He gorged on the
cake and when he grew tired of the frosting, he rooted around the
trash some more and found a half of a rotisserie chicken. The “sell
by date” on the plastic container passed a week ago.
Fuck
it, down the hatch
. As Russell put fuel into his vehicle
with similar indifference as a truck driver putting diesel into his
big rig, he was interrupted by a young man in a bright orange coat
that held a huge black bag of trash.

“Y-you can’t be
back here, sir,” the boy said, part nervous, part disgusted.

“Go hug a root kid.”

The boy dropped the big
bag of trash and stepped closer; it became apparent that he was
better classified as a young man. He was a little over six feet tall
and solidly built. In his withered vehicle Russell knew he didn’t
have a chance against the varsity trash hauler. Best to quit while
ahead.

“All right, all
right, I’m leavin’.” Russell took a final, greedy bite of the
spoiled chicken and headed in the direction of the apartment complex
that lay behind the grocer. From the pathway he saw two dumpsters
brimming with trash in the far end of the parking lot. Inside the
first, Russell dug around for an hour, finding nothing but
foul-smelling, household perishables. He scraped his hand bloody on a
sharp piece of wood, a broken drawer of a dresser.

Dumpster number two was
more fruitful and provided exactly what he was looking for. After
sorting through more household trash, towards the middle of the pile
he found a military issue duffle bag full of old clothes. At first it
looked like a bust, the top garments were for a very small woman, but
towards the bottom there were men’s clothes. He found a pair of
thermal underwear, a white button up shirt, some worn slacks, a wool
coat, some gloves, and several pairs of work boots. The pants were
much too big in the waist, so he took the laces off a worn boot and
tied it through the belt buckle.

Climbing out of the
dumpster, in a more winter friendly ensemble, Russell noticed a man
watching him from the front of the parking lot. When he saw that
Russell spotted him, the man moved on in the opposite direction. In
retreat the watcher’s hair fell down his back in a long, matted
clump, like a beaver tail. He pushed a shopping cart full of beer
bottles and old aluminum cans and wore a heavy trench coat. Probably
encroaching on this vagrant’s territory, Russell thought it would
be best if he got the hell out of there.

HoHo,’
nother wisecracker from North Cakalacky.

Russell didn’t think so; all he
knew was that he needed to get some closure on Rick and his
investment. Opening the passage from inside was possible under the
supervision of Morrow; his current body lacked all the necessary
resources, on so many levels. If the first seed was successfully
planted, then he would only have three to complete the cycle. Then,
perhaps, he could regain the favor of Morrow and the others. If it
turned out that Rick survived the crash, then he would reassume
possession and continue his work. If it turned out that Rick was
compromised, then he would have to dial Morrow’s again, leave a
message and wait. Hopefully he had found a new rotting corpse to
stumble around in.

Rick and the first
seed’s address was 29 Forrest Lane. Russell stole a map from the
busiest gas station he could find. The clerk had his back turned to
retrieve a customer some Parliaments when he stuffed it in his coat.
After making it out the door and into the night, he unfolded it,
finding the street was only a few blocks east.

The small neighborhood
terminated in a cul-de-sac. It all looked majestic underneath the
coating of snow. Russell almost missed being alive as he walked
around and surveyed his approach. A forest-green colored house,
cattycornered from Rick’s, had a for sale sign in the yard. No cars
in the driveway; through the window there was no furniture: this
property was vacant.

Poppa
lock, Poppa squat . . .

Right. Russell could
comfortably escape the elements and keep eyes across the street. The
front door was locked but had a heavy lockbox on it that most likely
held the key—he went around back and tried the glass sliding door;
a wooden broom handle barred the lower track. Just as he was about to
give up, he heard a car pull up from the front and then the
conversation of three people. Russell high-tailed it out of there,
around the side of the house as they entered.

The ground sloshed
under Abe’s feet, approaching the bus stop. The sky gave way to
complete darkness as he sat on the bench, hoping to rest his fatigued
flesh for a while. One had gotten away already during sleep, a
process that seemed to drown Russell all the same. Eyes drifted, but
the mind knew it had to stay on guard.