Mask of Flies (9 page)

Whether Russell
controlled the woman, or she was simply suicidal, Rick planned to
leverage the element of surprise to his advantage and intervene. He
moved amongst the trees until he was behind the cloaked woman, her
cloak a bloody sheet.

It’s
now or never
.

He inflated the bag
with a breath and crept towards the walkway, where she stood. Again
the whine of wheelchair was heard, louder and closer. A sudden flash
of metal ruckus slammed into Rick, taking his legs out from
underneath him. He tasted blood in his mouth and heard a familiar
voice over him.

“What’s gotcha
down, big fella?” Russell chortled. Not the polite auditor seen at
Oak Leaf, but the legless wretch from Rick’s nightmare. With the
façade of his gentlemanly disguise exposed, he was unabashed baring
his true colors. “Did you think you could run away from me,
asshole, and leave me with the mess to clean up?” Russell backed up
and rammed Rick with the thick tire of the wheelchair.

It caught Rick in the
rib. “Fuck you!” Rick struggled to move. The side his face and
hands where scraped bloody, and his knee rang out in pain. Looking up
at Russell, he saw nothing but the uncanny resemblance to the
auditor.

Russell leapt from his
chair onto Rick, and bared his pointed black teeth.

Struggling to avoid
being bitten, Rick clutched the plastic bag underneath Russell’s
neck. He pulled the plastic bag over his attacker’s head and
wrapped it, airtight.

Russell thrashed,
breathing laboriously. His fists flailed down upon Rick, and pulled
at the bag, but he couldn’t get Rick to loosen his grip.

Rick rocked forward
with his hips and fell back with momentum, crushing Russell’s head
into the concrete, again and again. Black ichor oozed out from the
bottom of the bag onto Rick’s hands, and the shortened body on top
of him wilted.

He shrugged off
Russell’s body and stood; he saw the cloaked woman perched on the
guardrail. A sudden gust lifted the bloody sheet, exposing pale,
naked skin beneath. She looked up and brought down her makeshift
hood; her face swollen and bloodied.

Before Rick could say a
word, the battered woman released a rancorous laugh, and red dots
emerged from her mouth and ears, and accumulated into a buzzing
swarm. A feculent smell emitted from the woman’s body before it
went limp and fell backwards into the river, slipping underneath The
Trapdoor, certain to be invisibly pushed over the falls. The red
swarm slowly dissipated.

He turned around in
disbelief.
Her skin, her
wounds—she was already dead.
Tears welled up in his eyes
when he realized that his memory of killing the woman was true. He
needed to run, to disappear, once again killer and now madman.

There wasn’t any sign of Russell
or his wheelchair. No denying that he could be lurking near, nursing
his wounds waiting for the proper opportunity to take a chunk out of
Rick with those diseased, pointed teeth.

Vehicles emerged on
the main drag, and a few people began to traverse the parks path.
Rick walked quickly back towards his car. He wanted to get away from
where the dead woman fell. Doubtful anyone saw, he simply wanted to
erase the moment from his memory.

Exhausted with
injuries, Rick felt every step back to his car. If Russell where to
sneak up on him again, he was unsure that he would have the strength
to fend him off. He didn’t know what Russell was, or if the blow to
the head even fazed him. But he was thankful to be free of his
presence, even if only temporarily.

Rick got into the
parking garage and into his car without any unwanted surprises. He
drove out to begin the trek home, first over the Rainbow Bridge. The
morning light cut through the fingers of clouds, and stung Rick’s
eyes. He drove up a steep hill, populated with the spook houses and
Cuban cigar shops. Before a felon, he’d smuggle a box across the
border, but he didn’t have time for nonsense. Coming up with an
excuse to explain his scraped up face to customs took top priority.

Stopped before the
bridge, the street grew to life, as the citizens of Ontario began
their commute to work. He heard the deep rumble of a large motorcycle
behind him, perhaps an old Indian or Harley. The light turned green,
and most of the traffic proceeded on the main drag, but the cruiser
followed onto the bridge. In his side mirror, an old army issue BMW
motorcycle, with an attached sidecar approached on the right. The
rider dressed fully in WWII army garb, and, in the sidecar, a child
pretended to drive with a fake steering wheel.

That
looks like something out of the museum on the hill,
Rick
took a second look over his shoulder. The bike and sidecar pulled
beside him. The rider in the army issue wasn’t a man at all, but a
life-size wax figurine with a life-size appendage dangling from its
zipper. And the passenger in the sidecar was not a child.

“I can’t get away
from him,” Rick slammed his palm into the steering wheel. He sped
up in an attempt to avoid Russell and his wax companion.

But Russell had no
difficulty catching up. He kept the bike next to the Camry and held
up an old steel shell helmet. He flung it through Rick’s passenger
window, shattering glass. “Sergeant Foreskin sends his apologies,”
Russell yelled over the roar of the engine, which appeared to be
coming from his sidecar. He saluted to Rick and grinned with black,
serrated teeth

The old bike and
sidecar swung away from the Camry; Rick hoped Russell lost control,
but then the wretch cut into him, ramming him with the bike. The
collision snatched Sergeant Foreskin from his seat, and he tumbled
backward, depositing fleshy candles as he skipped off the asphalt.

The Camry fishtailed.
Rick fought with the steering wheel in a mad attempt to gain control.
He recovered in time to see Russell swing it out again.

When the Russell cut,
Rick slammed on the brakes. The Camry spun out 360 degrees, and the
BMW missed completely, swerving in front of Rick, over the median,
and into oncoming traffic. Russell barely cleared a semi and slammed
into the bridge’s outer barricade. Bike and sidecar flipped
airborne, tail end over front, into the Niagara River.

The Camry faced
oncoming traffic, angled off the narrow shoulder. Rick got out of his
car to look, and oddly the traffic across the median drove on as if
nothing happened. A White SUV zipped by, and a voice yelled: “Get
out of the road asshole.” Rick shook his head and hopped back into
the battered car. Cranking the ignition, a grimy hand grabbed him on
his shoulder from the backseat.

“Think you could get
rid of me that easy?” Russell pushed his face on the side of Ricks.
His amphibian-like skin reeked of decay “I’m a city boy and never
did learn how to swim. I’m not about to learn now,” He whispered
and then chomped into the back side of Rick’s head.

The pop was severe.
Rick fumbled to put the car in gear. “Time for a lesson then,” he
muttered and started driving against traffic. A white sedan passed
him in the opposite direction. When the odometer climbed to 55, he
turned the Camry into the barrier. The white explosion of the airbags
choked out his visibility, blotting out his view of the plunge into
the river.

“It’s been
crazy,” Mr. Hayne’s said to Tony from behind his executive desk.
“Will Samuelsson broke an orderly’s nose. He refused to go back
to his room after rec time, kept saying that Summer Hall was
haunted.”

“Where is he now,”
Tony asked.

“We gave him a
sedative and took him back to his room. Last report I got he was
still sleeping it off—but that’s not all.” Mr. Haynes opened a
manila folder and flung its contents across to Tony. On top of the
packet was a Cause of Death Certificate for James Fergusson, a
resident of Summer Hall.

“What happened to
Jimmy? I thought he was getting better?”

“It wasn’t the
Pneumonia, he took his own life.”

“What?” Tony
couldn’t believe that Jimmy, who fought so hard to recover, was
capable of suicide. “He was going to be a great granddad.”

“Died of a major air
embolism. Last night, a nurse found him with an empty syringe in his
arm. The autopsy read he took at least 30CCs of air to his median
cubital vein.” Haynes slammed his fist on the desk. “Must’ve
snuck one from one of the nurses’ stations.”

“That’s not good.”

“No, Tony, not good.
We will most likely be sued.” Mr. Haynes stood up from his desk,
walked over to a high standing floor globe and spun it. “Anywhere
but here.”

Tony sat there silent.
He didn’t know if it was a good time to go over his report from
Salamanca. He remembered Mr. Haynes calling Mrs. Thornbury, the state
auditor, Mrs. Thornbush, and this tickled him at the time, but now it
lacked the same effect. “Does the auditor know about this?”

“No. She doesn’t
need to. She’s fixated with The Jane. Speaking of the which—”
Hayne’s looked at his watch. “Shit. She’ll be here soon. So
we’re on the same page, so far I told Thornbush that our Jane’s
injuries may be the result of mental issues. I showed her the police
report on file from the Silver Creek facility and made it known that
we are aggressively pursuing a medical history.” Haynes sat down,
leaned back in his deluxe lumbar supporting rollaway chair, and set
his eyes straight across the desk. “She knows I sent you into the
field to look for answers—which seemed to appease her appetite for
blood—but this morning she wants to sit down with us and discuss
your findings—so spin me up on your trip.”

Tony had spent most of
the night preparing his report for Haynes; he didn’t have much
exposure to the procedure used by the rank and file social worker,
but he did his best to use the required templates and attempted to be
concise when describing the Kingbird family history. Haynes had
limited attention span, and long winded reports often provoked the
man into an angry fit.

“So, Kingbird claims
that The Jane—Angeni—is some sort of parasite?” Hayne’s
asked.

“Yes, I believe that
is the exact term he used. Elias mentioned that Angeni returned to
the reservation transformed from Lily Dale, laden in tumors.”

“This Elias thought
that dropping her off without any information was the best course of
action?” Haynes slid his reading glasses back with repugnance in
his face.

Tony leaned back and
crossed his legs, a nervous reaction to create a front of relaxed
confidence. “He claims it wasn’t him; that his car was stolen
that night.” Tony sighed. “Look, honestly I don’t think Elias
is mentally stable. Most of his family is dead. He holds Angeni
accountable for their deaths, and this story of her being some sort
of mind-breaking monster is his way of coping with the loss. For
Christ’s sake, he claims that she is over one-hundred and thirty
years old,” Tony said.

“Alright, Elias is
out of his tree. Unfit living situation—there’s the basis for how
we pay for Ms. Kingbird’s stay.” Haynes cracked his knuckles and
paused for a second in thought. “I’ll handle Thornbush. I need
you working damage control. But please, bear in mind that Angeni
isn’t very popular here. The residents and staff are repelled by
her presence. I don’t want you to tell anybody else about what
Elias said, it’ll only encourage this witch talk,” Mr. Haynes
said.

“I won’t say a
word.”

Mr. Haynes grunted and turned to his
computer; a subtlety that Tony understood as:
Good
job, now leave me alone and get to work
.

In the hallway, the
new receptionist, Jill, approached Tony. Her dirty-blonde hair was
matted and lifeless, and her pasty skin stained with ill placed
beauty marks. However unattractive, Jill was sharp and worked
diligently—a single mother going to night school to become an RN.

“Hey Jill, what’s
up?” Tony said.

“I received a few
unsettling calls yesterday from a few of our resident’s relatives.
I waited for you to get back. Mr. Haynes seemed a bit overwhelmed
during your absence.”

“Let’s discuss this
in my office.” The last thing Tony wanted was Haynes all keyed up
on another issue. He walked with Jill down the hall and opened his
office door for her, like a good gentleman. “Sit down—tell me
about these calls.” He shut the door and took his place behind the
small tack-board desk.

“Yesterday I talked
to Tom McKinney’s son, Jon. Tom is a Spring Hall resident,
suffering from Alzheimer’s disease. His son asked to talk directly
to you about the matter, but he ended up spilling the beans to me—I’m
told I have a trustworthy voice.” Jill smiled at Tony, but then
bashfully looked away. “Jon said he visited earlier this week to
deliver a knitted sweater that his wife made. When Jon helped him put
on his sweater, he noticed bruises and bite marks on his father’s
chest and arms.”

Tony exhaled deeply.
“Did you have a nurse check into the situation?”

“No, like I said, I
didn’t want to upset Mr. Haynes. He seemed especially aggravated,”
Her voice had a hint of sourness.

Quite
cowardly, Jill.
“I suppose you did what you had to do,
but you should have called me and asked for some direction. I could
have had one of the nurses investigate with discretion.” He knew he
should’ve been harder on Jill, but he couldn’t—ever. He simply
refused not being liked; a quality that has been more weakness than
strength in recent experience. He attributed it to 3 months of
celibacy, since his ex-girlfriend dumped him for some bartender in
North Buffalo.

Jill’s expression
eased. “Normally I would’ve called you, but I received more calls
than I could handle, all voicing concern over the Jane Doe in room
137.”

“The Jane Doe’s
name is Angeni Kingbird. What did they have to say about her?”