The Remains
Authors: Vincent Zandri
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PRAISE FOR VINCENT ZANDRI’S NOVELS
“If you are a Hitchcock fan, you’ll
absolutely love this book.”
~ Virginia Book Examiner
“A brilliant whodunnit.”
~ Readaholic
“The surprises keep coming up until,
literally, the very last page.”
~ Heath Lowrance
“Sensational… Masterful… Brilliant.”
~ New York Post
“Readers will be held captive by prose that
pounds as steadily as an elevated pulse… Vincent Zandri nails
readers’ attention.”
~ Boston Herald
“A tough-minded, involving novel… Zandri
writes strong prose that rarely strains for effect, and some of his
scenes achieve a powerful hallucinatory horror.”
~ Publishers Weekly
“Zandri demonstrates an uncanny knack for
exposition, introducing new characters and narrative possibilities
with the confidence of an old pro… Zandri does a superb job
creating interlocking puzzle pieces.”
~ San Diego Union-Tribune
Other books by Vincent Zandri
Moonlight Falls
Permanence
Godchild
As Catch Can
Vincent Zandri
All rights reserved as permitted under the
U.S. Copyright Act of 1976, no part of this publication may be
reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any
means, or stored in a database or retrieval system, without the
prior permission of the publisher.
StoneHouse Ink 2010
StoneHouse Ink
Nampa ID 83686
www.thestonepublishinghouse.com
First Hardcover Edition: 2010
First Paperback Edition: 2010
First E-book Edition: 2010
The characters and events portrayed in this
book are fictitious. Any similarity to a real person, living or
dead is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The
Remains: a novel/ by Vincent Zandri. -1
st
. Ed. p.cm.
ISBN 978-0-9827705-0-4(Paperback)
Cover design by Andrew Garcia
Printed in the United States of America
For my family
“Many nights in a row now I’ve been woken up
by the past.”
C.S. Barter, “Drawing”
“Three little kittens they lost their
mittens, and they began to cry.
‘Oh mother dear, we sadly fear that we have
lost our mittens.’
‘What! Lost your mittens, you naughty
kittens!
Then you shall have no pie.’”
Mother Goose Nursery Rhyme, 1843
Vincent Zandri
Table of Contents
March, 2008
Green Haven Prison
Stormville, New York
THE GUARD SERGEANT STANDS at the base of a
four-tiered iron cell block, the angelic orange-red rays of the
early morning sun shining down upon him through the top tier
chicken-wire windows.
Cupping his hands around his mouth, he
shouts, “Joseph! William! Whalen!”
Inside a dark cell, inmate Whalen inhales his
final wormy breath inside D-Block. He stands before the vertical
bars. So close, the hooked nose on his hairless face and head is
nearly pressed against the iron.
“Cry, cry, cry,” he chants quietly to
himself. “Cry, cry, cry you naughty kittens.”
An abrupt electric alarm sounds. Metal slams
against metal. The noise echoes throughout the concrete and steel
prison block. But no one—not inmate or screw—notices it. When the
barred door crashes open, the shock reverberates inside Whalen’s
chest. It is the sound of freedom.
“Step forward,” shouts the guard
sergeant.
There to greet him are two uniformed
correction officers. They will escort him along the gangway, down
the four tiers to the first floor.
Having descended the metal stairs to a place
called ‘between gates,’ Whalen proceeds through a series of opened
and closed barred doors, until he comes to Intake/Release.
A female correction officer stands protected
inside the barred window of the small brightly lit cubicle.
“Name,” she exclaims, voice detached, but
sprinkled with anger.
“Joseph William Whalen,” speaks the inmate,
not without a smile that exposes gray-brown teeth.
Bobbing her head in silence, the CO turns and
locates the prepackaged materials that sit out atop her metal desk.
Setting the plastic bag through the small opening beneath the bars
she reads off a neatly typed inventory. “One wallet containing ten
dollars cash, thirteen cents in coins. One necktie, one ring of
keys, one pocket-sized Holy Bible, one black-and-white photo.”
Slipping his hand inside the clear plastic
bag, Whalen shuffles around the items until he comes to the
white-bordered three-by-five inch photograph. He pulls it out,
examining the faces of two pre-teen girls. Identical twins. In the
picture they are smiling and laughing, as though playing for the
camera.
“Friends of yours,” the CO jibes, acid in her
voice.
“My little kittens,” exhales Whalen.
As the
final gate opens, the suited, middle-aged superintendent comes
forward to greet the now
former
inmate Whalen.
“Do yourself a favor,” the super says. “Keep
a low profile in Albany. It won’t be a pleasant experience for you.
Even after thirty years, people have a way of remembering.”
Whalen bows his bald, scarred head, big brown
eyes peering down at the painted concrete floor.
“Cry, cry, cry,” he murmurs.
“Excuse me?” the super demands. “What did you
just say?”
But Whalen falls silent.
Clearing his throat, the superintendent bites
down on his tongue. Holding out his right hand, he offers it up to
the now free man.
“God speed,” he says through clenched
teeth.
Taking the hand in his, the former inmate
gives it a long, slow, loose shake. Releasing the fleshy hand,
Whalen makes his way out one final set of metal doors, beginning
the trek toward the bus stop and the ride that will take him north
to Albany.
As the door closes back up on the prison, the
superintendent glares down at his open hand. His palm is cold,
sweaty, clammy. He wipes the hand off on his pant leg before
turning his back on the past, making for the set of metal stairs
that lead back up to his office.
“Cry, cry, cry,” he finds himself quoting
from an old nursery rhyme he knew as a child. “You naughty
kittens.”
October 2, 2008
Albany, New York
In the deep night, a woman sits down at her
writing table. Fingering a newly sharpened pencil, she focuses her
eyes upon the blank paper and brings the black pencil tip to
it.
She
begins to write
.
Dear Mol,
I’ve been dreaming about you again. I don’t
think a night has gone by in the past few weeks when I haven’t seen
your face. Our face, I should say. The face is always in my head;
implanted in my memories. The dream is nothing new. It’s thirty
years ago again. It’s October. I’m walking close behind you through
the tall grass toward the woods. Your hair is loose and long.
You’re wearing cut-offs, white Keds with the laces untied and a red
T-shirt that says ‘Paul McCartney and Wings’ on the front. You’re
walking ahead of me while I try to keep up; but afraid to keep up.
Soon we come to the tree line, and while my heart beats in my
throat, we walk into the trees. But then comes a noise—a snapping
of twigs and branches. The gaunt face of a man appears. A man who
lives in a house in the woods.