What Hides Within (33 page)

"He's breathing. He's lost a lot of blood, but he's stable. He should pull through, no problem."

"No thanks to you," a voice reprimanded from inside the ambulance.

Reilly hadn't noticed Morgan slumping quietly against the far wall of the cab. When her eyes met Morgan's, Reilly could feel the accusations behind them.
Where were you?
they screamed.
This is your fault
.

The detective dodged the blame. After all, the criminal actions of another were not within her control. Still, had she arrested Kevin sooner, perhaps this might not have happened, whatever "this" was.

She couldn't delude herself for long. Kevin was certainly a part of the circumstances surrounding her. The responsibility for his actions had been officially assumed by the United States government. Unofficially, Reilly could never relinquish it. Her strict sense of duty forbade her such release. Kevin was her suspect, and by the look of things, her criminal.

Yet, Reilly knew better than to burden her mind with what-ifs. She walked away from the ambulance, leaving Clive to Morgan's suffocating supervision. As she parted, she felt Morgan's cold stare upon her every step.

Detective Reilly marched across the driveway with her head held high. She conveyed to all on-lookers a sense of entitlement, as though she had every right to be there. Most of the officers present were undoubtedly fooled by it. She reached the staircase to Clive's apartment without so much as the raise of a questioning eyebrow.

To her misfortune, Officer David Gillespie clamored down the stairway just as Reilly began her climb up. His posture suggested to Reilly's experienced mind that Clive's apartment was his crime scene. His steroid-induced frame blockaded any reasonable means of passage, and he used it to wall up Reilly's progression. Dressed like a civilian, Reilly prepared herself for an inquisition.

"Miss, you'd better have a damn good reason for crossing that yellow tape."

"I do," Reilly responded, flashing her credentials. "I'm Detective Samantha Reilly of the Fall River Police Department. I was hoping to speak to the man in charge here. I assume that's you?"

Reilly played up to the officer's ego. To her, Officer Gillepsie was nothing but an over-muscled grunt, easily placated by submission. She pegged him all wrong.

"I am," the officer responded without a hint of arrogance. He seemed cordial but firm, efficient. He escorted her gently away from the stairs.

"What business brings you here, Detective?"

"I was on my way to see Mr. Menard, the man in the ambulance--"

"We know who he is."

"He had information regarding Kevin Ventura, the other occupant of this apartment. He's wanted for questioning in a number of investigations."

"Not anymore, he isn't. Your buddy in the ambulance over there killed him. Stabbed him right in the chest, just barely missing the heart. It got the job done, though. Ventura's still up there, dead as dirt."

"Murder?"

"We're not sure. They were both severely injured. Menard's girlfriend, Morgan--"

"Donnelly."

"Right. She claims they were attacked by Mr. Ventura. She called 9-1-1. Also, judging by the mess inside and the condition of Mr. Menard, it's obvious a struggle took place. If I had to guess, this looks like self-defense."

"So why the handcuffs?"

"A precaution. The Feds want to talk to him."

"They already know about this? How?"

"Who knows? Anyway, if you were hoping to take a look around, it's not going to happen. The whole apartment's off limits, courtesy of the FBI. I can't even go back inside. I had to post Officer Pitt at the entrance to make sure nobody goes in there besides medical personnel."

Medical personnel, huh?

Reilly's wheels were spinning feverishly. There was more than one way to access the apartment. But her thoughts were quashed before a plan could come into fruition as she glanced over Gillespie's shoulder and noticed an equally juiced policeman standing with arms crossed like some high-paid security guard. Disguised or not, sneaking in wouldn't be an option.

Fresh lights flashed behind her, and she wondered if the FBI had arrived. Screening the street, she was relieved to see their source, a second ambulance, this time with quiet sirens, sent in for the dead.

With her most pitiful of faces, Reilly begged her adversary for leniency. "Surely you can make an exception?"

"Sorry, Detective, but the Bureau's orders were very specific."

As if he sensed the strength of her desires, Gillespie gave way just a little. "I'll tell you what I can do, though, if you promise to keep it quiet."

"I'm listening."

"Before the FBI contacted our Chief, we did our own investigation. Standard procedure requires me to write up a report. How detailed that report is written is within my discretion. Even a cursory investigation into the apartment turned up some pretty damning results, so damning that I know exactly why the Feds are interested in this guy."

"Explosives? Bomb components?"

"Ah! You're more in-the-know than I thought."

"In whose room were they found?"

"In whose room? They're everywhere! The place looks like a goddamn Taliban storage unit. It's all the same shit used in each of the explosions, including the one that got our own. We wanted to personally hang the one responsible. Death by stabbing is far better than he deserved. Officer Bell was a good friend of mine and a fine policeman. If Ventura's our guy, then that injured boy down there is a hero, as far as my department's concerned. But if Menard knows something, or worse, had something to do with the explosions, we want to know about it. With that said, I'll send you a detailed report of our investigation, if you promise to keep me in the loop with this Menard fellow."

"Done. Fax it to my attention with a cover sheet. No one else will read it."

"If you say so. Forgive me if I don't sign my name to it."

Reilly didn't like having to rely on this stranger, but she felt some relief in the possibility of getting answers. Cops don't like cop killers and will often bend, or break, some rules to nail them.

Still, Reilly wasn't satisfied. She had another victim to consider.
What about Valerie Page?

"Is it too much to ask if I requested a list of the makes and sizes of sneakers in Ventura's closet?"

"You have a footprint from one of the bomb sites? Well, I don't see any harm in throwing in that information. It'll be in the report."

Reilly turned to leave, potential answers to the Page murder a fax transmission away. Her satisfaction grew until she remembered the most damning piece of evidence could now be embedded in Kevin's carcass. How could she have forgotten the knife?

"Officer . . ." she called, turning back around.

"Gillespie."

"Thanks for all of your help. One more thing, though. You said Mr. Menard stabbed Ventura. With what?"

"Some kind of cheap, gaudy knife. It looked like a crappy imitation of something you might see ancient cultures using in the movies to sacrifice people. I'll include a description and its dimensions in my report, if possible. For now, though, take a quick look at it yourself."

Officer Gillespie pointed to the second unit of paramedics as they exited the apartment. In their grips, they carried a stretcher. On top of the stretcher was a black bag, long enough to fit Wilt Chamberlain or two Kevin Venturas. A body bag.

"Here it comes now, your knife. Right where Menard left it."

***

"I suppose you're feeling pretty good about yourself?"

"Huh?" Clive startled awake. "What? Who's there?"

The room was dark. His eyes had difficulty adjusting. His mind struggled to control its disorientation. Someone had awakened him, but he couldn't see a damn thing. In a moment, his fogginess would clear. Clive couldn't wait a moment.

"Chester? Is that you?"

"This was one of my favorite shirts, Clive. You had to go and soil it. To be fair, I've been wearing it for days, so it was already kind of dirty. But you made it a lot worse. Blood doesn't come out that easily."

Clive bolted upright. The handcuffs joining his wrist to the bedrail slingshotted him back into place. Everything came back to him at once. Even the voice was horridly recognizable. Could it be possible? Could he still be alive?

The pale outline of a man fazed into clarity. His details followed. Thick blood stained his shirt, still noticeable despite the dark shirt color and unlit room. A massive portion of his chest had been pared open where the blade had penetrated his skin. Kevin's wounds were far greater than those inflicted by Clive. They looked as though someone had dug out the knife with a shovel. The cavity itself appeared old, with swarms of maggots and worms crawling and squirming their way about it.

The rest of Kevin came in distorted, eerily hazy and malnourished. His form resonated with a nebulous glow, like the image of an actor playing on an old, black-and-white television with a broken antenna.

Clive slid back in his bed as far as the handcuffs would permit him. He couldn't shake the feeling that he was staring at a dead man. Kevin certainly looked dead, aside from the fact that he was standing and speaking.

"Shouldn't you be having that cut looked at?" Clive whispered, his voice choking up with terror.

"Someone's taking care of me downstairs. My room is much, much colder than yours, though. So I figured I'd come up and say hello, see how you're doing. You had quite the ordeal today. How are you doing, Clive?"

The bite Clive felt from Kevin's words screamed something horridly wrong. With a melon-sized hole in his chest, Kevin shouldn't have been breathing, never mind walking around without a care. His smile didn't conceal the scorn residing in his hateful soul. His very being seemed to will malevolence upon Clive. Clive couldn't blind himself to it no matter how hard he tried.

"Oh, I'm good. You know, just chilling here until someone comes to get me."

Clive faked calmness, but his guise was see-through. Something inside compelled him to get to the bottom of the apparition before him. Who, or what, stood at the end of his bed? Watching him. Waiting. Clive needed resolution. He had to ask the questions.

"You haven't come to get me, have you Kevin?" Clive stammered. "What do you want from me?"

"Well, a new shirt would be a nice start," Kevin said. He laughed, and small black specks fell from his mouth, some landing on Clive's bed. Clive couldn't make out what they were. When they started to move, Clive dragged his feet underneath his buttocks, retreating to the wall behind him as far as his restraints would permit.

"I mean, look at this thing!"

Kevin tugged on his shirt and laughed harder. Bits of rotten flesh flaked off the shirt as he aired it out. More and more, the black specks fell from his mouth. They chirped like grasshoppers, except the sound wasn't as loud and not nearly as pleasant.

Over the chirping, Clive could hear a new sound, tiny nails scratching against the wooden floor. He looked down at a horde of rats scurrying from unknown hiding places. They circled Kevin's feet to eat at his detached flesh. Kevin didn't seem to mind, still bellowing as the rodents converged around him.

Clive listened to their hungry squeals, the sound of their grinding teeth upsetting his stomach and his mind. They ate the remains of Kevin, all the while staring at Clive. Rotten meat was okay, but they seemed to yearn for something fresher.

Clive pulled his sheets up to his mouth. He shook the blankets, sending a violent wave soaring toward the end of his bed. But the black specks held on and kept their position. They stood like a regiment of soldiers in the days before guerrilla warfare. A few rats joined them, climbing up Kevin's legs and hopping onto the bed. Their evil, red eyes gleamed at Clive like rubies set against ebony. They expressed a desire to hurt and maim, and maybe even to kill. But the rats sat motionless near Clive's feet as if awaiting some unknown master's command. Kevin's command?

Clive was terrified, yet there was no escape. His handcuffs kept him bound to the bed. He was at Kevin's mercy, and Kevin's demeanor showed none forthcoming. His terror grew as the black walls around him began to bubble as though their paint were boiling. The bubbles moved in all directions, behind and over paintings, shelves, air vents and other wall coverings. They emitted a strange hum mimicking the resonation from power lines and a crackling sound that resembled milk poured into Rice Krispies.

When the first of the bubbles fell onto his stomach, Clive could see it was a cockroach. He closed his eyes, praying that when he opened them again, Kevin and all his wicked pets would be gone. He silently counted to ten.

"Pay attention to me, Clive!" Kevin shouted in a voice not his own. His sarcasm transformed into something lower, angrier and outright demonic. Clive opened his eyes only to see Kevin's hideously contorted face inches from his. His body tensed in fear. His bowels let go. Was this the end?

Clive tried to speak, but his words seemed scared, too. They chose to remain hidden in his throat. Kevin's face stirred as though something were moving beneath the flesh. Clive knew it was the maggots and worms burrowing tunnels into their new home. But Kevin's eyes were the most disturbing. Where had they gone? All that remained were empty sockets, empty save for the maggots. Yet, those sockets would not retract from their vile gape.

"What do you want?" Clive asked, weakly.

"Divulgence."

"Divulgence?" Clive's confusion hindered his caution. "What does that mean?"

"Divulgence. It's the three-syllable noun form of the verb, 'divulge,' which means, 'to make known.'"

"What do you want to make known?"

"The truth, Clive. But I already know it. It's you who keeps denying yourself the truth."

"Then tell me whatever you want me to know. I'll listen, then you can make this go away."

"I can't tell you. That's something you have to figure out for yourself."

"How am I supposed to do that? I don't have a clue what you're talking about."

"Just think, Clive. Have you ever stopped to think about what's truly going on inside you? Have you ever wondered why there's so much of your life you can't remember? Aren't you the least bit curious why the FBI was looking through your things, too?"