What Hides Within (41 page)

"That's not my mission! I don't want that!"

Of course you do, Clive. I didn't make you into who you are. I only allowed you to see it. This argument is getting redundant. I know the truth. You know truth. You know that I know that you know the truth. I guess Mayor Sousa's death was a blessing in disguise. Because I wasn't there, you can't blame me for it. You know you did it. And you know you liked it.

"No . . . I did like it! That's so fucked up! How could I? Why?"

Accept the man you are, Clive. Embrace him. You can disregard this pathetic, empty version of yourself and carry on without fear, sadness and all the other emotions that have helped you get nowhere in life. Cast off your mental constraints. Let him in, and you'll be so much happier.

Real acceptance came hard. "I killed those people. Everything that has happened,
everything
. . . it's all my fault."

Depression consumed Clive. Everything Chester had told him, everything he'd insisted was a lie, it all was true. Clive was a cold-blooded killer. At least, a part of him was. A part of him he neither knew nor understood. A part of him he wanted gone.

What could he do about it? Nothing, until he felt his toes curl up. Sensation returned to his outer extremities. One leg worked. He threw it off the bed. The other leg didn't. He fell to the floor. He crawled on his stomach toward the door. Unable to lift his neck, his cheek, nose and chin scraped along the carpet, creating a rug-burned mess.

Still, his inner struggle raged on. It manifested in violent mood swings. A wild conviction sent him sprawling forward. By the time he made it halfway to the door, Clive was on his hands and knees. By the time he reached the door, Clive was standing. His body returned to his control.

Where are you going, Clive?

Clive ignored Chester. He opened the door and stumbled into the ruins he once called his living room. He coughed as the ashen air wafted by, caught in a spiraling wind. Squinting, he waved away the dust dancing in front of him. When he'd adjusted to the unclean atmosphere, he stood in awe at the gaping hole and partially missing stairwell. Then, he noticed the bodies.

Clive came across Detective Reilly first. He nearly tripped as his foot caught underneath her outstretched arm. Her eyes were closed. Her hair was matted by blood. More blood oozed from her shoulder. She appeared to be dead.

Is that bone?
Clive covered his mouth when he realized the nature of the object protruding from Reilly's shoulder. He couldn't hold it back. He turned away and wretched.

Reilly's collar bone appeared to be snapped in two. The broken bone punctured like splintered wood through her skin and stabbed at her neck, no more than a centimeter from piercing Reilly's jugular vein and ending her life. She bled profusely from the open wound across the side of her head, having obviously been struck by something hard. The blood-tarnished bat beside her seemed the obvious culprit.

When Clive finished barfing, he wiped his mouth. Keeled over, he noticed a hand with a few twitching fingers extending from behind a nearby chair. The nails were polished in lavender, the same color Morgan always used. He rushed to her side.

Morgan rested face first on the carpet. Tears filled Clive's eyes. He rolled Morgan over and cradled her in his arms. Gently, he rocked her limp body, comforting her as she'd once tried to comfort him.

"Clive," she struggled to say. Blood gurgled from the bullet hole in her chest. Dark blood.

Clive smiled, the tears dripping with newfound ferocity. "I thought you were--"

"Am I dead? This wasn't supposed to happen."

Mucus dribbled from Clive's nose. Chester slid out with it, but Clive was too distraught to recognize his opportunity.

"Chester . . . What's happening?" Morgan struggled to speak. "You promised me. You promised we'd be together forever if I helped you protect him. You promised me, Chester!" she screamed, the pained wail of the dying in her voice. "You promised me!"

"What did you say?" Clive couldn't believe he'd heard what he thought he heard. Morgan couldn't possibly know anything about Chester. Still, he heard what he heard. "How do you know Chester?"

Morgan continued talking. It became clearer to Clive that she wasn't addressing him.

"You said you'd make him love me," she whispered. Her end was near, and she seemed to recognize it. Clive felt her warm tears dampen his sleeve. "You said we'd be together forever. You said . . . for . . ."

The words trailed off. Morgan collapsed into a sleep from which she would not awaken.

I said you'd be together until the day you died
. Chester laughed. She had kept her promise. Morgan would soon be gone, dead in Clive's arms. Mission accomplished.

"How do you know Chester?" Clive shouted. He shook Morgan violently, but there was no response. Could she possibly have betrayed him? Was she in league with Chester all along? His depression reached new depths. Whatever spark of life that had shimmered inside him burned out with Morgan's. That day, there was only death.

Chester scurried back into her home. Clive felt her movements and tried to snot-rocket her out his nasal passageway, but he was too late. Had she come out just to watch Morgan die? Had everything gone according to her plan?

Forget the bitch, Clive. She wasn't good enough for you. Besides, you've still got me.

"You!"

Clive's face flushed red in anger. The vein in his temple pulsated with blood. Chester had distracted him from his despair only to mock him more. His migraines returned ten-fold. This time, they weren't Chester's doing.

"I'll take care of you!"

Clive flung Morgan's lifeless body from his lap. He scrambled to his feet and charged toward his bedroom. The scissors rested on his bed where he'd left them.

Now hold on a second, Clive. Calm down, buddy. You're not thinking clearly.

Chester seemed frightened by Clive's thoughts. They were all over the place. Two halves of the same person were screaming out commands, ordering Clive's body this way and that. One voice was clearly winning, but Clive couldn't determine which. Still he bet his chance to rid himself of Chester hadn't passed him by. She had detached herself from Clive's controls to get a front-row seat to Morgan's demise. If he was going to act, there was no time like the present.

"I'm thinking clearly enough to know that you're never going to leave me alone. You're just going to keep on tormenting me until I end up like Derek, Morgan and all the others. Oh God! Who knows how many there have been? So, Chester, for the first time, I
am
thinking clearly. I know that, together, we would keep killing innocent people until we're caught or killed ourselves. But that's not going to happen. I'm going to stop it. So if you want someone dead so much, I say, you first!"

I wouldn't do that, Clive.

Clive lunged for the scissors. He feared he needed to be quick and steadfast, lest Chester would subdue him. But by the time Chester seemed to realize what exactly Clive had in mind, it was too late.

He clenched the scissors and, in a single motion, drove their point deep and far into his ear. Then, he collapsed onto the bed, numb and vacant.

Life abandoned his body quickly. His vision clouded, and the room became a ghastly contorted image, a Renaissance portrait of Hell. Soon, all would fade to black.

"Did I get you?" Clive asked, his eyes going dark as the blood flowed behind them.

No, Clive. You didn't get me. Hell of a mess you made in here, though.

"Is it over?"

Yeah, it's over.

"Did I win?"

We'll call it a tie. Goodbye, Clive.

***

Not waiting for the body to get cold, Chester skirted over the shiny, metal obstruction that now decorated her living room. With a heavy sigh, not of sadness but of disappointment, so much wasted potential, she slid down Clive's nasal passage. She paused briefly on his lip, a moment of respect for the recently departed. Then, she lowered herself on her web, dropped down to the carpet, and left Clive's apartment forever.

She went to the wake looking for closure. Her wheelchair rolled up the ramp to the Steinbeck Funeral Home, pushed by a low-ranking officer. Reilly looked like Hell had chewed her up, swallowed her, then regurgitated her back into this world. Her neck and upper torso were locked in place by a giant cast. Her collar bone had been shoved back into place and the tissue around it sewn together. Much of her shoulder had been pulverized into particles of calcium and dust. Its reconstruction was painstaking, requiring lots of nuts, bolts and metal plates.

Her head was wrapped in gauze, covering the fissure Kevin's keepsake bat had opened in her skull. Repairing the wound beneath was no joy either. It would never entirely heal, leaving a scar reminder of a case completed. She even had to wear one of those ridiculous looking sticks to prop her arm up and hold it in place.

All about the remainder of her body were bruises and cuts. The latter were covered by bandages and hidden beneath clothes, except the lacerations on her face. Her hideous appearance insured that she wouldn't be going on any dates in the near future.

Still, Reilly was fortunate. Her brain suffered no damage, and her body was on the mend. She was even offered a nice, long leave of absence out of the ordeal, though she wouldn't take it. Her friend and partner's leave was more permanent.

After signing the guestbook, an officer, whose name Reilly cared not to ask, wheeled her into the line for a casket viewing.
Pretty big crowd for a murderer
, she thought.

Scanning the room, she recognized some of the faces from the Harcourt Insurance Company. A fat woman in a gaudy dress bawled in one of the seats, professing her love for the departed. Reilly knew her to be Clive's boss, though she couldn't remember her name. Consoling her was none other than Felix Winters. His hand was on the woman's enormous upper thigh.

Then again
, she thought,
they still don't know he was a murderer.

Beside the coffin, two women stood, one little and one large. The little one stood solemn, her composure a stark contrast from the despondent older woman beside her.

Reilly recognized the little girl from her investigation, Victoria Menard. She was finely decked in a casual, deep purple dress. Her hair was held back with plastic butterflies of the same deep purple.

Reilly presumed the older woman to be Clive's mother. She wore a plain, black business suit adorned only by the pearl necklace hanging low between her bosom. Her suit was wrinkled, undoubtedly from all the hugging and consolation. Her tears hadn't stopped since Reilly had first laid eyes on her. Victoria, on the other hand, looked as out of place as a priest at a swinger's convention.

An old couple stopped and knelt in front of the casket.
Some distant aunt and uncle perhaps?
Reilly wondered. She watched as they prayed and prayed, then they prayed some more. She grew impatient as she listened for an "Amen."

What's taking them so long?
Reilly's discontent mounted. She ordered the patrolman to wheel her beyond the casket to the receiving line.

As she crossed the room, all eyes were upon her. She could feel their stares. Were they accusatory? She was thankful for the bandages that partly mummified her. Did the crowd recognize her as the Fall River detective dragged unconscious by paramedics from their recently departed loved one's apartment? Were they simply staring at her because she looked like a victim of medical restoration? She hoped it was her appearance and not her actions that captivated their attention.

Reilly rolled over to Clive's mother just in time to cut off a now-disgruntled old couple, who had finally finished paying their respects. The old man let out a noticeable grunt as Reilly's wheel tread over his toes.

"Henry, she's in a wheelchair," Reilly heard the old woman whisper. Reilly paid them no more attention. She stared up at Clive's mother, who seemed to be avoiding any direct stare back at the Picasso-fied personage that was Reilly's broken body.

"Ms. Menard?"

"Yes?"

"I'm sorry for your loss."

Clive's mother didn't respond. She didn't seem to know who the disabled person in front of her was, which Reilly found all the better. She bowed her head and continued to cry. Unfazed, Reilly continued on to Victoria.

"Hi, Victoria."

"Hello."

"Do you remember me? We met once, at the hospital."

Victoria nodded. "Yes, Detective Reilly. I remember you. Did you and Uncle Clive ever go out on a date? I told him he should ask you out."

"I guess you could say we did, yes."

"Good. I liked Auntie Morgan and all, but you're much prettier. And sometimes Auntie Morgan could be scary. Uncle Clive never seemed to notice, though."

"Thank you for the compliment, Victoria. And believe me, I know all about Auntie Morgan's scary side."

Reilly looked around the room, expecting to see Victoria's father standing somewhere nearby. The old couple waited impatiently behind her, forced to awkwardly console Clive's mother longer than they likely had intended.

"Where's your father?"

Victoria's empty expression did not waver. "He's at home in bed," she responded robotically. "The grief was too much for him."

"Well, you be strong, for you and for him." Reilly smiled, disguising her empathy. "Take care." She signaled for her attendant to roll her away.

She waited in the back for the procession to clear. Most of the counterfeit mourners cleared out shortly after making an appearance. Only the truly despondent remained. Them and Reilly. She stood to walk over to the casket.

"Detective?" her officer-nurse said.

"I'm fine. There's nothing wrong with my legs."

"But the doctor--"

"I'm fine."

The sternness in her voice told the officer to drop it. Grimacing, she hobbled over to the coffin. For the first time, she noticed that it was open.

How?
she thought.
I heard he shoved scissors in there so deep that they nearly came out the other side. That's got to be messy, especially when the scissors got pulled out. Ah, the miracles of modern technology.