Dead Souls (20 page)

He remained silent, striving to work his magic on her as he'd done so many times in the past…

…Osiris, I beseech your strength to allow me the good fortune of my desires…

…when she'd thought it might be better that they didn't have sex because of her fluctuating guilt, or of her concerns of getting caught. He'd sweet-talk his way deep into her sweet slickness and deposit his seed as a material token of his 'love', a souvenir to take home to the Mackey household. She would fall for the deceit every time. And now…he'd make her fall for it again.

"And have me, you shall," he said softly. Lovingly.

The emotions on her face switched patterns, almost immediately, tears of confusion sprouting from her eyes as she attempted to regain her focus.

The gun wavered in her hand, and then dropped.

He stared at her, feeling an unfamiliar blending of emotions, of fear and of anger and of mounting aggressiveness pooling into a distinctly innovative sensation. It was a singular feeling, as though he were building up with natural gas, waiting for a single spark of opportunity to blow. It was the end result of never having seen her like this before, so distraught, so out of control. In the past there
had
been indications of instability in her behavior, of depression, of high anxiety. But she'd always been able to compose herself, despite her lack of confidence, her lack of self-worth—weaknesses he'd always preyed upon to further his selfish intentions. But she'd never gone over the edge before, like now.

I can do it. I will command her. I have communicated with the Gods, and there is no one more powerful than me.

He stepped an inch forward, closer still, struggling to find a loophole of opportunity in her madness. She looked at him blankly, then gazed down at the gun in her hand. A scared look enveloped her face, cheeks red and glistening beneath the jagged lines of mascara.

The gun!

And upon wholly focusing on the weapon—his potential downfall—his anger progressed into utter rage, devouring all other lingering emotions in his mind, including the pain in his head. His breathing escalated, his heart slammed against his ribs, his blood burned red-hot. He watched her as she impassively ran her free hand through her hair, a nervous reaction to the fragile situation she was hoping would end in her favor.

Benjamin wasted no time. Taking advantage of her vulnerable position, he moved on her like a charging bull, cocking his right fist back and lunging at her with all his body weight behind him. He tried to remain silent in the offering, but a small grunt escaped his lips, alerting her of his violent approach. She performed a defensive twist, and at the same time raised the gun. Neither action proved itself effective. The first blow came from his fist, striking the side of her head. A split second later, the gun went off, taking out a large chunk of plaster in the wall behind him.

"You crazy bitch!" he yelled, voice loud and determined. He grabbed her wrist and forced her arm away. Their bodies fell back and her hand struck the rear wall of the office. The gun fired again, tearing a hole in the ceiling. Plaster rained down on them. As the struggle ensued, he locked eyes with her, saw the fear and terror and shame in them. She grinned maniacally, teeth gnashing as she forced her arm forward with surprising strength, the gun lowering, the mouth of the barrel now only inches above his head.

In a do-or-die move, Benjamin whipped his head forward and connected full-force with her nose, the fierce collision producing a warm, wet cracking sound.

Helen staggered back against the wall, mouth wide open, eyes wide open…nose wide open. A fountain of blood spewed from her face, visibly traumatizing to both her and Benjamin. Her hands swung blindly through the air, the gun hanging limply from three trembling fingers.

Here time seemed to unfold in slow motion, like a motion picture in frame-by-frame mode. Vicious pain rocketed through Benjamin's head, making it feel as though it had imploded. A filmy blur doused his vision, obstructing his view of the woman he'd made love to countless times in the past, her once beautiful face slowly coming into focus, divulging a brutal mass of damage: her nose a gory mess, releasing a foamy swath of blood and bone that coated her mouth and neck. She attempted a scream, but only guttural, throaty gurgles came out: "
Garhhh
!
Garhhh
!"

Benjamin stood trembling at the horror he instantly created of her, staring with loathe and awe as Helen's body stiffened up, eyes fluttering as if struggling to keep free of the squirting blood and mucous. Again she tried to speak. Again a thick gurgling sound blasted out. She doubled over, gagging in violent fits, strings of fluid spewing from her mouth.

Benjamin looked at her hand.

The gun was still there.

And her fingers were tightening around it. Her arm began to slowly raise.

He bellowed and lunged at her, fist held high. He punched her in the meat of her wound. Blood burst out at him, forcing him to close his eyes. Blindly, he swung again, connected with her face. He swung again, hit her on the side of her head. She staggered sideways along the wall, leaving a streak of blood there. He continued to rain blows down upon her, his mind telling him that it was all self-defense, that she was holding a loaded gun, and had fired it at him, leaving him no choice but to protect himself. She raised her hands up, not to point the gun (Benjamin guessed that at this point, she didn't even realize it was still in her hand), but to shield herself from further injury. It did her little good.

A series of blurts emerged from what used to be her lips, but that was all. She fell silent beneath the attack, her body collapsing to the floor in a dead heap. The gun hit the floor with a loud clunk. It fell from her grasp and slid into the wall, leaving a streak of blood behind like a trail. Beneath her bloody mask, Benjamin could see the whites of her eyes rolling toward the gun. She made a vain attempt to crawl after it. Nearly hyperventilating, Benjamin pounced her, groping at the bare gore of her face, digging his nails deep into her flesh, clawing at her eyes, her exposed sinus cavity. She clawed at his chest, and managed to rip his shirt and uncover his scar, a single blood-coated nail tearing into his knobby purple flesh. He howled, then gripped her matted hair and began slamming her head hard against the floor, over and over again. He heard her skull shatter, felt it soften beneath his grip. But the adrenaline continued to flow in him, forcing him to continue. Soon, the rear of her skull was nothing more than gritty pulp squelching between his squeezing fingers.

Finally, Benjamin released her. He collapsed back, crawling away from the aftermath. He leaned his head up against the wall, dizzied and feeling as though he might black out. Blood dribbled into his eye, stinging and warm. He thumbed it away, then stared at her body, her
corpse
, the dress torn open, white breasts sagging lifelessly like balloons released of their air. The strap of her purse was pulled tightly around her neck. Her face was unrecognizable, lost beneath a mask of blood and bone.

My God…what have I done?

He clambered to his knees, hands folded between his legs, head thrown back, a thin,
strengthless
shriek falling from his lips. He mumbled a Hail Mary prayer, then struggled unsteadily to his feet, nearly collapsing back down from dizziness. He backpedaled out of the office in a panic, eyes glued to Helen's motionless body, a single Polaroid photograph of a scantily-clad woman stuck to the bottom of his shoe like a piece of chewing gum.

Once out of the office, he spun and staggered across the altar. He continued down the center aisle like a drunk man fleeing an angry mob, eyes pinned to the closed doors,

…the clasp had been replaced after she closed the door…

looking down only once to see that the blood-stained photo had come away from his sole somewhere along the way.

He burst through the doors, out into the cool, late afternoon, the sun now hidden behind a blanket of gray clouds. He stopped to catch his breath, and gazed down at his torn shirt, Helen Mackey's blood now mixed in with Pilate's. He tore it off and threw it to the ground, leaving more evidence behind for the authorities.

Murder. No, she was pregnant.
Double
murder…

A bird cawed. He gasped, shuddered, then turned and looked up to the roof of the church, where the large black bird sat perched, staring down at him.

Osiris, still watching over him?

"What shall I do now, my Lord?" he shouted out, his voice sounding dull, as though absorbed by the environment—just as it had this morning, outside the barn.

The bird took off into the sky, a single black feather coming away, caught in the wind, bouncing lazily along the shingles toward the rear of the church. He followed it around the side of the small structure, tripping and stumbling with no sense of stability, keeping his eyes glued to the feather as it fluttered over the edge of the roof, behind the church. He turned the corner…and nearly collided with a small silver sedan parked along the perimeter of thin woodland.

He stopped, slapping his hands down on the trunk. He gazed at the car.
Her
car, hidden back here so he wouldn't know she was waiting for him inside the church. The driver's side door was opened, and he could see a smear of blood on the interior's chrome handle.

A smear of blood?

Pressing one hand against the car to help keep balance, he stepped over to the open door, leaned down, and peeked into the front seat.

He drew back. Shook his head as if to clear it, then looked again to make certain his weary eyes weren't deceiving him.

Helen Mackey's husband was in the passenger seat. Dead. There was a single bullet hole in the side of his head (which hung out the passenger window), a dry line of blood plastered down the side of his colorless face. A host of flies and mosquitoes buzzed noisily about his wound.

Benjamin's body grew cold, his muscles numb, and he crumpled to his knees in the weeds and soil. Gripping the edge of the door, he gazed at the murdered man, thinking crazily,
one good murder deserves another
.

Then he began to laugh.
Really
laugh. An abandoned chaos washed over him, and all his rational thoughts drifted away like canoes plunging over the edge of a waterfall. He could feel them crashing down into the turbulence of his mind, where they abruptly rejoined to form a new, muddled-up perception, one that defied all sensible thought—that insisted he press on with his purpose, despite the adversities at hand.
Osiris, thank you for the strength to carry on
, he thought.

Slowly, he climbed to his feet, and peeked in the back seat.

And at once realized how the clasp and lock had been positioned back into place on the church door.

Helen Mackey's thirteen year-old son…he was laying across the back seat of the car. He was visibly trembling. There was a swath of dried blood streaked across his forehead like Indian war paint.

He stared up at Benjamin.

Benjamin smiled at him. Then, laughed even harder.

September 8
^th
, 2005

8:24 AM

T
he telephone rang. It grabbed Johnny, pulled him away from his dreams, and into bitter consciousness. Eyes still closed, he groped for the handset, and by the time he plucked it off its cradle, he'd completely forgotten about what he'd been dreaming about.

And, where he was.

He opened one eye, then the other. He saw ugly green walls, bad flower art, and a stucco ceiling. He shuddered, feeling frightened before recalling that he was about to embark on a new life, and for the very first time in his eighteen years, had slept someplace other than his room.

He fumbled with the handset, then, feeling nearly devoid of energy, struggled up on one elbow and raised it to his ear.

"Hullo?"

"Johnny…"

"Yeah…"

"Wake you?"

His mind felt totally vacant, clear of most thoughts, and he had to think a moment before remembering the lawyer's name. "No, Mr. Judson." Less than forty-eight hours earlier Johnny didn't even know this man existed; now he was the only human being on earth he felt he could place his trust in. Scary, considering they hadn't even met.

"Let's set the record straight, Johnny. I won't lie to you about anything, and you don't lie to me. Fair enough?"

Johnny hesitated, already feeling self-conscious and uncomfortable. "Okay." He gazed at the lamp on the nightstand, then leaned up and peeked around to the digital clock. Eight-thirty.

"Sorry so early," Judson continued, as though able to see Johnny's actions, "but I've set aside the entire day for you."

Johnny leaned up and sat on the edge of the bed, one leg dangling. "Okay…"

"We're going to need it."

"The whole day?"

"That's right, the whole day."

He thought of his mother, her maiden name Conroy, lying alone and afraid in her hospital bed, her long-buried secret suddenly unearthed, driving her toward madness. "I'm guessing there's more to this than just signing a few papers," he said, wondering how she fit into all of this.

"There is, which is why I need you here at nine. There are others who will be joining us as well."