Palindrome (31 page)

I'm not alone in this room.

Is it my imagination, or is something forming in front of my eyes? Something emerging from the darkness. An animal? A black hole of endless, roaring emptiness, teeth of ice, steady rumbling as it closes in on me.

I look away and comb my hands desperately over the cement floor. Blood roars in my ears. I need the light to make sure I'm imagining all of this. There can't be something down here.
It's been sealed for years. Nothing could survive in here.

My heart jackhammers in my chest. Oh god. I think I might be having a heart attack. Getting light-­headed. I'm not imagining it: There's definitely a sound, a humming. Coming from a point a few feet ahead of me. I grope around the uneven floor for the flashlight, cold wind rushing up behind me, carrying me toward this hole in front of me.

“Please,” I whisper. “Please don't hurt me.”

I plant my forehead into the cold floor. Wind swirling around me, constant buzzing or humming just a few feet in front of me.

“
Please . . .”

My fingers are so numb that it takes me a moment to realize that the flashlight has just rolled into my right hand. I'm shaking so bad that I have to turn on the switch with my teeth. I switch it on as quickly, desperately, as I've ever done anything. And the darkness is pierced by the faint beam of my lamp.

The humming was real. It's being produced by a refrigeration unit that's pumping icy air into the space. This
is
a walk-­in freezer. Still on my knees, I scan up and down the fridge with my light. I stop halfway up the height of the fridge, keeping the beam trained on what looks like permanent marker on the side of the buzzing refrigeration unit.

In my shaking circle of red light, I read the same words we saw in the attic:

Better to have never been born.

I slowly rise to my feet, knees quaking. Move my flashlight beam off the fridge to scan the walls. It's not a huge room, big enough to fit maybe two minivans. The walls are the same grey, alloyed concrete. I take a step toward the wall to the left of the fridge, shift my light toward the floor, and involuntarily cry out, my voice echoing against the hard walls.

“
Courtney
!” I scream. “
Courtney
!”

I was right: I'm not alone in the room.

Sitting against the wall is a naked dead body.

And there's another beside it.

I twirl around the perimeter of the room and see that there are bodies stacked all around me. Some with hands crossed over their chests, some curled into fetal positions. All are bearded men, and all died looking very, very cold.

“
COURTNEY
!!” I scream. No response.

I keep turning, mouth dry, fingers numb. I count the forms. Eleven. Eleven men with blue faces, blue lips, frost around their eyes, mouths, fingers, genitals. I slowly approach one of the frozen corpses.

White flakes of frost in his beard, empty eyes frozen open, like he died staring at something that surprised him. He looks freezer burned, like a year-­old pint of opened ice cream. He's sitting with his butt against the wall, legs sprawled, palms facing the ceiling. Totally naked. His penis looks like it almost completely retracted into his body as he died.

I tap one of his hands with the butt of my flashlight. Rock hard.

“Fuck, fuck,” I whisper to myself, scampering back into the center of the room. I scan each of the men's faces. All died with unkempt beards. Some eyes are mercifully closed, but most pairs are wide and knowing, accompanied by open mouths. Probably they were gasping for breath or something, but I can't help imagining that they were protesting something as their blood froze and their hearts stopped, like they were trying to say something important as the icy shadow of death washed over them.

I count again. Eleven. No question. I stagger again around the perimeter of the room, triple checking. What a miserable way to die.

Unless . . .

A shiver of horror shoots up my spine. What if they aren't dead? What if they're waiting to be
thawed out
?

“Oh god.” I'm crying, desperately wanting to leave but compelled to stay by some feeling of duty. Must do due diligence. Sadie. Sadie.

But there's nothing in here besides the bodies and the refrigeration unit, which I realize must be running from the generator outside. I scan the room three more times. Eleven naked, frozen men and an AC unit.

And finally the idea of being up above ground—­warm and away from this place—­is too much to resist. I rush to the door and am about to slam it shut when I turn and force myself to take one last look at the place. For Sadie. Don't want to have to come back down here again tonight. Or ever.

I shine the light on the ceiling for the first time. It's only about seven feet high, also coated in grey cement. The whole room has been converted into a heavily insulated freezer.

Carved into the cement ceiling is another picture of the black snake consuming his own tail, and in the same writing as in the attic, it says:

Nrob neeb reven evah ot retteb

And dangling from a piece of ribbon, which is bolted into the ceiling, rotating slowly in the draft produced by the AC unit, is a cassette tape inside a plastic case.

I
SQUEEZE O
UT
of the hole in a daze and stumble to the passenger seat of the minivan, sitting numbly.

“Frank, what was it? What's down there? Did you take pictures?”

I can only shake my head slightly, gesture for him to start driving, rub a finger over the cold plastic case in my jacket pocket.

“Frank, I'm not trying to be a bitch here, but you gotta go back down there and take pictures. We gotta
document
this. What was it? Are they down there? Like you said?”

I barely even hear Courtney. I feel like the cold from down there followed me back to the surface. It latched onto me as I stood on the AC unit to cut the ribbon, then followed me through the doorway as I dashed up those stairs like a startled cat fleeing a gunshot. I wish Courtney would go down there himself, just to verify what I saw so I know I'm not completely mad and didn't imagine the whole thing. But there's this hard little rectangle in my pocket. That's real, right?

“Are you alright, bud?” he asks.

“D-­d-­d . . . drive.”

My hands are shaking in my pockets, lips trembling and purple. I'm so cold. I just need to be far away from this place. I can't even turn to look at Courtney. There's no fear left, because I've seen all there is to see down there. Fear is when you don't know what's coming. Afterwards there's only this: a feeling like there's a poisonous worm eating its way through your brain. Some things can't be unseen.

“Alright, I'm just gonna cover up the hole with a tarp, okay?” Courtney says. “We'll come back for photos later. I'll get you to a motel now, maybe you can take a hot bath or something and tell me all about it. How does that sound?”

I manage the slightest of shrugs, an automatic gesture. He can't hide his curiosity—­or his disappointment at what he must assume was an empty trip.

“It will be alright, Frank,” he assures me.

My mind is somewhere else. Still down there behind that freezer door. Those bodies. I close my eyes. Try to go to my happy place, realize I'm not sure such a place exists. Distantly, I perceive Courtney cleaning up the scene outside. Covering up the hole, leaving the saw because he can't lift it without me, slamming the trunk shut, climbing into the driver's seat and starting the engine.

He keeps glancing over at me every ­couple seconds, a little sympathy mixed with unbearable curiosity. Taking all the restraint he has not to press me. I rest my head in my palm, feeling damp, cold sweat on my forehead.

“Frank?” Courtney tries.

“Drive.”

I zone out, maybe fall into a restless sleep for a few minutes, one that I wake up from more exhausted than I was before. I see those open, unseeing eyes, eyebrows kissed with frost.

“Pull over,” I say. We're about twenty minutes south of the cabin.

Without hesitation, Courtney pulls onto the shoulder of the empty road. Technically a one-­lane highway, but there's no traffic in either direction. Car clock reads 1:30. We sit quietly for a moment, the only sound between us the patient ticking of the van's turn signal.

“What's up?” Courtney asks.

My stomach coils into a knot as I reach into my jacket pocket for the plastic case. It's still there; I note this fact without emotion. I pull it out and wordlessly set it between us on the armrest.

Courtney's face freezes. He's speechless. Then he looks up at me. I find I'm avoiding his gaze, as if he'll be able to read everything in my face, and I want to spare him.

“Frank . . .” he whispers, unable to even formulate the question.

“The Beulah Twelve,” I choke on the words. “They put in all the cement, built a freezer down there and are all . . . dead. Frozen. In the basement.”

“Are you sure?”

“No doubt. Wrote the same shit about not being born on the ceiling. The snake too.”

Courtney is stunned for a moment. Gawks out the windshield, his frozen expression reminding me a little of Candy. Finally he thaws a bit.

“And this . . .” Courtney motions in the general direction of the tape, unable to bring himself to actually touch it.

“Dangling from the ceiling.”

“You opened it yet?” he asks, tremor in his throat.

I shake my head.

Breathing hard, Courtney reaches into the back and finds a pair of latex gloves in his bag. By the dim interior light of the minivan, he carefully opens the plastic case.

It's just a plain, old Sony cassette. Written on it is simply:

Kanter, 07/08

33 Rutgers Lane.

There are tears in his eyes. “We did it, Frank,” Courtney gasps. “Now we go get your daughter back.”

I nod emptily. What he's saying makes sense, but instead of feeling light, liberated, I feel only dread. Courtney picks up the tape and examines it next to the interior light.

And then we both notice it at the same time: the minivan has a tape deck.

Courtney licks his lips and slowly lowers the tape, his gloved hand making for the dashboard's general direction. My hand shoots from my pocket, and I grip him hard around the wrist.

“No,” I say.

What was a thin smile on his long face turns down into a slight frown. He feigns surprise.

“Frank . . . we're detectives. This is what we do. Besides, we have to verify—­”

“I'm not listening, and neither are you.”

My grip on his skinny wrist tightens. Our eyes are locked.

“Be reasonable—­” he starts.

“I am,” I snap. “Look what's happened to everyone who's listened.”

Courtney's expression contorts into something between anger and intense frustration.

“You don't think they were already a little nuts, Frank? C'mon. It's us. It's just an audio recording.”

“No it's not. You know that.”

Courtney blinks but doesn't capitulate. I slowly bring my other hand to rest on the tape.

“Give it to me, Courtney,” I say.

“Frank, please, just think about this.”

“What you're holding in your hands is my daughter's life,” I growl. “Give it to me.”

His nostrils flare. “What if I refuse?”

I shake my head slowly. “Don't refuse, Court.”

He bites his lip, then finally releases his grasp on the tape. Relieved, I take it and put it back in the case, put the case in my pocket.

“I'll hold onto this,” I say, glaring at him warily. “We're never going to hear what's on this tape. Come to terms with that right now.”

“I . . .” Courtney sighs exasperatedly. “Maybe, you know—­”

“Never,” I say, hoping I'm exuding more finality than I really believe.

Courtney shakes his head, flicks off the wholly unnecessary turn signal, and turns back onto the road.

“Pull into the first motel we pass,” I say quietly. We don't talk the rest of the ride.

I
CALL
H
ELEN
from the motel and leave a message, want to make sure she's still holding off on the old manhunt. Tell her I got what I was looking for. Then I sleep around a half hour before waking up in a cold sweat. First thing I do is check the pockets of the pants I'm sleeping in for the tape. Still there. Check the bedside clock: 3:30. I have to sleep. One of us has to drive us back to the city tomorrow, and I don't know about Courtney, but I wouldn't feel comfortable taking a tricycle around the block in my current state.

I listen for a moment and am pretty sure I hear Courtney emitting sleeplike breathing patterns. Thank God. He can drive.

I lie flat on top of the sweat-­stained motel blanket. Can't remember the last time I showered. There's really no good excuse for that.

My eyelids are both twitching, and my vision is watery. Hard to imagine my body feeling any worse than it does right now. What if I'm dying? I laugh silently to myself. That would be fucking poetic.

I wonder if the tape in my pocket still works. Must have been hanging there for years, with cold air blowing on it. It was in a case though. And is cold even bad for film—­or tape—­whatever that black stuff is called? If it still works, it's entirely conceivable that I have $350K tucked about three inches away from my sweaty, unwashed balls.

So what does it say? What could it
possibly
say that would drive twelve men to kill a child, and then themselves?

Eleven. There were only eleven down there.

Which actually makes sense.

One had to close the door, seal them in with cement, and then turn on the generator. That was probably the guy that ended up at Orange's a month later.
Egnaro.
Little doubt that he ran off and killed himself after that rant in Orange's office.