Shadow of the Past (9 page)

Mark dropped her off after she made
sure neither of them had too many dirt or grass stains on their
backs. “Trust me,” she’d said, “they’re a dead giveaway.” At the
head of the driveway she gave him a quick kiss on the cheek and a
whispered promise to call later.

He spent the ride home trying not to
think of the small mound of homework that had piled up over the
weekend as he’d lost himself to the sheer awesomeness that was
teenage make-outs. He was so into reliving his PG sex-life that he
didn’t notice the car parked in front of the house as he pulled
into the driveway. He locked the V up in the garage and happily
dashed to the back door, taking all three steps in one big
jump.

He was two strides into the kitchen
before he saw Joe sitting at the kitchen table, clutching a coffee
mug in both hands and glaring at a man in a suit sitting across the
table from him. The smart remark Mark was going to make about them
never having company was cut off when he noticed the badge hanging
from the man’s lapel pocket.

“Mark,” Joe said, very evenly, putting
down his cup of coffee, “This is David Prescott. With the cops. I
think you should have a seat.”

Mark sat and listened, but it became
more difficult the more that Detective Prescott talked. Mark’s gaze
dropped to his suddenly lifeless hands on the table as the
Detective used words like “fire” and “death.” The Detective asked
Mark about the party that night and if that was the last time he’d
spoken to Clara.

“Party?” Mark mumbled. Everything was
quicksand, words and thoughts sinking into the nothingness in his
chest. Why would there be a party?

“The delivery guy from the Chinese
place next door said he dropped some food off at the shop after
hours and that there were a couple of other people in there. Alvin,
the delivery guy, said he recognized you, that you were at Clara’s
a lot.”

“Yeah, he hung out there,” Joe said,
wringing his hands on the coffee mug.

Mark nodded in agreement. Everything
was graying back out again. Yes, he hung out there. He was supposed
to keep hanging out there. It was his place. Mark’s vision was
blurring and his pulse was roaring in his ears. He knew the
Detective was saying something else but he was concentrating on
blinking away his tears.

“Excuse me?” he said softly, hoping his
voice did have too much strain in it.

“This wasn’t an accident, Mark. This is
being treated as a homicide.”

“What?”

“Mark,” David said, “Can you think of
anyone that may have had a reason to hurt Clara, or if there was
anything unusual about that night? Did she say or do anything out
of the ordinary?”

Well, there was this phantom
guy that tried to throw you down the stairs, but he probably wasn’t
real or even human, so that doesn’t mean much aside from the fact
that you’re batshit crazy.

They stared at each other for a second,
Mark’s eyes still misting and he realized he was taking too long to
answer. The longer he didn’t say anything the more obvious it was
that he could be saying something and wasn’t.

But there was no man, and if
you say anything you’ll look so crazy they’ll probably take you
downtown to talk about it more. And I bet they don’t need the phone
books or rubber hoses to crack your shell, sissy.

“No,” Mark said softly. “Nothing at
all. She was the greatest person in the world. She . . .” Mark
tried to think of a way to convey to these men that would never
know her how important she’d been to him, but realized that it was
futile. Nothing he could say would show how much she meant and how
impossible someone wanting to murder her was.

“She had a daughter,” Mark said, trying
to stay away from total blinding despair and focusing on being
helpful.

“Yeah,” the Detective said. “We found
her information in an address book and we’ve already notified her.
We’re going to have to talk with the other people that were with
you that night. Just a formality, but we have to be
thorough.”

Mark’s heart sank. Steve’s mom would
freak, and Christine’s dad would now have something better than the
V to worry about. He recited their names and address for the
Detective to jot down in his little notebook, so he could go forth
and make an even bigger wreck of his life.

Before he left, the Detective turned
back to Mark, handing him a business card. “If you can think of
anything, and I do mean anything, feel free to call me.”

Mark nodded and watched him go. Joe
walked him to the front door and Mark made it as far as the hallway
before he stopped and leaned on the wall. When the door closed
behind the cops, Joe turned and said “I know this must be hard but
. . . I just want you to know--”

That was all he needed to get him off
the wall. “Save it,” he shook his head and pushed himself back onto
his feet, storming past Joe and heading for the stairs. “You hated
her. You couldn’t stand that someone gave a shit about me and I
don’t need your pity. Not now.” He took the stairs two at a time,
pausing only to throw open the attic door before bounding up the
rest of the stairs. Before he made it to the top of the steps,
everything was blurry and wet and shaking. His foot didn’t clear
the top step and he sprawled forward onto his knees and hands,
crashing into the side of his bed.

He shoved it as hard as he could, and
then swung at it over and over again, not seeing anything but
indistinct shapes. Whatever it was in front of him, he wanted it
gone. Destroyed. Burned.

He screamed until all he had left were
silent, chest heaving sobs and sore hands that lashed out in weak
futility.

Chapter Nine

Mark wasn’t sure when he’d pulled
himself into bed, but it hadn’t made him any more comfortable. He
woke up with a wet pillow and limbs tangled in sheets. Something
had startled him awake and he wasn’t sure what it was until there
was another yell of his name from downstairs and getting
closer.

“Mark! Telephone!” Joe yelled through
his door.

“I got it!” Mark screamed back, picking
up. “Hello?”

“Mark, it’s me,” Christine said. Mark
dropped himself back on the bed.

“Hey.”

“Mark, I’m so, so sorry. How’re you
doing?”

He sighed, rubbing his forehead. “I . .
. I don’t even know. It doesn’t seem real.”

“Yeah, I know. The detective guy just
left, and . . . god, my parents are so freaked.”

“I’m sorry,” Mark said.

“Don’t be, they’re just being dicks. I
just hope yours are handling this better.”

Now this too.
“Christine,” he said, “I don’t have any
folks.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean,” he said with a deep sigh, “I
don’t have parents anymore. I live with my Uncle Joe, that’s the
guy who picked up when you called. I’ve lived with him since I was
little, and Clara . . . Clara was like a mom to me, and now . . .”
he stopped, trying to keep the crack in his voice from exploding
into tears.

“Oh, Mark,” Christine said, and he
could feel the pity in her voice. He wasn’t sure what made him feel
worse: her thinking he was a weirdo or her pitying him. “I’m sorry.
This has got to be so hard for you.”

“Yeah, it’s . . . well, there aren’t
really any words. I’m just sorry I got you involved in all of this.
I knew you were going to find out about my folks sooner or later,
but I didn’t want it to be like this. It was stupid to hide it and
I’m sorry. I know I must seem like a freak and you probably don’t
want anything to do with me after all this.”

“Mark, as fucked up as all of this is,
I’m not going to abandon you or anything. I really like you and I
want to help you get through this, okay?”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Look, I should probably go try
to settle my folks down or something, but I’ll see you tomorrow.
Try to take it easy, alright?”

“I will. Christine?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks. I mean it.”

“No problem. Bye.”

After hanging up he staggered
downstairs and got some food while dodging Joe’s questions of “Who
was that?” and “What did she want?” He mumbled his way through an
explanation and as soon as he was finished he went back upstairs to
try to make a dent in his homework.

Despite his nap earlier, he felt his
mind sagging under the weight of exhaustion. His eyes fluttered and
he let the pencil fall from his hand. He rolled over, pushing the
books off the edge of the bed. That would fix it, he realized. He’d
just sleep for years and it would all just be a distant memory by
the time he woke up.

It was supposed to be a good
day, right? The best day? Well, I guess we all get what we
deserve.

He was waking up, but he felt lost
again. He was dizzy, and when he went to rub some sleep from his
face he realized there was nothing there. No hands and no face. He
was just floating and formless in near total darkness. He thought
for a second that something had ended and he’d be snuffed out just
like Clara had been. Before he could decide if that would be a
relief or a tragedy someone turned on a light.

It was Clara, still alive and in her
apartment, walking towards him. She was coming from her bedroom and
wearing a nightgown, wiping sleep from her eyes. He was standing
(or floating) in her kitchen. He called out to her, but there was
nothing. No hands, no face and apparently, no voice.

She stopped in front of him and reached
out for the refrigerator. She paused for a second, her nose
twitching, and then she turned to look right at him. Before he
could tell if she could tell he was there a hand launched out of
the darkness next to him and crushed her wrist, forcing her down on
one knee.

Mark was screaming and thrashing in his
own mind, but nothing he thought could affect anything around him.
From the darkness stepped the figure he’d seen in the apartment
before, covered in swirling smoke and where eyes would be under the
hat shaped smoke two tiny flames burst to life.

The cane with the silver head swung out
from the smoke, and just as Mark recognized it from his dream it
smashed into Clara’s head. Once, twice and then a third time. He
let go of her wrist and she tumbled to the ground, finally letting
out a low moan as she pulled her injured wrist close to her
chest.

He circled her as she rolled over,
swinging the cane down on her back. She doubled up in pain, trying
to cover as much of herself as she could as he swung down on her
again and again.

The man stopped, turning his fiery eyes
to Mark, and he could see the swirling smoke and blackness of his
face twist into a smile.

“Oh yes,” he said, his voice a rumbling
echo of the one Darren had heard in Mark’s dream.

There was a long metallic scrape and
Clara, who’d been doubled over and whimpering, looked up. The man
drew the blade from the cane-sheath slowly, moving to stand
directly over her, his legs straddling her.

“Don’t! Don’t! Whatever you want, just
don’t do this! Not her,” Mark tried to yell, but there was still
nothing.

Clara turned, and Mark realized she was
looking towards him. The flames in the man’s eyes followed her gaze
and then the blade swung down on the back of her neck.

With no eyelids or hands, there was no
way for him to look away as her head did a little hop and then
rolled about a foot to the left of her body.

The man stood there watching as the
blood drained onto the tile. He dabbed the tip of the blade into
the growing puddle and the blood began to creep upward, coating it
with red. When the blade was fully covered, he slipped it back into
its sheath.

He turned and headed for the door,
rubbing the fingers of his free hand together. A ball of smoke
collected in his hand, and then with a snap of his fingers a tiny
flame burst to life in his palm. As the man walked past Mark’s
disembodied dream-self and out the back patio door Mark found
himself pulled along with him. As he reached the edge of the patio
the man tossed the ball of flame over his shoulder. It landed in
the center of the kitchen, a few feet in front of Clara’s headless
body. The flames spread quickly, burning along the floor fast but
curving around Clara’s body and head as they made their way towards
the living room.

The man stepped off the edge of the
patio and Mark found himself plunging into darkness
again

Chapter Ten

Mark never got around to finishing his
homework. The next day in class he mumbled an excuse to Mr. Bucco,
who stared at him with his beady, rodent eyes and told Mark that he
expected it tomorrow, no excuses. Mark wasn’t surprised that
threats from a balding algebra teacher didn’t have the same weight
as they had on Friday.

Steve met him at his locker after
class, and after a moment of the two just staring at each other,
Steve reached out and put his arm around Mark’s
shoulders.

“Dude. I don’t know what to
say.”