After Death (16 page)

“Yes?” He asked with an air of impatience, Frank having barely reached his domain.

Frank kept his manner deferential and explained as clearly as he could that he was looking for any information on a person named Paula Danner who presumably went to high school in the early 1950s. The officious little clerk simply stared at him and made no move to do anything, instead glancing repeatedly at his watch and sighing loudly. Frank quickly repeated the query, this time adding her middle initial “L”.

The clerk rolled his eyes and snipped: “That’ll help narrow it down.” Before disappearing into a back room.

Frank waited at the counter for over fifteen minutes and was on the verge of complaining. He’d seen no sign of the officious little ponytailed prick and thought it highly likely he’d slipped out the back door and gone on his lunch break just to spite him…

Just then the snippity clerk returned carrying a small folder which he loudly slapped on the counter. He made a show of opening it with a wide flourish and turned it so that Frank was unable to read its contents.

“Here it is: Paula L. Danner, August 3
^rd
, 1956.”

He looked up at Frank, face completely blank except for one eyebrow that was set at dramatic angle. He let the silence build until Frank had no choice but to ask:

“Dead?”

“As a doornail.” The clerk snapped back, the punch line primed to deliver.

Frank wrote down the date and thanked the little jerk without thinking, strictly out of habit.

“Not at all — It’s what I do.“ The clerk sarcastically replied as Frank left the counter. And then: “Next.”

***

Frank went next to the library and browsed the microfiche — something he was familiar with doing from college and his other novels. He used the date the clerk had given him and reviewed the newspapers from the period, starting with the Los Angeles Times.

It wasn’t long before he ran across a headline that made him sit up straighter in the chair and blink several times reflexively.

The headline for March 23
^rd
, 1953 read:

MUTILATED BODIES FOUND IN HILLS NOW AT 5.

And underneath:

Grisly Slayings Sweep Southland.

He scanned the article, breath coming unevenly. Several men, women, and children had gone missing in recent years (primarily children) and there was a recent upsurge in bodies found with one or more appendages missing. The details were slim beyond these facts as it was an ongoing investigation but several small photos were shown underneath.

One of them was a delicately featured brunette girl smiling joyously. Beneath was her name and age: Paula L. Danner, 17.

His first reaction was shock —
Murders around the same time and place that Burt told him about and Eli had the ring from one of them !
And then, out of nowhere: “Grisly Slayings Sweep Southland” —
That’s a lot of alliteration for a sub-headline… I wonder if the writer got fired..?
He knew it was the wrong thing to think of at a time like this… It was probably just his subconscious trying to deal with this with humor… And as if on cue, his focus snapped back to the facts before him —
Could it be possible that
Burt was telling the truth after all! Could Eli have really been this… Monster!

***

Frank caught Fernando on his lunch break eating at a rear table in the cafeteria long after the patients had all returned to their rooms for their after-meal rest. He usually thought it was funny that Fernando always brought a sack lunch — He’d joked with him many times about not being able to stomach his own cooking — but not today. Today he was anxious and twitchy, borderline manic. He launched into what he had discovered about Eli without any preamble, always glancing around the room, paranoid that he might be overheard by unwelcome ears.

Fernando just listened calmly until Frank finished and slowly shook his head.

“Shit, man that’s wild. Just goes to show ya, ya can’t trust nobody.”

Fernando got up from the table, threw away the trash from his lunch, and signaled Frank to walk with him as he headed off towards the West wing.
That was it?
Frank thought. He’d just told Fernando that the old guy he’d always thought was so wonderful might have actually been a psycho and that he may have been responsible for
dozens
of murders — well beyond the total of eleven bodies they’d actually found (minus a few limbs, of course). And yet, Fernando seemed like he’d just heard something insignificant — that he’d be serving baked potatoes instead of mashed potatoes tomorrow or that the cooks would be getting new hairnets next week. Frank couldn’t believe it —
Didn’t he understand what he’d just been told?

His feelings must have shown on his face because Fernando took one glance and reacted. He spoke low, still moving.

“What? Frank you gotta lighten up. He’s dead. He may have been a sicko but he’s history. And if he did anything bad, that’s history too. Not much we can do about it now, right? ‘les you wanna tell the police..?”

Frank didn’t respond.
What would the police do?
Fernando was right —
This was ancient history... Still — Fernando’s lack of a reaction bugged him…
Fernando misunderstood Frank’s silence.

“You let it get to you, man.” Fernando continued, trying to be calming. “Somebody dies in front of you and it’s weird. You find out their past was shaky and it’s even weirder. You don’t know what to feel so you freak. Just forget it, man, fuck it.”

They’d passed several rooms as Fernando talked and Frank noticed that many were empty, the beds being changed, the belongings removed.

“What’s going on, where is everybody?” He asked, concerned.

Fernando tried to sound unaffected.

“It’s a convalescent hospital, Frank. The turn-over’s pretty brutal. People die.”

“How many since I was last here?”

Fernando winced but didn’t slow down.

“Wild Bill, Larry the screamer, Arnold on the other side. Three. Rachel’s about to go too, got real sick just after you left. Place’s become a real bummer…”

Frank frowned.
Something’s wrong…!
Every instinct was screaming it —
Something’s wrong here!
He spun on his heel and headed for Rachel’s room — Fernando hustled after him and put a restraining hand on his arm.

“This isn’t cool, Frank, she needs her sleep.”

Frank shook him off and kept going. That alarm was still peeling in his head —
Something’s wrong — Something’s wrong!
He side-stepped around Lidia who was blocking their way in her wheelchair, repeating her phrase over and over as always:

“…Pick me up at ten o’clock. Pick me up at ten o’clock. Pick me up at ten o’clock.
Frank
. Pick me up at ten o’clock…”

Frank slammed to a halt and spun back on her. He crouched before her wheelchair.

“What, Lidia? What did you say?”

Her eyes were wild, darting right and left.

“…Pick me up at ten o’clock. Help. Pick me up at ten o’clock. Pick me up at ten o’clock…”

“What is it, Lidia!?!” He asked urgently. “What are you trying to say?!?”

Her expression became even more twitchy and agitated. Her breathing came in sharp bursts and rattled its way out of her fragile chest. She began speaking her phrase faster and faster, eyes flared wide.

“…Pick me up at ten o’clock — Pick me up at ten o’clock — Pick me up at ten o’clock. Pick me up at ten o’clock…”

Frank waited but there were no more words inserted into her mantra—just the same phrase, over and over — frustrating — maddening — He shook her wheelchair forcefully.

“What is it, Lidia?!? Tell me!” He demanded.

Her phrase continued even more rapidly, her breathing erratic. Fernando pulled him away and to his feet.

“Leave her, Frank! Can’t you see she’s upset?”

Frank didn’t want to leave.
There was something here — She knew something…
She seemed to be staring towards Rachel’s room for a split second longer than anywhere else before her crazy eyes darted in another direction.

He knelt again before her.

“Is it something to do with Rachel, Lidia?
Tell me
.”

He watched her carefully.
Yes, her eyes were wild but they definitely paused in that direction. Definitely something to do with Rachel.

Lidia was struggling for air, almost convulsing. Frank knew he should get the nurse but Fernando was there — He could take care of her.

He dashed off down the hall for Rachel’s room and got there in seconds. He knew there was imminent danger here — that urgent sensation was almost making his ears ring. He whipped open her door —

Rachel lay in bed, gasping for breath, a huge mangy black dog crouched on her chest.

Frank froze —
What the —?!?

The dog turned and glared at Frank, long teeth bared, foamy white saliva running in gooey streams onto the bed sheets. Its haunches quivered, a low rumbling growl building in its throat as it readied to spring.

Red-hot anger instantly overcame reason —
How dare you!
Frank thought.
How dare you be here!
He rushed the creature without further consideration for his own safety — reflex, protectiveness, primal instincts taking over.

The beast was startled and also reacting according to instinct, took flight, leaping across the room in one agile bound and flying directly at the dressing mirror in the corner.

The moment was stretched — that graceful leap seeming to take minutes — until there was a flash and a ripple of blue light and the dog disappeared
into the mirror
as smoothly as water flows into a stream.

Frank stared, mind not able to grasp what he’d seen.
Impossible! That was simply impossible!

He hurried to Rachel who was rolling her head from side to side, eyes bulging with fear. She clutched his arm and tried desperately to speak — finally managing a frantic whisper as she trembled violently.

“Frank… Frank…” She said, voice a frail rasp.

Her eyes slowly cleared and she looked at him in startled recognition.

“Frank!”

He leaned closer, tried to comfort her.

“Relax, Rachel… Take it easy…”

She struggled against him, quaked more visibly.

“Frank! Frank!”

Her fearful expression grew and she arched her neck, veins standing out… She tried to speak further but the effort was too much. Her strength began to fade and he leaned ever closer to her trembling mouth.

“Tell me, Rachel. Tell me…” He urged softly.

He strained to hear, poised an inch above her. He waited motionless, finally sure it would never come.

“Frank… Frank… He… knows… about you… you and… your… your —”

Her head started to fall back towards the pillow, eyes aflutter.
She had to finish — Your what?!? Your WHAT? And WHO knows?

He lowered down further, almost touching her wrinkled mouth with his ear. He slipped his other hand under her neck and gave it a slight prodding squeeze. She groaned, air escaping from deep inside her —
Sorry, Rachel… Sorry…
But it had the desired effect —

“…Your… your… ”

She took a deep gulp of air and then — finally:

“…
Wife
…”

His blood froze and she finally finished, her teeth clicking after every clearly enunciated syllable for emphasis:

“…
Jacquel-ine
…”

And she was unconscious.

He felt the blood drain from his skin. His muscles locked.
Impossible. Impossible!
Who knows? Who? It couldn’t be! Impossible!
He shook her again but her eyes remained closed.
Rachel, wake up, Goddamnit — Tell me what I need to know!
He squeezed her neck again, harder this time — maybe too hard. The flesh compressed easily against the bone but she still didn’t move.
Goddamnit! GodDamn-it!

He stared at her without seeing, mind racing —
The dog that leapt through the mirror — He knew that dog — It seemed like a disheveled version of Blackie! Impossible! IMPOSSIBLE! She said “he” knows — present tense — She could only mean — IMPOSSIBLE! The dead don’t come back! The dead DON’T come back! But think of what he’d just seen with his own eyes!!!

There was movement behind him — Fernando was entering the room. Frank slipped his hand out from under Rachel, unseen. That wouldn’t look good — Fernando could get the wrong idea…

Frank turned and faced him. Fernando nervously fingered the silver cross at his neck, trying to take in the situation.

“What’s goin’ on here, Frank?”

Frank got up from the bed, head still spinning.
How could he explain anything to Fernando? He was the only one that had seen anything — Him and an old dying woman. Fernando wouldn’t believe him — No one would. He still wasn’t sure he believed it himself…

He moved past Fernando out the door, itching his stomach.
Better to stay silent. Better to say nothing.
He didn’t realize it until he’d pushed out the front doors — the sticky brown stain had permeated his shirt again…