Alysse Aallyn

Tag: Psychological Thrillers

  • Queen of Swords: a novel

    Charmian

    Chapter III – The Judge

    What do you give the woman who has everything? It’s a problem. By definition, femininity is yearning for a never-to-arrive completion. Queens, of course, are different. Power is what we yearn for. One thing I’ve learned, if it’s masculine “approval” you’re waiting for; you’ll never get that! Men call us “insatiable” in self- excuse. So what new toy could tempt me?


    I hesitated a little as I opened the mailbox. Usually it’s a pleasure to stand in my immaculately groomed garden looking through trust and bank statements, but last week, for the first tie in my life I received an anonymous letter. It was postmarked Colorado Springs, the old neighborhood, but the address had been made by label and the return address was “Suite 7, Flatirons Office Park”. So even though the envelope said “Hallmark” I opened it with a distinct lack of excitement. Almost certain to be begging disguised as an invitation. Strangely enough, it was both.


    Inside were cut out letters assembled to form the words:

    I KNOW WHAT YOU DID.

    A chill ran through me and I looked up hastily, but as far as one can see through woods and leaves, I was alone. Things that seem very unpleasant at first conceal hidden delights; there’s a life lesson for you. Emotions first repelled as shocks to the system can even become addictive. So I thought hard about it. In fact, I had been thinking about it all week.


    A new game. I used to love games. A hazard of wealth is a lack of surprises, since you control everything. I usually visit the sex club as a corrective. Plenty of surprises there. Here’s a game with a new disguised player. Someone jealous, obviously. Someone who feared coming out from behind the mask; someone who hoped to upset me from a distance.


    I’ve done some terrible things in my life, that’s for certain. A Queenship that’s routinely handed over isn’t worth having. On the other hand, it’s literally impossible for anyone to know what those were. So here’s a person – a disguised person, a gameplayer – trying to manipulate me into acting in some way I wouldn’t have acted without this incitement. Now what could that be?


    Criminal psychology says it’s a woman, an older woman (what junior would ever choose this mode of communication?) but it might be a man. A man-woman. I know plenty of those.
    That’s the reason that I put my hand slowly into the mailbox as if a second coachwhip waited in the dark to pounce. But no Colorado Springs Hallmark card. Instead, a summons to jury duty!


    What could be more intriguingly amusing than a power of life or death? In Colorado, death sentences are decided by the jury. My whole life has been about deciding when to cut the cord. I might have to share it with eleven others, but most people are easily manipulateable, and our jury system is such that one holdout is all it takes to derail a prosecution.


    KDVR has been screaming at me for weeks about the Sivarro-Haymaker case. Did pretty Karen Sivarro, dragged back from Europe in chains, really ask her boyfriend to hire a hitman? Is she as responsible as said hitman or perhaps even more so? The murder of Rafe Zanelli – we had all seen pictures of his bullet-ridden body sprawled in the roadway – wouldn’t have occurred without her, that’s for certain.


    I became aware of someone creeping up behind me. It could only be my neighbor, Judge Sugarman, who has lately been stalking me. I steeled myself to face him with a smile.
    The Judge came lumbering at me with such speed he must have been spying from his kitchen window with binoculars. Judge Sugarman has a sort of a wife – what is left of her. She’s already been outsourced to a nursing home so he is frantically shopping for a replacement. He has a fine pool to select from – literally vans of women arrive carrying electric brooms and casseroles and baskets of flowers — but in the most ancient tradition of romance, he doesn’t want anyone who wants him.

    He wants me. His only love affair at present is with the internal combustion engine, so a racket of clippers or weed whacking usually precedes him as he angles towards the privet separating our lawns. I tried not to gag at the love light in his eyes. After all, this summons I held in my hand could give him an opportunity to be useful. Quid pro quo makes the world go round, as my dear, late, late husband used to say.


    I could have told him that being alone these days is no reason to go without sex. As a local potentate he probably knows about the sex club. I see plenty like him on my nights there – suited up and eager for excitement. But they don’t last. They soon discover that anonymity removes their sole attraction. Suddenly they experience the kind of catastrophic fall in status it used to be their professional obligation to inflict on the rest of us. They find themselves subject to a new order – the rule of beauty. If they expect to dance, they had better bring a partner. Judge Sugarman has big shoes that need filling.

    He is looking to purchase, not rent. His clothes say Nieman Marcus but his jowls say prenup. Someone patient with him in bed, supportive at public events, self-effacing at parties and ready to memorize the birthdays and anniversaries of children and grandchildren. Been there, done that. This man doesn’t need a beginner, he needs an immigrant. Off the boat, or under the fence. An indentured servant with a huge bill hanging over her head. He had better look elsewhere. Now I please only myself.


    I made a magnanimous effort to pretend I’m not automatically repulsed by wandering nasal hair and a gym-free torso – Goddess knows I’ve had worse. His needs and my needs do not match up. Yet he possessed a small capability to be of service. The judge took my hand and as I touched his Mount of Venus I could read that he is an ungenerous lover. Failure to achieve paradise is your own damn fault. I relinquished his hand by the simple stratagem of spewing my mail at his feet.
    He half bent – half knelt – to pick it up, allowing my eyes to stray to a more delectable sight – the arrival of Brainerd’s assistant.


    Brainerd is my gardener, and there is nothing attractive about him. He is slowly becoming skeletally thin – Paris Hilton would be jealous – but on him it’s not attractive and suggests some terminal condition unresponsive to modern meds. Lately he has started bringing an assistant – his heir, one supposes – who is as radiant as sunrise. I don’t know his name, but I have stood at my bathroom window many times watching the muscles slide around under his tattoos. He’s probably gay, but I can play male. One has the obligation to explore all appetites, creating new ones as necessary.

    Only the dead don’t hunger. Nostalgie de la boue, as my late husband used to say. We all suffer from an atavistic longing for the primeval mud. I admit, I’ve even been tempted to slide a guest card to the sex club underneath the bent windshield wipers of the ramshackle steamship he uses for transportation, but frankly, I’m too lazy.


    Brainerd’s assistant acknowledged my presence shyly and began unloading a collection of rakes and sprays. I favored him with a luxurious smile while Judge Sugarman staggered red-faced to his feet. “You certainly get a lot of catalogs,” he puffed.


    I dazzled him with a leftover lip-pleat.
    “Oh, you know how it is,” I told him, “So much money, so little time. Why should my stepdaughters get spoiled? We must prevent the heirs from plundering the estate.”
    He laughed gamely. He loves it when I flirt with him, but I like to go beyond flirtation into actual discomfort. Because it’s fun.


    “Here’s my latest acquisition,” I said, dangling the jury notice in front of his yellow-orbed irises. “The Sivarro-Haymaker case is the one I want.”


    “That’s the one everybody wants,” he said, and I saw his mind struggling with the realization that I was asking for something in his power to grant.


    He backpedalled. “They usually divide the pool randomly between civil and criminal.”
    I pouted. “I don’t want to waste my time on a civil case.”


    Still, he hesitated. “I could make a call but…even if you had a very high number and were interviewed late the prosecution might use a strike against you.”


    “Why the prosecution?” I was annoyed. Dr. Quantreau’s widow was a celebrant of the status quo, why should anyone assume I automatically identify with the accused? I have personal reason to know, where there’s smoke there’s usually a smoldering ember someplace. I felt insulted by the ugly film muddying his eyes. I could hear what he was thinking – yes, I read minds when it’s worth my while. Isn’t he thinking the trophy second wife is just the kind of predatory adventuress poor Karen Sivarro is accused of being? Yet it’s a damned poor adventuress who ends up on a murder rap. They had to drag her back from England in chains.


    Cut to the chase. “So who’s their ideal juror?” No false pride here. I can play anything. Pick his brains since that’s what he’s here for.


    “The different sides want different things. They’ll give you a questionnaire. The trick is to appeal to both of them.”


    “And how would I do that?”


    “You’re uninterested in gossip. Never read “bad” news or watch frightening television. No relatives in prison or law enforcement. No crime victims in the family tree.” He leaned forward to whisper in my ear, “Easily swayed.”


    I laughed out loud. “Why that old thing!” I exclaimed in my best Southern accent. “I can fake that twice a day!”


    I rapped him on the shoulder with my invisible fan. “Don’t forget to make that phone call! I’m counting on you now!” And then I was sprinting for the house, leaving him standing there as if he had forgotten why he had come, as, given his advanced age, quite possibly he had. Bastard! He owed me that phone call! The more I thought about it, the more it seemed likely that he himself was my anonymous correspondent. It was just the kind of thing an elderly law-saturated geezer would get up to.

    He’d probably had plenty of cases like this, when he was on the bench. Why should a beautiful, rich young woman with all of life as her plaything have anything to do with the likes of him, unless she required his counsel, expertise, and a professional shoulder to lean on? It certainly would explain why he hovered for the “trigger” of me at my mailbox.
    Men are so transparent.

  • Queen of Swords: a novel

    Whitney:
    Chapter II – Death

    I always knew she murdered my father. Does evil have a smell? Only eleven percent of people can detect the odor of cyanide. Almonds. But I am one of the eleven percent. I guess I have a nose for evil. Something about Charmian twitched my nostrils from the beginning. Charmian! That name is fake like everything else about her – nails, hair, eyes, breasts; fake, fake, fake. And my poor idiot father, who raised me to know quality and to seek it out, to insist on value, to treasure worth and reward effort – said he didn’t give a damn about Charmian’s past – who or where she had been.


    Didn’t care that she was forty years younger! Or was it what was left of his dick that didn’t care? My older sisters were much more pragmatic about his dick of clay. They had husbands, children, they were grown and gone. Out of the house. In fact they said all men had clay dicks. McKenzie says every man’s ideal woman is a Vegas stripper. Darby says hookers work hard and earn their money just like everyone else. McKenzie says old men are a lot of work, and Darby says Dad treated Mom like crap and karma is a bitch.


    I don’t remember. I was still little when she died. I took his side, always. He was the fun parent, giver of candy and prizes. He pointed out to me how logical he was and how stupid she was; why should I ever join her team? Dad and I read hero books; Beowulf, the Iliad, Genji, Gilgamesh. He encouraged the highest aspirations. I was the son he never had and didn’t need, because he had me. Then came the stroke. He needed help. No biggie, basic assistance. He didn’t want to help from me; he said I had my own life to live. I should have worried more when he hired Charmian. She was totally unqualified.


    She was dangerous. Anyone could see. Every layer I’ve peeled back is perfidious and I don’t think I’ve hit bottom yet. I learned it from you, dad. You were so demanding, such a skeptic. My father was a doctor, a teacher, a diagnostician. Whenever I say my last name everyone asks, any relation to Dr. Quantreau? His whole ethos was to look beneath the surface – never settle for the obvious – take full note of signs and portents. Intelligent people have the obligation to educate themselves until they understand what they’re up against.


    So that’s what I’m doing. I’m going t catch her and expose her. After they married he kicked me out of the house – she kicked me out – and he had no protections. I thought I had more time. When nobody was looking she finished him off.


    I didn’t tell my sisters. I should have seen it coming. felt too guilty. So it’s up to me to do the dirty work. But is it really “dirty work” when it concerns someone you love? Dad, the raging unbeliever who taught me how to make the most of every second we are given, was tricked into lapsing gently into the dark night. How could you have disappeared so completely from the lovely earth you taught me how to savor? Exactly as if you had never been here at all.

  • Queen of Swords: a novel

    Duel between a stepmother and stepdaughter turns deadly.

    Charmian:
    Chapter I – The Knight of Swords

    My mother was bitten by a coachwhip while carrying me; that’s how I got my second sight.  My stepfather, not a witness to the event but someone who always had the be the smartest person in any room he was in and the greatest living authority on everything, said it wasn’t a coachwhip but a blue runner and it never would have killed her anyhow.  It wasn’t until I left home that I discovered they’re the same snake.  So that argument, like most they had, was entirely pointless.

    She would have killed me deader than any snakebite but she was too fat to even realize she was pregnant. So that was the first lucky thing in my lifetime string of magical good fortune, the second being that I didn’t drown in the toilet. Let’s say my “home birth” was quite a surprise.


    To those blessed with second sight time is circular. There I was: an old soul born to pawns of fate just up from rats. When they come back it will be as cockroaches. I was seventeen when I came into my royal nature as Queen of Swords. The Queen ‘s blood is power, intuition is her oxygen, action is her throne. I am the only one who recognizes truth. My sword cauterizes like a laser. You might as well submit; you’ll feel better after. All living creatures, whether they know it or not, draw breath in fealty. I grant consciousness and unconsciousness; just as I choose.


    This morning, I pulled a card, as is my daily custom. And there you were, my Knight of Swords, leaning down from your horse to penetrate a dragon’s proffered belly. I must have need of you because when I summoned; you came. My late husband used to say, “When the servant is ready, the master will appear.” He thought he knew who was the servant and who the master — a dangerous assumption to make when I’m around.


    In my beautiful Doré deck this Knight is teen-mag handsome, with a carved-marble face, blocky jaw and a panther’s square nose. Luxuriant blonde hair, rippling into curls, is tied back for battle. His quiver contains a multitude of arrows unlike the poorly-equipped King of Swords. A “suicide king”; his blade is turned against himself.


    This knight is also slightly cross-eyed, like a Siamese cat. Does it mean that, like me, you see forward and back? I almost feel I’m looking at an echo of my double-eyed face – one eye green and one eye blue. He is ready to launch himself on his heroic quest; but one eye still looks behind him.


    There’s fate for you. Even when you don’t believe in it, it believes in you. Let this card inaugurate my new life. I have been feeling something missing. My ideal lover is out there waiting for me to find him. In a way, I feel I have invented you. Or perhaps you, lonely as only gods are lonely, have invented me. I rose up out of one of your nocturnal emissions in my most seductive guise. Blonde (of course), full-breasted (of course), boy-hipped, five feet eleven in stilettos. Come and get me.
    Since I can recall eternity I must have always been here. We are primal elements: archetypes. We are fated to meet maskless. History itself evolves to smooth my path. I will teach you mastery of the future. I inserted your card in a gilt display box and left exposed it to the consideration of the universe on my mother-of-pearl dressing table.


    I live surrounded by beautiful objects, such as this suede book in which I write with my ivory pen. I too lived my early life as a beautiful object, much sought after by collectors. Beauty is my birthright, but conquest has leaves me lonely.
    Until now.

  • I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead

    Chapter 24 – Completing the Maze

    “Jazz, Jazz, Jazz,” Corso shook his head. His voice turned silky. “I am your advisor. It is my job – I think I can say my calling – to step in when you’ve gone astray. And what have you done to your hair? I’m not sure I like it. You look quite a different person. It’s as if you’re attempting a disguise. As Mr. Quinn how that works out. You really require professional intervention at this point, but hasn’t that always been the truth about you?” He turned to Chase.


    “I see you have been hanging around with quite a bad element, Mr. Quinn the housebreaker. Mr. Quinn the burglar. Mr. Quinn who lives – rather tragically I must confess – on the edges of other people’s lives with other people’s things on other people’s money. When will you learn that you are a free agent, Mr. Quinn and not my shadow-doppelganger? Jazz, it grieves me that you are so impressionable.


    “Put down your fists, Mr. Quinn. Did you wish to duke it out? Never let your mouth write checks your body cannot cash. Why don’t you let me explain my proposition before you land yourself in the slammer? I’maware that you can be bought; you’ll see my plan is lucrative. I’ve prepared a spreadsheet for your delectation. If you’ll sit down — and calm down — I’ll show it to you.


    “Do I look dangerous here? Trust me that I’ve come in peace. Now as for you, Jazz, I’m aware that cash can’t sway you or you’d actually have some of it. No, you are motivated by – “ he paused delicately, “I think we’ll call it love. Love, love, love, love, love. Who am I to say it can’t exist? Sit down, Mr. Quinn.”


    To my astonishment Chase sat down. I hesitated, unsure of what to do. I wanted to believe Chase was playing a deeper game – collecting evidence as he had the first time I’d seen him with Corso – but there was a crushed look on his face that hadn’t even showed around his father. Could anyone be that good an actor?


    “This is win, win, children.” To emphasize, Corso leaned forward and Chase flinched as though the other man’s penumbra touched him. Observing his advantage, Corso threw out his arms. “I will lay my life wide open for you, since that’s what you so desire. Tell you all my secrets.” He thumped his chest. “Here’s the first; I am the master key that opens all the doors.” Behind the saturated silk of his voice I heard the scorpion hiss with a sting in its tail.


    “You have no right to be here,” I challenged. “Get out!” Took every ounce of my non-existent courage, I have to say.


    His face assumed a sorrowful mien. “I was so afraid you would start without me,” he sighed. “What can I say to persuade you that I am the multiplier in this equation?”
    “I can take you,” asserted Chase, his voice rough and gravelly as an unpaved road.


    “That would be lovely,” soothed Corso. “By all means let us bench- press each other for the delectation of the fair maiden.” He gestured at my poster. “This is so quaint, Jazz. I’m hoping once you’ve memorized it you’ll loan it to me. If only I had known, every time you said “Oh, Bosch” that you meant Bosch with a “c”. We would have gotten on much faster.”
    “Go to hell,” I returned. Feebly, alas.


    “Jazz, we’re already there,” croaked Chase.
    Oh God, I thought. He’s still set on killing him. Throwing him out the window, like Howk’s body in my vision? I’ve got to do something. But what?


    “Don’t flatter yourself, Mr. Quinn,” snapped Corso, exactly as if we were still in class. “You are just a beginner. Give me a child at the age of seven…then give me another. I’ve plumbed your depths.” He laughed dismissively. “Frankly, Jazz deserves better than you.”
    “We know what you’ve been up to, murdering Miss Howk,” said Chase. “Did she kill your wife for you?”


    A smile broke over Corso’s face. “What fun this game has been,” he sighed. “You advance a pawn, I advance a rook. Rook kills pawn. If I’d had any idea what a pleasure it is having stalkers I’d have tried it long ago. So gratifying to see the pair of you so aroused by my spoor.”
    ““You made all sorts of mistakes,” I said angrily, out of control and aware I shouldn’t be doing this. Should we show him our hand? But the temperature in the room was just too high. I wanted to throw every weapon I could find.


    “I don’t think so,” said Corso. “That doesn’t sound like something I would do. On the other hand, one likes to leave a signature behind. You know Jazz, there’s always more than one suspect. Can you think of anyone who wants to show off for you and thus secure your trust? Is there no one you can think of?” He spoke loudly, as iffor a hidden recording device. “Poor Miss Howk disappeared wearing your scarf, after all. They told me at the Health Center that you seemed angry at her for some reason. Did you take her for a rival?”


    What a master of smoke and mirrors! As if Chase and I didn’t recognize truth when we tripped over it! “You are ridiculous,” I challenged, flinging out the biggest insult I could think of. “What will the dean say about the way you exploit your students? Don’t tell me there isn’t plenty of evidence.”
    “I’m going to tell you something very shocking,” Corso admitted lazily, rising to his feet and peering out my eighth-floor window. He turned his back upon the world to perch upon my ledge. “The internet is full of porn. It’s hard to tell one slave from another. So really, only the slaves can testify they were present at their own comeuppances! Does that sound likely to you? The compensations of continuing just as we are, are enormous. I do wish you’d let me show you.
    Isn’t there anything you desire? Mr. Quinn has a nice shiny car. What do women want? Let me see…hmm…women want men!” He laughed out loud. “I think we’ll guarantee you that! This poor slave, if you require him. Don’t you see yet, you won’t catch flies with threats, adorable little Jazz? Time to try your famous honey instead.” He sighed luxuriously. “Infamous honey, perhaps I should say. Enjoyed by all.”


    I knew the urge to physically attack was just what Corso wanted, so instead of advancing, I retreated, wondering how I could prevent Chase from wrestling with his demon. I walked to the door and turned on the lights. Because right then I saw it all. I had something Corso never had, or if he had, he’d willingly surrendered it. The connection Chase and I had forged to the infinite answered all our questions. With my room’s fluorescent lights lit, the room became a stage. I knew that Bex and his rifle were out there somewhere.


    “You are such a bastard,” spat Chase, staggering to his feet. His face was so drained of blood his freckles stood out like plague spots. Separate, we couldn’t fight him. How could we come together?


    “Oh, come, come,” said Corso, throwing his arms out to embrace the universe, “I gave you what you wanted. I brought her to you, didn’t I? I brought all of them. Turn about is fair play. I’ve upheld my part of the bargain. Now it’s your turn to share.”


    I shouted at Chase, “Transitional objects!” and threw him to the floor in a flying tackle. Chase’s eyes met mine in a suddenly full comprehension. I saw the Corso-induced glaze disappearing from his brain as I mouthed, “Window.”


    Was that crack the window breaking? Crack-crack-crack. Firecrackers. Or bullets. Eight shots, or four shots and four echoes? Who can say? We were face down on the floor in that hug that was our gateway to the universe. We felt, rather than saw, Corso stagger, looked up to see his face express astonishment at his own mortality. He was not immortal, lilies blossomed redly on his naked chest.


    His power sucked out of the room along with his body. Chase leaped to his feet and when I rose to stop him from following the cascade of shattered glass I saw on the library roof what I expected to see; the glittering motorcycle jacket, the gleaming long gun.


    I pulled Chase down and held him as hard as I could.
    “What a monster,” said Chase. “Hold me.”


    I held him. “You’re mine,” I told him. “And I’m yours. You have to stay with me.”
    I felt the tension in his body ebb as we both awakened from our long sleep. We had never been able to fight him separately but together we were invincible.


    The sound of sirens gave us courage to lean out and look out upon the new world. The snow had started falling, and snowflakes gathered on Corso’s naked chest where he lay shattered below us in the parking lot. He was human after all. The flickering lights came closer; a symphony of color and music playing in our honor. A few distant walkers huddled around the dead man, taking cell phone pictures and shouting.


    “It’s great to dream,” said Chase, “And it’s wonderful to be awake.”


    I kissed him hard and he kissed back. “Come on,” said Chase. “It’s time to free the others.” The skin crinkled around his blue eyes as the spirit – my spirit — danced within him.

  • I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead

    Chapter 23 – Together

    We awoke cuddled together at the foot of Chase’s bed, wrapped in his comforter. Chase was moaning.


    “Too late,” he said, “too late.” I kissed him and ran to the kitchen for coffee. Caffeine and aspirin. When I came back he was holding his head.
    “Bad one,” he said.


    “Except we found her!” And I felt fine. I was beginning to see the psychic pain engendered by our flights was different according to what we went in with and how we could process what we learned. See? If there’s always progress, there’s always hope.
    “Maybe Bex will loan me his gun,” moaned Chase.


    I made him drink bitter instant coffee. Our roles were reversed from my “spontaneous combustion” at Hadleigh. As log as there were two of us, we could help each other through anything.
    “W don’t need Bex for anything and we certainly don’t need guns,” I insisted.


    Chase rolled coffee around his mouth as if was a fine wine; then ruined the effect by gargling. “Well then what the hell are we going to do?”


    “Maybe we can’t get Corso for everything,” I asserted, acting brave for Chase’s benefit, “But we can make a start. The sex thing is bad. He’s involved with his students, so even if he tries to blame us, they’ll do something to him. Maybe they’ll lock him up.”
    “You’re willing to have the world…see that?”


    “I think the world may be already seeing it.” Although it would be just like Corso to play gatekeeper so he could make money. Off of us. Besides, we owed the others something; at the very least to make sure “dream lab” never happened again. “We’ll go to the Dean. Remember, he said dream lab was recorded. He has to show them something. ”


    “He’ll just say the equipment malfunctioned,” sighed Chase, rubbing his jaw as if soul flight dislocated it. “How about this, I promise we’ll do whatever you think is right.”


    “First, walk me back to my room so I can get my things.” It would only take moments to pack it up and never return to that “sick building”. I admitted the unmentionable. “I’m scared of Bex.”
    “Let’s go.” He struggled to his feet, rolling a bit as we came together. Steadying each other. “And then I’ll fix that window.”


    Darkness was just settling on an ordinary – to everyone else — Sunday afternoon. Students strolling, linking, hailing one another and hooking up. It looked safe. It looked as if all we had to fear was each other. That’s what the maze-master wants the mice to think.


    “Let’s don’t wait until it gets too dark,” I angsted in full Foreboding Mode.
    “I’m ready. Thanks for the “to go”. He flourished at me his plastic cup.


    We crossed the quad without a problem, though I felt people looked at us strangely. Because we walked so close together, marching hip to thigh in a solitary unit? Inside Hadleigh, I allowed myself to unravel a bit as the hiss of automatic doors closed us in.
    “One down,” I said aloud.


    I might sigh with relief, but my inner bell was gonging, and I’ve learned to ignore that at my peril. Something was wrong but I couldn’t tell what. Still, here at Hadleigh we were surrounded by students; the night security guy had even taken over the desk. Phones in every room, cell phones in every pocket.


    First warning: elevator out of order. That was the first bad thing. And the freight elevator was in service. We waited for it quite awhile.


    “Eight floors is not so bad,” said Chase. “No pain, no gain.” Tossed his coffee cup into the trash.
    He said that so lightly, then saw me wince.


    “Sorry,” he apologized. “It’s just that we’re fighters now. Can’t afford to ditch training just when you’re approaching Final Contest. “ He took my hand. “Come on, I’ll race you.” As we chased up the stairwell he shouted. Facilis descensus averno!”


    “You got that right,“ I puffed. Going up is so darn hard! It’s so much easier to let your muscles go limp and slide. But…better up than down.


    At every floor the fire doors were propped open – illegally, but it lent me confidence. Heartening scraps of music could be heard at every floor; Snow Patrol, Hands Down, Vampire Weekend.

    Speaking of Vampire Weekend, there were so many people around. Nothing can go wrong in a big crowd. Right? Unfortunately most of them were hollow-eyed revenants fleeing Saturday night crime scenes for parietals. With their piss- stained hair and their bile-stained clothing they were not good advertisements for the party-hearty lifestyle. Somehow we never get to see the “after” photos. Corso’s zombies. I imagined the mark of Corso on every forehead.


    I believe they shuddered as much at the sight of us as we shuddered at the sight of them. Because we were going up, like fireman, while they fled the burning building? Maybe we are all just ghosts to each other anyway.


    When I exercise I can’t talk. So I have to think. If shame is felt only by the haunted, that’s damned unfair. Gives the thin edge of the wedge to those like Dr. Corso who applaud a guiltless super-race. Confidence and entitlement – those most envied of attributes — shine out around him like a magical light. At least two corpses in his wake plus a genocidal wave of shame. And what of bodies unrecovered?


    “We’re dead to him already,” I gasped aloud.


    Chase knew exactly what I meant. “If so, he’s wrong,” said Chase, hardly showing the effects of an eight-storey climb, “I was dead but you brought me back to life.”


    “He’s the dead one”, tolled my inner bell. I took off my shoes for the last three flights. I think now I can say I’ve officially had it with stiletto heels. It’s kitten heels from here on out, unless Chase begs. I wished I could say something light, to conceal the fact that I was puffing too hard, but I was puffing too hard.


    “And I don’t even smoke,” I said, unlocking my door.
    Chase proclaimed our new mantra “Facilis descensus–,”


    “Avernum!” Corso finished triumphantly. He lay stretched at full length upon my bed, shirtless and exposing his perfect six-pack. “So glad you’ve been keeping up with your Virgil, Stevie. You’ve got to be careful to get the declensions right. Excuse me, I mean Chase, of course.”


    How was he able to suck every scrap of power out of a room and use it to fuel his own personal generator? Reading glasses perched upon his nose and my laptop perched upon his thighs. He turned his shining face to me and said, “I must apologize for checking your work, Jazz but it did get a bit dull waiting for you. Unfortunately, there’s no work here. There are, however, lots of other interesting things. JazzOne makes a terrible password. How’s the chemistry going?”
    No, no, don’t close the door; don’t lock us in with the monster. But these damned heavy, soundproof, fireproof doors – so unlike poor Miss Howk’s – close by themselves.

    I was still holding my shoes; should Ithrow them at him as if he was a dartboard? I flushed; feeling him effortlessly read my every thought. I could flee down the stairs, but I’d never leave Chase alone to face the dragon. I saw his shoulders set in that familiar wrestling stance; but Corso wouldn’t crumble like Bex; this was real-time, and my room is deficient in vases to throw. And besides, if we marked him it put us further in the wrong. My brain seemed frozen. I was long past having clever things to say. All I managed was, “How did you get in?”

  • I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead

    Chapter 22 – Beyond Paradise

    “Look hard at the picture,” said Chase, waving his phone before my face. I closed my eyes. I don’t work that way. I sheltered in Chase’s arms with a sigh, summoning up the vision shot into my mind when Zane recounted his dream-lab experience. Didn’t he say the tunnel had ribs? Like a tin can? That was distinctive. I felt my restless spirit lifting, pulling away, like a pony urgent to run. Chase’s voice cried, “Take me along,” and I kissed him hard. We lifted off together.


    We were standing outside a gate plastered with weather-spotted Danger, Hazardous Conditions, No Trespassing, Condemned, and Bio- Hazard Warning signs. Not a good place for a living victim, since the factory appeared to be missing a roof. But what a great place to hide a body! A long concrete walkway connected the two collapsed buildings with the parking lot.
    “Police take notice,” read Chase.


    “Don’t you think our spirits could have gotten us inside?” I carped, shaking the padlocked fence.
    “We came to the very place pictured,” said Chase. “I call that a ten point landing.”


    “It’s huge,” I complained. “We’ll be like, overcome with fumes before we find her.”
    “We would…if we still had bodies,” Chase reminded me. “You’ve got to admire the genius of the man.”


    I would never praise heinous Corso’s genius but I did recall that Know Your Enemy slogan. Chase had been dragged into the abyss he studied. Now he was climbing out.


    “These signs would discourage daytrippers, that’s for sure,” Chase told me. “An anonymous 911 call would hardly cut it here. The police can’t search without “probable cause” and the probable cause is inside. See? It’s the perfect crime and the perfect victim. When they finally clean this place up and find her–”


    “Why’s poor Howk the perfect victim?”
    “Because no one reported her missing! A lot of people, their first project on growing up is getting rid of everyone they used to know,” said Chase. “I speak as one who did it. Corso specializes in people like that.”


    I shivered. I was trying to leave my family behind, but not forever. Aspirations weren’t a crime, just an opportunity for you-know-who.


    “How do you think he got through here? I can’t picture him searching for a gap in the fence.”
    Chase stood beside me. “He wouldn’t use his muscles for a problem his brain could solve. That padlock looks awfully new, compared to the chain.”


    “So he cut off the old padlock and installed a new one. Then he could drive in.”
    “The owners are obviously staying away. Who wants to get poisoned? See the grass on the driveway? If they ever try to get in they’ll probably cut it open anyway.”


    “Even he couldn’t make the padlock look old,” I reassured – both Chase and myself. “This is a man we’re talking about, not a god. Mistake number 707.”


    “I sure hope he’s made enough mistakes.” Chase had found a weakness in the chain link and lifted it. We crawled underneath.
    The moment my feet touched that ground I knew.”She’s here,” I said, teeth chattering. “I’m certain. She’s in water.”


    “See?” he patted me. “Better than a cadaver dog.”
    Is this the kind of thing you want your boyfriend to say? Too late to quibble – I’m a package with my oddities the way he is with his terrifying past.


    Water? We looked at the dry factory and the completely dry land that surrounded it.
    “Water’s a good idea. He would want her to decompose as fast as possible,” said Chase. “Do you think there’s a well?”


    “Or rainwater might collect somewhere,” I suggested.He said, “Let’s not search. We’ll just allow ourselves to be led.” I agreed. “You track him. I’ll track her.”


    The doors and windows were boarded up efficiently, but behind a piece of plywood awkwardly placed against the front steps we saw a hole. Walking up the drive I thought I saw faint marks of another vehicle, and Chase gestured to me to stay away from them. Do soul-travelers leave footprints?


    The plywood bristled with threats: Danger, Toxic Conditions, Unsafe Building.
    “Corso’s handwriting?” asked Chase.
    Mentally I thought, Mistake number 708. I was keeping track.


    He pulled aside the piece of plywood and instantly we both saw a shiny new flashlight.
    “Let there be light,” said Chase, and I said,
    “Mistake number 709.”


    “He’s getting sloppy. Sloppiness for him equals hope for us. “ He flourished a hand. “After you.”
    “No, after you.”
    We went in side by side.
    “Hear that?” hissed Chase.


    I did hear it. The sound that haunted all my dreams. Water dripping equals the slow drip of despair.
    “Be careful,” I said nervously. The subfloor was broken and exposed and the dripping came from underneath us, as if the factory was built over not a well, but a lake. We stepped around the holes, sharing the flashlight, Chase kicking out of our way boards and bricks and lumps of plaster.
    “Sorry to hang on you so hard,” I apologized, but I didn’t stop doing it.
    He said, “If we fall, we fall together.”


    He shined the flashlight down every hole. I looked and said, “Nope.” “Nope.” Always relieved that she wasn’t there, partly worrying that she had sunk so deep, or was covered with such muck, she’d be invisible anyway. Then I saw something.


    “A flower!” I cried out loud. No. Couldn’t be. Something else that shimmered whitely. Arms locked around each others’ waists we looked so closely, holding our joint breath, that what we saw might have been a reflection of our shocked faces were it not for the 3-D effect of suppurating flesh. Decomposing skin shimmering like a water lily in the darkness. A water lily waving its color-blocked tendrils up at me…


    “Oh my God,” I panicked, “She’s wearing my scarf. There can’t be another scarf in the world like that.”


    And there went the flashlight. We heard the clink and splash. Around us all was darkness. We stood amidst traps and gaps and pools of pullulating puke…even bodiless you’d hate to experience them. Scariest thing ever.


    “Goddamit,” I said. Then, “Sorry. How can we get back?”


    He held me, nuzzling. “We don’t need the light. We’re soulmates, remember? We have each other. We know where she is and that’s all we wanted. But explain to me why she’s wearing your scarf?”
    “Corso took it from me. He said he needed something personal of mine.”


    Chase snorted. “You should have known better than that!”
    “But what could I do? I only had the clothes that I walked in with. I wasn’t expecting that…I didn’t know what to do.”


    “I’m sorry,” said Chase. “I’m stupid to make it sound like your fault. He’s always doing that, looking for ways to make people think he has magical powers over them. Just so he can think he’s caught us.”


    “He has caught us.”“Never. I’ll never uncle to him. We have to expose him. Tell the
    truth is all we can do. If they hear what he’s done, then we hope…”
    It sounded feeble even to me and I’d said the same thing myself. We needed more than reassurances; we needed a place to stand. I could imagine Corso’s silver tongue eloquence running rings around our confused protestations, “We just kind of knew” “We were there except we weren’t”.


    If he was exposed, then so were we, and who looked worse? The eminent psychologist or the hardscrabble, drug-taking, very confused and sexed-up students? From TV I knew enough of police procedure to know that the first thing they would do would be to separate us. I wasn’t a weakling, but I didn’t relish hours without Chase, tying to explain the inside of my brain to a group of skeptical men who looked just like the Fluffernutter dads.
    And if our challenge collapsed, what was left for us? Corso had invaded not just our minds and bodies, but our futures as well.


    “We can’t tell them about the sleep soaring,” I whispered into Chase’s neck. “I don’t want them knowing.” It was too private, too secret, too much our special strength. I feared they might have the ability to take it away. I wanted to keep the knowledge of our bond between us forever, growing as naturally as it needed to, a flexible unseen strength linking us to eternity.
    “See?” he said gently, reading my thoughts. “You’re coming around to where I am. Don’t you agree it’s easier just to kill him?”


    “No,” I protested. “No. Violence is one of the circles of hell. We can’t go there. We can’t…”
    “I’m in hell already,” he said. Maybe we both were. But intuitively I knew that the very reason we walked harmless through this hell, now, was because we had not accepted Corso’s invitations to rage, spite, deceit, plunder. To all the sick, sick sins.


    My lips came closer to Chase’s mouth as I whispered, “We’ve got something he can never have.“ Even if he stole our futures, he could never possess our now. The power parts hadn’t captured.
    “You’re right.” He sounded so uncertain but he was trying to believe it.


    In answer I just kissed him, massaging the back of his neck until he went limp against me, and I fell limp against him and we soared into each other’s minds and spirits, dancing up into the stratosphere with the stars to keep us company. We didn’t need tea, or ocean sounds or candles. We only needed each other. And so home. Because we were exhausted and people have to sleep.

  • I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead

    Chapter 21 – Paradise

    Somehow we had broken the window and we lay tangled up together in venetian blinds and glass. I had cut my face and Chase had cut his arm, but it was nothing serious. Chase helped me get vertical. We were safe in Chase’s room, and we were alive. How ever many lives we were “down”, it seemed we had some left. Life itself seemed an incredible treasure.


    We collapsed together on the bed. “Thank God for transitional objects,” I gasped.
    Chase passed me a water bottle. We blotted each other’s wounds.
    “Am I the transitional object?” asked Chase, kissing my knuckles. I felt the solidity of the bed with its honeycomb quilt and Spiderman sheets.


    “I think everything that’s not us is a transitional object,” I said slowly. “We have to look for the pieces that don’t fit. Remember the vase I hit your father with?”
    Chase nodded. “That was so weird. My Dad despised what he called “femininities” – he would never have allowed an object like that in his Man- cave. Have we seen it before? ”


    I had recognized it. “It was on the terrace at Mrs. Corso’s…full of dead chrysanthemums.”
    We looked at each other, both saying at once, “Transitional object!”


    “It shows our voyages are all connected.” He took the water bottle from me, shuddered as he sipped, threw himself on his back. “You were right there, but I can’t believe we experienced the same thing? Did you go through what I went through?”


    That was a good question. Could it ever be answered?


    “It was crazy,” I said, drinking. I was so thirsty, but I didn’t have the terrible hangover of the first time. “Celebrating your mother’s birthday in a Norman castle at Christmas.”


    Light sprang into his eyes as he leaned forward intensely. He could have been anyone seeking news from home. Then the light failed as he remembered and fell backwards. Rubbed the eyes that had seen too much. “I guess my unfinished baggage derailed us from what we should have done”.


    Always with the self-punishment! I shook my head. “No. Because we finally found out the truth.” And then I remembered what the truth was, and the full horror of what we had discovered swarmed over me. Could that be real, that, minds banished, bodies hijacked for indentured servitude? And did I really want to know?


    “Do you think she forgave me?” Chase inquired wistfully. I tried following his thought. “Your mother?”He wiped his face, which was wet. With water or tears?


    “Her birthday actually is in August. But she killed herself the Christmas I refused to come home.”
    So that’s what he’d been living with! Poor Zoya! I was aghast. No wonder he needed to see her again. “She toasted to life,” I recalled. “Don’t you remember? To life…and she said what’s past is past. I recall that distinctly.” I touched his chest, massaging his heavy heart to keep it going. “I know she’s forgiven you. On the other hand, your father…”


    Chase shook his head from side to side, tossing away the painful thoughts. “You know we never lived in that house. That was the house they were building when my Dad declared bankruptcy. But you know the Many Worlds theory of quantum mechanics says if more than one outcome of events is possible, all of them occur. Just in different universes.”


    “None of the bad stuff is your fault,” I asserted forceful as I knew how. “Your father was a monster.”
    “Yeah.” agreed Chase hopelessly. “Everything for him is a dominance struggle. And he’ll cheat to win.”


    “Those plaster statues of you and your sister…” Deliberately I changed the subject, someone backing away from a raging fire.


    “Those were life-casts. Mom made them, but I wrecked mine. It took hours and we had to breathe through straws. It was really unpleasant, being naked in cold plaster and having to hold still, but Mom was very determined. I was so angry that she didn’t have the nerve to make mine anatomically correct. I felt like a Ken doll. It was during the Corso years and she made me look unfinished, like a girl. Dad was already teasing me for singing soprano… I was so full of rage. I smashed it to pieces.”


    “Bex shot us,” I said. “Do you think Bex could really have a gun?”
    “And I wrecked Shelby. Like I wreck everything.”


    “But if we’re still here the Shelby must be, too. Where would Bex get a rifle? Maybe he traded in his motorcycle.” That really scared me. He would be giving himself no way out. “And where would Bex get a car?”


    I answered my own question. “That’s a no brainer. He’d steal it. He always bragged he could get into any car. Wouldn’t faze him.”


    “Maybe he stole a rifle,” said Chase without thinking. We looked at each other. Not cheered up. “Or it’s just symbolic or something,” suggested Chase. “A transitional object.”
    Yeah…symbolic of learning to judge people and see inside them. Like now I had seen inside Chase. I clutched his hand. “We took a bath together…don’t you remember that?”


    He kissed my arm all the way up. “It was like being reborn. Like we were kids together.”
    “We are kids together. And I learned your real name.”“Don’t say it!” he touched my lips superstitiously as if those secret words had the power to send us back.


    I fell back on the bed, looking at the ceiling, trying to clear my mind. Now that Chase had transferred his roiling thoughts to me, my mental crystal ball felt cloudy. “What I don’t understand is how we can experience things that never happened, in places that don’t exist.”
    He said, “It’s a fractal. A repetitive pattern.”


    “From the past?”
    He shrugged. “You can dip your hand in the same river twice…unless the river doubles back. I think we voyaged in my head. ” He didn’t sound enamored of the idea.


    “Or we created a parallel universe together.” I suggested, more confidently. “It’s like a poem, or a symphony. You take the pieces that exist and rearrange them, the better to show off their power.”
    “Did you hear about the maze worms?”


    The threatening wind poured in the broken window so I pulled up the coverlet. “Tell me about the maze worms. Please please please.”


    “Well, after these worms got really good at negotiating a maze, they ground them up and fed them to newbie worms. And the newbie worms figured out the maze immediately.”
    I shuddered. “I don’t want to be ground up and fed to future generations so they can avoid my mistakes!”


    He laughed out loud. “You’re missing the point of the story! It proves memories are chemical!”
    “Well, I want to forget mine,” I said soberly, pulling the covers over my head.
    He held me. He rocked me. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “Can you ever forgive me? I thought the pain would keep me awake. But I guess you can get used to anything.”


    So that explained the disgusting sore he’d cultivated. I pulled my covers off abruptly. “Is it true? Did Corso really turn dream lab into internet sex-walking?” Here was the dragon in the room. The question was whether Pandora’s box was smashed forever.


    “It makes sense to me.” Chase almost choked. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I should have killed him before he could –” He struck his forehead hard with his fist. I pulled his hand down.


    “Stop it. We can’t let this tear us apart. You know that’s what he wants — to keep us weak, to keep us from fighting back. We’re closer than ever. That means we’re stronger than ever.” Now I really knew what Chase had been through. Body – stolen – identity – ruined – future — compromised.


    We held each other as tightly as we could until our two hearts beat together.
    “I swear I didn’t know,” said Chase. “But the hell of it is, I could have guessed.”


    “Forgive yourself,” I insisted. “I’m trying to forgive myself. He injured us both of us — together.”
    “If you can do it I can try.” Hipbone to hipbone, chest to chest, knee to knee, we clung together. We’re soulmates, and soulmates are invincible.


    ““I love it that our dream’s a mix of both of us,” said Chase. “It’s like a child we had. Makes me feel like a creator.” He expelled a long sigh. “My grandmother believed that man and woman form one angel.”


    “Sounds like a forward-thinking lady,” I murmured. “Maybe we knew each other in another life?”
    He kissed my hair. “We know each other in this one. That’s a lot. “
    It’s like we’ve climbed the highest mountain there is.


    I said, “To defeat a body thief we’ve got to use our brains. The secret’s hidden in our soul-flights. Have to be.”
    He held me tight. “I love your bravery. But what if there is no answer?”


    “But there has to be. You left dream lab before you heard all the stories, but they were full of meaning. Koo’s vision was of unzipping body bags – well, we would have had to unzip those suits. Soliz dreamed of being naked and ashamed. But Zane dreamed he was walking through an abandoned factory—“


    “Now you’re talking!” said Chase excitedly. “You dreamed of Mrs. Corso’s body…and then we found it! An abandoned factory would be a great place to hide Howk’s body! These transitional objects are like doors into the next puzzle,” said Chase. “The one we haven’t solved is the Hadleigh one. That was overtly about Howk’s body so the answer must be there. What was the weirdest thing about it? The piece that doesn’t fit?”


    He had always possessed this magic ability to fill me with confidence. “You’re right. I can do this. Well, the oddest part is, it wasn’t a thing – it was a person. Officer Blofil, the policeman we spoke to. He was the thing that didn’t belong. I read his nameplate so carefully, thinking at the time it was a funny name, kind of treasuring it. Because it was so memorable.”


    He snatched his Smart phone off the coffee table. “So it is. Spell it.”
    I spelled. He typed.


    “No Officer Blofil on the campus force, or the town police. Here goes a general search.” He drummed his fingers impatiently.


    I was impatient, too. The ghosts of all the murdered memories banged on my heart; an arrhythmia acquired when our hearts skipped and our bodies unsynched. If we wanted to re-possess ourselves, we needed a way back in.
    “Let me know what you find.”


    I wandered into the bathroom and looked in the mirror. This mugshot face was too familiar. I picked up Chase’s hair scissors and attacked my head. Snip, snip. Without my luxuriant locks, Corso would never have chosen me.


    I’ve got it!” shouted Chase from the other room.


    I brushed myself off and joined him.
    “Recognize me?” I challenged. “I don’t want to look like anyone else any more.”


    He smiled his most beautiful smile. “I’ll always recognize you.” I threw myself into his strong wrestler’s arms. We fit together perfectly, like interlocking parts.


    He rubbed the top of my newly pinked head. “I know the feeling,” he reassured me. “Here’s the dream right here.” I could have wept from gratitude.


    “So what did you find?” Now I could face it. Now I wanted to know. “You look,” he said, swiveling the phone towards me.


    Headline: “Insulation Factory Closes, 50 Jobs Lost.” The sign on the gate said “Blow-fill”.
    “Abandoned factory a hundred miles away,” suggested Chase. “”Trust Corso to invent a crime scene that provides its own cleanup.”


    “We could get there in the Shelby in a couple of hours.”


    “Or…” I murmured.
    He understood me immediately. “You think it’ll work again?”


    “No harm trying. I think we’re getting better at it. The first two times hurt so much I had a hangover. Now it’s not so bad.”


    He laughed. “Other than the feeling of being beaten like a rented mule.”


    Well, we couldn’t go through what we’d experienced and come off scot-free. I didn’t mention Bex lurking somewhere outside, with or without a gun. If we left our bodies, even though he might pursue he could wreak less damage.


    Chase’s bed became our rocket ship.

  • I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead

    Chapter 20 – Revenge

    “I’m so sorry,” said Chase. “He’s a monster. But I’ll get even with him. I’ll get him eventually.”
    “Slow down,” I said, braced against the dashboard, scrabbling for my seatbelt. “Put your seatbelt on.” He was driving like a maniac.


    “He never pinned me,” said Chase, grinding his teeth. “It’s a question of how low you’re willing to go, and no one’s ever willing to go as low as him.” Which father was he talking about now? In some perverse way, were they both the same to him?


    The car raced upward through the gears. I tried attaching Chase’s seatbelt. He rocked in his seat, rejecting restraints.


    Probably not a good time to bring up what we had just seen, right now, when I was in fear for my life. Before my eyes danced raucous headlines; framed gothic visions of Mom and Annika viewing my shattered corpse. How could they know that before my death my body had been stolen, my shell invaded by hermit crabs and passed around like an intoxicant? If I had been beamed into outer space as an alien plaything then what was left for me? Who was I now? Could I ever get myself back? I had never felt so separate from Chase; with this dissonance our flying must become destructive and destroy us both.


    My panic boiled into words. “Tell me it’s not real! The sex tape he showed us?” Corso’d deliberately banished our souls, disinvoked the spirits he had no use for…
    Chase turned to me the stricken face of a drowning man going down for the last time.


    “Of course it’s real,” he said. “Don’t you see it explains everything? Sexsomnia. I knew it was something like that. If you flood the hippocampus it can’t make any memories to retrieve. He did always want to be the only brain in the room.”


    “You mean…he rufied us?” I was as disgusted at myself as at Corso. Madder, if anything. I knew Corso was a snake. Why had I taken the chance when deep inside I could see perfectly well how dangerous he was?


    “He must have used something extra to jumpstart the acetylcholine flood, to overcome sleep paralysis. Maybe propanolol. That’s been found to erase adrenalin-fueled memories. We were sleepwalking.“


    “This is your fault,” I yelled angrily, bracing my body against the tinted window. “You led us there; we were lambs to the slaughter.”


    “You’re right.” Chase looked sadly at me with terrible eyes. “It’s all my fault. They always say they’ll let you go if you bring another one. I’m a hellhound. Someone better put a stop to me.”
    But he was also putting a stop to me…Obviously a very bad time to stage a fight — angry, scared, insulted as I was.


    “Don’ t you see at least it’s the evidence we’ve been looking for? But to tell them we have to survive. If you don’t slow down Corso will win.”


    Once again I’d found the magic incantation. Our speed slackened. Then Chase said, “I can’t slow down with that guy on my tail.”


    I checked my side mirror. There was a silver car right behind us as if hooked to our bumper. At first I thought it must be Cutter Farrell looking for payback, refusing to give up, then I saw the unmistakable grinning face extend outside the window a long, black gun.


    “Oh, my God, it’s Bex!” I cried. Who let Bex in? Who was allowing Bex to steer? It could only be me.


    The shot was synchronous with a muzzle flash and Shelby’s back window exploded. A tree flew up suddenly in front of us. Panic clogged my brain to slow motion as I tried working out the problem. We flew all right; separate and upside down. I felt my own teeth shatter as they telescoped into the dashboard; Chase shot through the windshield like an astronaut and the whole back of the car reared up to flip us over. Tree branches grasped me upside down and warm blood flooded my eyes. I heard rather than felt the bones in my body dissolving; veins and sinews shredding, yet somehow I was speaking.


    “Wake up.” I pleaded. “Hold me.” The part of myself that Corso didn’t want was talking to the spark of Chase’s essential self as we struggled back to life.

  • I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead

    Chapter Nineteen – Inferno

    We were saved from the Tale of the Five High Schools by the door to the garage blowing open. A man and a dog flew in. The dog was an Irish setter, just like the one on Zoya’s card. Rushing Chase, she wagged so hard she was moving as much sideways as forwards.


    “Hi, Honey,” said Chase, offering cheese. “Her name is Honey,” he confided out of the side of his mouth to me.


    ”Don’t feed Honey from the table,” lectured Zoya, but not as if she really thought she’d have an impact. She was looking hard at the man slowly removing his muddy outdoor gear.


    If I had ever wondered what Chase would look like at sixty, here was one way to guess. This man was a little shorter than his son, a little broader, head crested by an unkempt pelt of graying ginger hair standing straight on end. He kicked off his boots, hung up a glittering mackintosh and stood twisting a leash over and over in his hands as if undecided who to sentence to home confinement.
    His gin-colored eyes froze me. Chase had his mother’s eyes, thank God. This man was like one of the Fluffernutter dads; always conducting some internal experiment with me as bound captive. His eyes rolled me in a way that made me shiver.


    Zoya, who had been throwing ice, bitters and boozes into a glass tall enough to match her own, rushed forward on her teetering high heels.
    “Drink?” she asked hopefully.Good call. He pocketed the leash to accept his drink.

    “My father, Cutter Farrell,” Chase introduced formally.
    Now I knew Chase’s real name — Steven Farrell. Was this magic I could use?


    Cutter advanced in a stiff-kneed walk, studying me to the point of embarrassment as if purchasing livestock. I felt like one of those maiden offerings in the Bible; scoured for “blemishes”. Damn Chase anyway for arguing against masks and makeup in his silver-tongued way. With my mask on, I would have been more bulletproof!


    And it was not as if my judge was blemish-free. His skin was stained raw with weather or drink and so heavily lined you could lose large objects in those crevices. The seams assumed a jigsaw pattern; as if he had been cobbled together from the rejected parts of his perfect children.
    “Jasmyn Suzino,” said Chase. Since I was holding my breath.


    I felt mysteriously handed over, as if he was giving me away. It’s not so much your beloved’s parents that are the problem; it’s the way your beloved acts around them. I was being introduced to the dragon I was meant to battle. Like a desperate deb ejected from the cotillion I offered my hand; palm up. He took it, holding it too long; stroked the palm, counted out some crazy incantation and folded my fingers inward as if a mysterious something had passed between us. His own hands felt mangled, like someone let a chisel slip. I could perform no mind or muscle reading on this man. That might have been the spell he’d attempted to invoke; certainly his was a very unpleasant mind to read. In fact, I flushed hot beneath his raunchy gaze. Was it me and Chase he trying to imagine in bed together? Or me and him?


    “Jasmyn just had the most horrible experience,” gushed Zoya the Great Distracter, plainly expert at throwing herself in front of problematic conversations as if they were runaway trains. “A girl fell out of her window and was killed.”


    Cutter Farrell took a long drink, still staring. He didn’t say, “Poor Jasmyn.” He said, “That’s one way to get rid of a roommate.”


    Naked-faced and undisguised, I blushed that deep and painful flush that old men so relish.
    Chase’s father smiled. He seemed profoundly uninterested in strange women falling out of buildings, compared to this live woman, brought into his house by his son and currently standing right in front of him. I picked up my glass; needing booze but also requiring something to throw. Now I get why people clutch these things so fiercely at parties, along with anything else they can find; cigarettes, bongs or Desert Eagles.


    “Suzino,” Cutter drawled. “What kind of a name is that?”
    “Portuguese,” I told him bravely. “I think my Mom took out some syllables so people could pronounce it.”


    “Lot of that going around.” Cutter slyly eyed his frozen son. “So, is your father still in the picture, so to speak?”
    “Dad,” warned Chase.I gave the short answer. If the truth hurts, you had better get used to
    it. “No.”


    “That’s the Portuguese in him,” said Cutter, laughing mirthlessly. He pulled a grape off the plate and popped it in his mouth.


    “Dad, that’s a rotten thing to say,” said Chase. I had never heard Chase’s voice this weak, this emotional. I admit it scared me. By now he ought to know insulting comments from family members are better ignored. Otherwise, where could we all go from here?
    Cutter turned his attention to his son. “Nice of you to show up,” he sneered. Without taking his eyes off his son, “When’s dinner?”


    “Maybe an hour. Maybe forty-five minutes.” The priestess seemed suddenly vague and dispirited, as if the magic might not come together after all. As if ultimately, no one could be nourished. Maybe the whole concept of food was just a tiresome illusion.
    “Good,” said Cutter, drumming his fingers on the granite counter top. “I’d like to speak to the pair of you in my study.”


    As I climbed off my barstool he said, “Bring your drink. You’ll need it.”
    I couldn’t stop thinking of the leash in his pocket. This seemed like a man to whom everything was a weapon. But what could he do with it? Tether us to something? To each other? I was plenty scared but determined to hide it. I knew Chase needed me to be brave.
    Argued Chase palely, “We can talk here.”
    I hesitated. I certainly wasn’t going alone.


    “You always preferred hanging with the ladies,” said his father, dragging it out. “The ladeeez…” He popped another grape, chomping furiously. “I’ve got something I guarantee you’ll want to see. Call it a business proposition. Man to man. It’s only fair you give me a chance to get some of my money back.”


    This time Chase didn’t resist. I could see it wouldn’t do any good, any way.
    “Here we go.” He gave the last of his cheese to Honey who was drooling with gratitude and kissed his mother as if kissing her goodbye. She put her hands up to the cheek his lips had touched, trying to rescue the kiss from the oblivion where kisses disappear. Maybe she could paste it in her scrapbook.


    I trailed after the two men, noticing their shoulders identically squared. Genetics are amazing. Chase looked so much like his father but was nothing like him inside. Maybe a little of his rabble-rousing came from Dad. Cutter felt the pessimism of the intelligence, but had clearly never experienced the optimism of the will. That must be Chase’s legacy from Zoya. Cutter acted like a man who thought with his body. He might be heavier and meaner but if it came to a battle my money was on smarter, younger, sweeter Chase. No contest.


    The study was the exact opposite of the blazing dining room. Here was a place where light was not admitted. Although he had the best window in the house – a huge, rounded Palladian – the dusty wooden shutters stretching across it looked inoperable. In the murk I saw a widescreen TV, uncomfortable-looking leather sofas dotted with hook-like buttons, and a massive rolltop desk exploding with papers. Past due notices, doubtless. The decor was oppressively masculine; rifles, creels, pictures of dead animals. It smelled like no one was ever allowed in to clean; more likely no one wanted to. The miasma was too destructive.
    Chase put his hands on his hips and assumed an aggressive stance the moment the door was closed.


    “What’s this all about?” He asked. “Don’t think I’m putting money into any of your schemes.”
    I put down my wineglass hastily in case I had to back him up.His father smiled richly as if about to share a hellatious joke. “You’ll love this one,” he said. “It’s surefire. I found it on the internet!”
    We stood in semi-darkness. I thought it odd that nobody even tried turning on a light. On the other hand, twilight fed my fantasy. If I summoned up the power of invisibility, I could take Chase with me. The party was over.


    Cutter picked up the TV remote and black and white figures, seen from overhead, uncoiled in slow motion and jumped out into the room.


    They were naked. All the archetypes represented,– cheerleader, jock, the gay black guy – Bettie Page — they were us. There in the horribly familiar dream lab six figures slithered and surrendered, piled and unpiled, higgledy-piggledy. All that was lacking was a musical score. Ragtime would have been perfect. Cutter rewound and replayed some treasured moments.


    “Oh, my God, I’m going to be sick,” I said turning away. I looked around desperately for something to use for a basin. Fishing creel? Powder horn?
    The men ignored me.
    “Give me the disc,” said Chase. He charged his father.


    “It’s digital, you idiot,” said Cutter, holding him off effortlessly. “Don’t you think it will make millions? Here’s a fine thing for a father to have to see. I hope they paid you plenty. How much for whoring out your girlfriend? Is that what they give credit for at college these days? I suppose you’ll claim it’s art? “ He raised his voice to a high, mincing screech with a weird Irish accent. “Will you be taking it around to the film festivals?”


    “Give -–me—the remote,” grunted Chase, darting with his father. They grabbed at each other’s heads; cuffing like bears, trying to bring each other down.


    Couldn’t Chase see a fight was exactly what his father wanted? No physical confrontation could repair this disaster. I backed away as father and son struggled together, rocking against furniture, colliding against walls.


    “Isn’t this a fine birthday present for your mother?” gasped Chase’s father. “Always wanted to show the world what a big man you.”


    The remote fell to the floor while they struggled, film frozen on a single frame: the long naked back and bald head of Dr. Corso looming over our pile like a cat peering into a fishbowl. I denied, I prayed, I pretended, I bargained; it couldn’t be real. My intuition reached horrible perfection; my golem-mask had launched into eternity, discreditable and disgusting forever and ever. How does one come back from that? What is left? Could I flee my tarnished body and remain simply spirit, forever? Bereft, abandoned; we needed to awaken from this nightmare, but there was no life to get back to. My body had been stolen. I needed another universe, a place without technology, sex or even self-awareness. A world without betrayal.


    “Run, Jazz,” choked Chase. His father had him in a strangle lock.
    “Too late, Missy,” grunted Cutter. ‘Those pictures are your résumé. Follow you forever until you die of AIDS. Welcome to the big time, buddy! Don’t blow your shot!”


    Chase whimpered with rage. His momentary recoil allowed his father to bend down, grab his son by bicep and ankle, and attempt the cross face cradle I’d been trained to recognize. I shouted something like, “Stop that!” or “Get off him!” but they both ignored me. The moment his son’s shoulders touched the floor, Cutter threw his arms up in a winner’s salute.


    “Pinned,” he grinned, turning his attention to me, “Don’t I get the girl? Everyone else did. To the victor belong the spoils.”


    Panicky, I was feeling for the door. Cutter kicked his son as he stepped over him; Chase grabbed his leg and threw him. On his way down Cutter hit the side of the coffee table, painfully. But like an adrenalin-crazed fighter he didn’t seem to notice it.


    ‘Hey, I won fair and square,” he said. “Who’s the better man? You uncled.”
    “I’ll never uncle to you,” said Chase, hoisting himself up. “Keep going, Jazz. We’re getting out of here.”


    His father lunged for him. I grabbed a hefty vase, broke it over hard his head. Cutter went down.
    Zoya was right outside, cleaning a front hall that didn’t need cleaning. She wore reading glasses not to miss any microbes; tore them off the moment she saw us.


    “Where are you going?” she gasped. “You can’t go. Jasmyn, make him listen.”
    “We’re leaving, Mom,” said Chase. “Can’t stay. Dad’s up to his tricks. But it was good to see you, though. Happy birthday anyway.”


    He picked her up as if she was a doll and set her aside to stand with her plaster children.
    “Please don’t go,” she begged. She started to cry. “Let’s talk it out.”


    “Sorry,” said Chase. “Not this time. You can come with us, but we’re leaving.”
    She backed away, shaking her head as if she feared he might kidnap her. And we were out the door.


    Chase stepped on the gas, making the engine roar while I was still climbing into the car. I was afraid of getting run over – or worse – far worse — left behind.

  • I’ll Sleep When You’re Dead

    Chapter 18: The Ninth Circle

    Zoya appeared at the foot of the stairs carrying a bottle of wine. “Sweetie,” she said, “I need your help with this.”We followed her into the dining room.


    Winter darkness turned the windows into mirrors, multiplying a thousand-fold the chilly light of red and silver candles. Pelmets and chandelier festooned with holly; mistletoe and evergreen looped with golden ribbon. High backed chairs sat before complex place settings of multiple plates; amethyst crystal and violet chintz-patterned china. Under a glass dome sat a white coconut cake decorated with careful icing flowers; lilies rioting with orchids, because sugar has no season. Absence is not presence. The emptiness made me shiver.


    “You look lovely in Cyanne’s clothes, by the way,” Zoya told me, her eyes moistening as if Cyanne had gone forever and would never come back. “You remind me of her, though your coloring’s so different. Snow White and Rose Red. Did you see the scrapbooks? I’m the scrapbooker; I put them together. That’s why we need such a big house, because I save everything. I’d love showing you those books; maybe tomorrow afternoon. They’re all in Cyanne’s room. We can have tea and a good cry. ”


    “God, Mom, not the scrapbooks, please,” moaned Chase, as he deployed a silver and ebony handled wine opener.


    “Looking forward to it,” I promised. I would have pinched Chase if I’d been close enough. Zoya and I would cry and Chase would wear the bear costume! That would be better than cake for me, but one must honor the steps of the hostess’ dance. Rely on Jazz to change the subject.
    “Are you the pastry chef?” I asked Zoya.


    “I make everything,” she said. “I embroidered this tablecloth. And the napkins.”
    Loaded with lace. They were exquisite.


    “Mom was raised by nuns,” said Chase, popping opening the wine. Christmas wine from Lebanon, I noticed. “They beat her into submission.”
    His mother squared her shoulders and rapped him lightly with a tinseled and berried silver cake knife.


    “No blasphemy, you heretic. The past is past, and it’s my birthday. Bring in the wine,” she commanded, “Unless you think it should breathe.”


    She put a hand to her own throat. Self-choking? “My yoga teacher has to always remind me to breathe.” She ran back toward the kitchen, like a convict under electronic monitoring who’d strayed too far.


    Chase captured me in the doorway beneath the mistletoe and we felt each other’s heat, skin flushed from a bubble bath, from love, perhaps also from some nebulous but contagious fear. Rose Red. My next archetype?


    Chase was in no hurry to join his mother.


    “I want this moment to last forever,” he muttered huskily. That’s what I thought. Sacred moments.
    “Isn’t it unlucky to bake your own cake?” I murmured to Chase.
    “That’s a rumor started by people who hate to cook,” he told me. “She’s making her own birthday dinner, too.”


    Extra obligation to enjoy it? Anticipatory shudder, at the mounting pressure.
    “She loves to cook,” Chase reminisced. “Not that she eats. My Dad hates her lumps and bulges – though he likes them enough on other women. She loves bringing people together. And nourishing them.“


    What would Chase make of my amiable but haunted mother, my over-eager sister and our cramped apartment? Let’s admit it, families are impossible. No one plays by anyone else’s rules. We were of the tribe that didn’t cook, venturing out on celebration days to one of those horrible sneeze guard factories where uncontrolled children throw meatballs at each other.


    Granting the birthday wish for togetherness, we joined Zoya in the kitchen. The kitchen was welcoming and warm; not threatening like her dining room with its fish forks and demitasses. This obviously was where people would relax if given a choice. The comfortably padded barstools had backs and brass rails and the ceiling offered hanging copper pans like low-hanging fruit. There were enough knife racks, cherry cabinets and gleaming granite for “chef’s delight”.


    At the center of a ring of gas burners, wearing a black apron dotted with pink hearts, the fire priestess herself officiated over a quintet of bubbling pots. Seeing us, she rattled a pair of wine glasses from an overhead rack. This brought up to five – I counted — the total stemware for which I would be personally responsible this evening.


    “I hope you like Welsh rarebit and Coquille Saint-Jacques,” she said, flushed with an outer heat and an inner excitement that made her rouge stand out in patches. “It’s so hard to keep the rarebit from separating.”


    “Yum,” said Chase, bellying up to a barstool. “If you don’t mind, we’d like to start eating now.”
    “Of course,” said his mother, pushing a mighty trough of fruit, cheese and pâté directly beneath our noses. “I hope you like this wine, Jasmyn. We could have champagne, if you’d rather.” She used her foot to open the wood-paneled refrigerator behind her, revealing a wine bin.
    “Jasmyn is nineteen,” I said, trying to make a joke of it.
    Zoya stared at me uncomprehendingly. In her world people never turned down booze. “But surely you’ll toast with us?”


    So they were one of those families, people over whom the nation’s alcohol laws hold no power. Friends of mine had parents like these, who thought nothing of putting a keg key in a kid’s Christmas stocking. In such families age and time are blurry concepts. Nothing a man ensconced in his castle should have to bother about, anyway.
    Churlish to refuse.


    “Is it rude to ask for ice?” I queried, operating on the theory that less is more. I would have added seven-up if they’d let me.


    “Yes,” said Chase.“Oh, give the girl some ice,” Zoya told her son irritably. “Don’t be so
    doctrinaire. This is a party. People can have what they want.”


    Why is that never, ever true? Chase the negotiator said, “At least try it without,” so I surrendered to his ministrations while he poured me a dram. They watched like a pair of cats as I sipped. Not bad. It smelled like cinnamon and tasted like berries.


    “Wow,” I said, feeling the magical flush radiate throughout. Off to the races. “More please. It’s delicious.”


    Chase poured out for both of us.


    “To life!” cried Zoya, lifting a full highball glass full of what I could only hope was iced tea. She was standing right next to open flame. I looked around helplessly for a fire extinguisher. On the other hand it was her birthday. And she was the fire priestess.


    “To life!” we echoed and drank. I was ready to toss my glass over my shoulder like people in the movies, but I would have been the only one. The others refilled theirs. Remedial again. Jazz was already falling behind.


    While we picked at the cheeses, Zoya made salad.


    “I usually pick my own watercress,” said Zoya, “There’s a wonderful patch in a brook right down the hill. Too bad it’s not in season. Now we must rely on South America. It’s so dangerous, don’t you think, all this Third World dependency.”


    OK, whose mother isn’t strange? I liked her. I felt Chase’s pain evanesce rippling me. “I think lately all the worlds have mixed together,” said Dreamweaver Jazz. “You know, now geisha makeup comes from China? Think how that must upset the Japanese.”


    “They deserve it,” said Zoya. “So what have you two been up to? What have you been doing at school that’s so important?”


    Chase and I looked at each other with wild surmise. What version of our activities could be socially acceptable?


    “We’ve been busy with a research project,” said Chase finally. Guardedly.
    “My,” his mother encouraged, “That sounds exciting.”


    Apparently that was all she needed to hear. Formalities dispensed with she turned to me and unleashed her pent-up question.


    “So, Jasmyn, where did you go to high school?”


    Chase made a warning noise in his throat, presumably directed at his mother, but I saw no reason not to answer. I chose to assume she meant the place I’d graduated from.
    “Archbishop Cavanaugh.” I knew she’d like that.


    Zoya brightened visibly. “You’re Catholic?”


    “Er, no,” I admitted awkwardly. Maybe I should have taken Chase up on his offer of a mendacity tutorial. Can inability to lie render me socially impossible?