Descent Into Madness (34 page)

              “All wars have martyrs, my child; your mother was no exception,” he spoke. “The only difference: She understood the consequences if she failed.”

              “You speak in riddles,” she spat, “You speak in lies!”              

              An envelope’s crisp edge grazed her palm as she turned, facing the balcony. He pressed it into her hand and curled her fingers around it.

              “Riddles are only riddles until they are decoded, my child. Now, go.”

THIRTY-SIX

June 25, 2013

Evening

S
parks of grey-light shot from the moon, dripping silver shadows onto the rippling summer waters; and for a moment the world – that strip of beach, Chicago, everywhere, stood still. Aleksandra waded along the shoreline, letting the cool lake waters brush against her invading toes. The murky lake concealed the chipping eggplant lacquer; and the distance from city lights hid her unfed ivory skin.

              The envelope was safely beside the parcel, both secure in the melon Louis Vuitton satchel at her side. Her fingers had traced each pen stroke on the letter inside that envelope. She had inhaled the lingering scent, tasting the dullness of lavender laced with linseed oil.

              “Riddles,” she had grumbled, opening it five nights ago. She had landed on the outskirts of Vatican City, taking up residence in a crowded café. She ordered little and ate none of it, tossing bits here and there to the waiting birds approaching her street-side table. They pecked at the crumbs, their beaks tapping the worn stones in tympanic rhythm. 

              The candlelight glinted through the wine glass, a warm burgundy glow swelling over the envelope as she sat eying the café’s guests. The man with his wife, the family on vacation, all too consumed with their own trivialities to notice her. Their conversations blurred with the passing traffic, the whizzing motor bikes and honking horns. It neared eight, the dinner rush was en route, and the city was just beginning its nightly ritual of color and sound.

              She had slid her finger beneath the crimson seal and opened the flap letting the envelope fall open. Aleksandra had removed the letter and resurveyed the crowd, wanting to be cautious, until her eyes drifted to the paper. A series of coordinates appeared on the bleached white page, and taped beneath it, a shiny, metallic key.

              I have a code, Aleksandra had thought, as she punched the coordinates into her phone’s mapping program. She tossed it all – the phone, the parcel, the letter – into the satchel and slipped into the shadows behind the café. She ascended, the bag flapping wildly as she savored the Mediterranean air brushing against her cheek.

              Now she treaded the shore, slicing the still water with her feet, leaving depressions in the smooth sand. Droplets of moonlight kissed her amber locks, while the subtle lake breeze picked up each strand, twirling them. She walked out into the water, wading into the lake until her calves were submerged. And she stood clutching the satchel and looked up into the summer sky.

              She had seen those same summer stars in her childhood. She had seen those same constellations – Cassiopeia, Sygnus, Scorpius – every summer evening since. It will continue to be so, an unchanging sky, Aleksandra thought.

              “These riddles, mother,” she spoke into the darkness, “I’m chasing and fighting and I know not what for! And now this?” Aleksandra clutched the satchel drawing it to her chest. She held the leather bag to her bosom. “Why this?” she whispered. “Why me?”

              “In times of great peril, you must have faith,” a voice called from the shore. A darkened figure stood near an embankment, shielded from the moonlight.

              Aleksandra’s grip loosened on the bag, letting it hang at her side as she ran toward the figure. The wet sand squished between her naked toes, and soiled the hem of her jeans. But despite her vampirish quickness, in the three seconds it took Aleksandra to reach the spot on which the figure first appeared, it had vanished.

              The designer bag slid across the flagstone and through the open balcony doors with a thud startling Judith. She leapt from the couch, the new James Patterson thriller falling to the floor. Aleksandra followed, her feet touching the balcony’s edge as Wesley rushed into the room.

              The hearth slumbered against the wall, its womb void of oak logs popping and whistling, sending their chorus skyward into the obsidian night. The sticky June air clung, though, to the ash-stained belly, appeasing the beast with humidity for the time being. And what had been a faultless marble façade was now cracked and shattered. Aleksandra winced at the marred fireplace with disgust as she walked through the room.

              “Where have you been?” Wesley demanded, clutching at her arm as she moved past, but it slipped through his grasp. “Aleksandra, wait!”

              “What’s this?” Judith asked, pulling a thick manuscript from the parcel lying at her feet. She began thumbing through it as Aleksandra walked from the room. “Wesley, you should see this,” her voice trailed, looking up to find him following his beloved.

              “Wesley!” Judith shouted, leaping from the couch, the manuscript in hand. She trailed after, following their voices.

              “I do not owe you answers, Wesley,” Aleksandra whispered, kneeling at Bree’s side. She took the matriarch’s hands into her own, kissing the milky fingertips.

              “Oh, I believe you do,” he replied. He hovered over her, glaring. “Six nights ago you attacked us and disappear only to return, and you expect us to roll over?” His voice shook the small room. “You expect there to be no questions asked, for everything to be as it was, but it cannot be that way!” he shouted. “And you know this!

How can you not? How can you come back…” his words trailed off as Judith entered, eyeing him.

              “The answers you seek, Wesley,” Aleksandra spoke, her eyes not veering from the matriarch, “are not mine to give.”

              “I believe this may be of some help,” Judith intervened, thrusting the bound papers at Wesley before he could reply. He closed his gaping mouth. “We should read it, Wesley,” she urged, crooking her head toward the door.               “I understand now, mother,” Aleksandra was whispering to the olive-skinned matriarch. She ran a palm over Bree’s hair. “I understand.”

              “Yes,” Wesley whispered, glancing from Aleksandra to Judith, and then to the manuscript, “Let’s.”

              A bone-chilling wail pierced the darkness startling Aleksandra. She awoke bathed in a black mist, its ethereal moistness blanketing her skin. The ground quivered beneath her bare feet and she stumbled, falling onto her knees. The soil slithered and nipped at her fingertips. The mist shimmered and turned cold, tickling her face as the wind gusted with each wail, blowing the darkness aside.               Her knees sank into mud as the wailing grew to a muffled howl. “Hello?” She called out to the void, the mist dissipating as she met brick.

              The wind blew wildly, blowing locks of her hair astray, tossing them this way and that as she traced her

fingers along the tunnel’s exterior. Memories of that nightmare, of that scratch....              

              It came again, the wailing. From the tunnel’s rear, it snowballed into a wild howl reverberating in her ears. The ground no longer quivered as the slithering at her feet ceased. The mist hung above her, its shimmering dulled. The brick felt oddly warm to touch, warm and slimy.

              Aleksandra let her fingers trace the bricks as she closed her eyes and advanced inward, down into the waiting chasm. The musty bitterness of decay, growing heavier the farther she walked, stung her nose. She walked, trudging through a viscous liquid, with the sinking feeling of something crawling between her naked toes.

              “Hello?” Aleksandra called, thinking she had heard someone whispering behind her. She turned quickly, groping at the darkness yet felt only the stale air.

              “Hello!” she shouted. “Is someone there?”

              Aleksandra kept turning, wildly groping at the wall, at the air, until she fell against the brick. A subtle rumbling grew near and she tensed, flattening against the wall. A soft breeze followed, brushing against her before the ground began to the quake. The slithering began anew and, while she could not see it, she felt the mist envelope her.

              Aleksandra turned, hugging the brick, her body quivering. She began slowly following the wall, inching herself out of the tunnel. She willed herself to wake up, to make the mist dissipate, to make the slithering and quaking stop. But it was to no avail; there was no reprieve from the darkness. Aleksandra had not gotten far when she heard the whispering once more. She turned and called out, but again, no reply.

              “Mother?” she asked, cautiously, quietly. “Is that you?”

              Aleksandra waited as the wind slowed and the mist cleared. She waited as the slithering and quaking ended. She waited in the darkness, but got not reply.

              “Is that you?” she said. She turned her face – tear-stained and soiled – from the unknown. Aleksandra pressed her palm against the tunnel’s wall and started for the entrance.

              “No!” Aleksandra screamed. A stabbing pain stung her calf, and a hand – a claw-like, roughened, bony appendage from the feel of it against her skin – seized her leg.

              Aleksandra reached down into the mucky earth, desperately feeling for her assailant. “Let go!” She howled. “Let me go, now!” She thrashed, kicking as her hands fumbled through the skittering mud.

              Aleksandra managed to flip on to her back, wiggling her body. Aleksandra’s attacker lost its grip as she flipped. She scrambled frantically onto her knees, unsure of her bearings. She knew she had to run, and she had to run now.

              Aleksandra’s left foot rose, but found no solid footing as it landed on the slithering soil. Aleksandra willed herself to fly as she struggled. Fly, she thought, fly out of this forsaken tunnel. Instead of soaring into the shimmering

mists, and then waking to the bustling Chicago night, Aleksandra planted, chest first, in the muck.

              She rolled over and sat up. “What do you want?” Aleksandra hollered, her words echoing in the blackness. “What – tell me – NOW – what do you want!” she stood, shouting into the void.

              Aleksandra turned, feeling a presence slither near, hearing whispering in her ear.

              “I cannot hear you,” she sighed. “I cannot help you if I cannot hear you.”

              The whispering grew louder, but it was still whispering; still noise.

              “Please,” Aleksandra’s voice softened as she twirled in slow, dizzying circles, speaking to the vastness surrounding her, “I want to help.”

              All went still and quiet, and Aleksandra no longer felt the presence, no longer heard the whispering. Then she felt a firm pressure against her back, moving suddenly and too quickly for Aleksandra to fight its source. It clutched at Aleksandra’s head, grasping a wad of her auburn hair. It yanked her head back, squeezing the knotted locks in its grip; burning her scalp. 

              “Help…,” a rasping whisper bled into Aleksandra ear. “Help me.”