Ink (26 page)

Go away. Just. Go. Away.

Ten. One wing swept across the wall. A framed picture fell to the floor, the glass shattering on impact. Another picture swayed from side to side, but held its place.

Dad, make it go away. I’m not doing okay right now. I’m really not.

“What do you want?” he said.

Laughter rippled through the room—Sailor’s laughter. The griffin reached out a foreleg and swiped like a cat with its prey. Jason’s cheek burned as blood, warm and wet, trailed down. He fell back, and everything changed to slow motion. The griffin opened its beak and hissed again, a low, triumphant sound. Too large to fly in the room, it folded it wings against its body and stalked over to the window with the stealthy grace of a cat, the muscles of its powerful legs flexing underneath the fur. It turned its head, gave another nightmarish hiss, then flattened its shape

Dad, please, help me. Not feeling so strong, inside or out.

into a paper doll horror and slipped out, under, the window, in between the jamb and the closed edge of the sash. Like a shadow slithering along a wall. The wings beat a dark curtain against the outside glass, once, twice, then it disappeared.

Jason’s head hit the floor, and everything went black.

16

John S. Iblis walked through the streets of Fells Point with a smile on his face. This suit was more comfortable than some of his others, given the previous owner’s size. He rather liked its imposing appearance—the perfect suit for an evening stroll in the city.

Jason looked right at him in the bar. He looked and did not believe. So much desperation in that glance, though. Soon enough, he would come with his questions, and in the end, he would beg. They always did.

He chose his canvases well.

Chapter Eight

Sailor’s Delight

1

The shrill ring of a telephone pierced the inky darkness in Jason’s head, and sunlight burned into his eyes when he raised his lids. He lifted his hands, blocking out the light, and winced when his palm skimmed his cheek. When he touched the skin with his fingertips, dried blood fell away in flakes onto the floor.

The floor?

He pushed himself up to a sitting position, bright spots of white dancing in front of his eyes. His head throbbed, and a foul taste like week-old Chinese food lingered on his tongue. A dull ache ran through his body, not just his arm. Why had he slept on the floor?

The phone rang again. Jason pulled himself all the way up. Something tugged at his memory, something dark and unpleasant, and he shoved it back, hard.

Not ready for that, yet.

Jason grabbed his cell phone from the nightstand just as it stopped ringing, then he saw the time—10:00 a.m., on a Friday.

“Shit.”

His alarm hadn’t gone off. Why not? Brian’s voice mail was brief. Their boss had been pissed until he told him about Jason’s illness the night before. The alarm didn’t go off because he didn’t turn it on, but he wasn’t sick, he was—

Jason dialed his boss’s number and frowned. The bed was out of place. He bent down, running his fingers over a long scratch in the floor. A picture frame lay in a mangled ruin at the base of one wall, surrounded by shards of broken glass. Another picture, several feet away, hung at a crooked angle. He pushed the bed back to where it should be, and sat down on the edge of the mattress just as his boss answered the phone with a clipped voice.

“I’m sorry,” Jason said, eyeing the scratch. “I got sick again last night, and I just woke up.”

“Brian told me. You sound terrible, I hope you’re going to call the doctor.”

“I am.” Jason rotated his arm, stifling a groan at the stiffness.

That’s what I get for sleeping on the floor.

“Well, get some rest and we’ll see you on Monday.”

You didn’t sleep on the floor. Frank knocked you to the floor, remember?

He froze, and the memories rushed in. The smell of the fur, the angry hiss, the green, unblinking eyes. The bed pushed out of the way, the breaking glass. He moaned.

“Jason?”

The weight on his arm. The paper-thin griffin creeping out the window. No, not creeping out, sliding its way out. Through a very closed window. The shadow of its wings as it took flight. The night the tattoo wasn’t there.

It wasn’t there because it came out of my skin and flew away. Just like last night.

“Jason?”

“Okay, thank you. I, I need to go,” he said, hanging up the phone before his boss could say goodbye. “No, I had a bad dream,” he said to the room. “And I fell on the floor.”

Liar. He threw the phone on the bed and held out his left arm. The lines of the tattoo were perfect. A masterpiece.

It came back home. Good old Frank.

A sound like shuffling footsteps slid from his lips, and his hands shook.

Last night was real. It’s alive, somehow. Has it been alive the entire time? Since that first night? Yes, I think it has. My father saw it, too, in the hospital. He saw it come out of my arm and the shock killed him. His death is my fault. It’s all my fault. Mac saw it, too, the night I spent at Brian’s house, but it didn’t come all the way out either time, because it knew it wasn’t safe.

Jason clenched his hands into fists. Why? Why did Sailor do it? And how? He suspected the answers wouldn’t be pleasant; they might be downright messy. A sinking feeling settled into the pit of his stomach. He had to know, no matter how much he didn’t want to. He needed to know how to make it stop.

If he put it there, that son of a bitch can take it away. I remember. He said tattoo removal was one of his specialties.

2

After a quick shower, Jason went downstairs and grabbed his keys. If Sailor wasn’t at the shop, he would wait. He’d wait all day if necessary. He opened his kitchen door, caught a whiff of something foul, then saw the hand on the doormat. A human hand.
 

It lay on its side, palm toward him, with the fingers curled in slightly, a ragged end where the wrist should be, the white of a bone (terribly white, as if washed clean) protruding beyond the torn flesh. The fingers were slim, delicate; the nails painted a pale pink. No maggots. Not much blood, only a few dried flecks of red. A raw, butcher-shop smell hovered over the grim offering.

Did the kid kill his mother? His sister? Jason rubbed the back of his neck. He should’ve talked to the kid's parents. He should’ve warned them. A slow trickle of guilt wormed its way inside. Maybe the kid had killed his entire family—farfetched, yet more than possible. There were plenty of news stories, plenty of kids with dark sides. No, this was not his problem. He’d call the police and let them take care of it, but he would
not
tell them about the animals. They’d want to know why he hadn’t said anything before.

I think you’re taking this too calmly. It’s a human hand, for God’s sake.

He let out a harsh, humorless laugh. Given the events of the previous evening, he
was
calm. Surprisingly so.

By the way, Officers, once you’ve taken care of the hand, I have this little problem. See this tattoo? It’s real and I need you to kill it for me. You don’t mind waiting around for the sun to set, do you?

Telling the truth would guarantee him a stay in a padded room, maybe a permanent one. A fly buzzed by his head, headed toward the hand. Jason waved it away, and the toe of his shoe caught the corner of the doormat. The hand wobbled. Something silver glinted in the sun. A
ring
. He prodded the mat with his foot, and the meaty smell flared stronger as the hand moved again.

Shouldn’t touch that. It’s evidence.

“Shut up.”

I’ll just say I did it accidentally. They won’t be able to tell, I don’t think.

He looked up and around, shifting his weight from foot to foot. He pushed the mat again, hard, and the hand flipped over. Sun glinted in rainbow arcs off the silver of the ring and the sapphire stone at its center.

It’s not his mother or his sister.

The fly buzzed again, but Jason didn’t wave it away. He couldn’t move. A sick feeling wormed its way up into the back of his throat. The fly landed near the end of the ruined wrist. He remembered the ring from both the bookstore and the funeral home, worn by Shelley on her right hand, her
live
hand.

Maybe it’s not her. Lots of people could have a ring like that.

It wasn’t just the ring, though. There was a tiny dark mole near the little finger. A familiar mole. It would be a strange coincidence for someone else to have the same ring and the same mole.

It wouldn’t be coincidence. It would be a miracle. And if it wasn’t Shelley, why would the hand be on
my
doormat?

A soft breeze ruffled Jason’s hair, breaking the spell. He had to get rid of it, but he couldn’t wrap it up in the doormat, put it in a trash bag, and throw it in the garbage. A cat tail was one thing, a human hand another. But he did have to get it off his porch, just in case one of his neighbors decided to pay him a visit. Unlikely, but if they did, what would he do? Claim the hand was a Halloween prop, a practical joke? They’d only have to take one look, one good look, to know his words were a lie.

It’s a real hand, all right. Mole and all.

He laughed again, and this time, there was humor. Not sane humor, not safe humor, but nonetheless, it was there.

The kid’s caused all kind of problems this year. Yes, he has.

He rubbed the back of his neck again. Took a deep breath, grimacing at the stink. Okay. He could do this. He needed to wrap the hand in a heavy plastic bag and take it somewhere, then wrap the mat in a separate bag and take it somewhere else. That made sense. Water. He needed to dispose of the hand in water because it would wash away any evidence and fish would take care of the rest. He hoped.

Would a human hand float or sink? He had no idea, but it wasn’t important. Not right now. He went back into the kitchen and grabbed several kitchen trash bags. They were a major brand and wouldn’t be easy to trace, if found. Again, he hoped.

His cell phone rang, but he ignored it.

Sorry I can’t take your call, I’m a little busy disposing of evidence right now, like a criminal.

Jason stood over the mat and swallowed hard. He dropped one bag over the hand, opened another and held it in his left hand. When sweat ran down his forehead into one eye, he brushed it away with his forearm. Holding his breath, he reached down, the bag slippery against his fingers.

It’s nothing, nothing. Just picking up trash, that’s all. Don’t think about it too much. Don’t breathe. Don’t think about it.

He grabbed and

Shelley’s

the fingers closed around his. He pulled his hand back with a groan.

No, just your imagination. Come on, come on.

More sweat ran down, burning as it trailed into his eye. He reached again and picked it up, grimacing at the cold, unyielding feel.

Can’t do this. Can’t do this.

A loose, liquid sensation turned in his stomach as he dropped the hand into the other bag. He tied a quick knot in the plastic and took a deep breath. His heart drummed a steady, heavy beat in his chest.

Not trash. It’s not trash. It’s Shelley. A piece of Shelley.

The thick, raw smell still lingered, and he left the bag on the porch and went into the kitchen. He’d just made it to the sink when his stomach let go in a rush of bile. He gripped the curved rim of the sink until his fingers hurt, and when the last dry heave passed, he turned and slid down to the floor, his back pressed up against the cabinet. How the hell did the kid even know where Shelley lived? How did he kill her? He was just a kid.

Another thought, a dark thought, tickled the back of his mind.

Maybe the kid didn’t have anything to do with it. Maybe Frank did it.

3

The fly buzzed in the bag, bouncing against the plastic as it searched for freedom.

Because it ate its fill, like the griffin. It left behind what it didn’t want.

He’d put the doormat into another bag, a flyless bag, and both sat on the
 
back porch next to the railing. He didn’t want them in the house. He needed to get rid of both bags but couldn’t risk anything until after sunset.

It was a present. Frank left me a present. Like a cat with a half-eaten mouse.

The smell was a problem. He could still taste it in the back of his throat, and it would get worse. The day’s warmth would make it even stronger, even through the plastic. He couldn’t leave the hand on the porch, and he couldn’t put it in his car, either; between the closed windows and the heat, he’d never get rid of the smell.

He walked back inside and paced in the kitchen, his shoes tapping a restrained rhythm on the tiles. His thoughts were no longer jumbled chaos. He felt removed, dispassionate, as if dealing with a problem device at work. He just needed to come up with the best solution.