Mask of Flies (16 page)

She spun on her heals,
meeting Rick’s eyes with her own; they were like military grade
targeting devices focused on destruction “As Mr. Soblinski drove
down the Kensington Expressway, he paid little notice to the fact
that his headlights were off. His excuse: ‘the bright lights from
the city made it unnoticeable’. However, when the vehicle traveled
outside city limits, beyond the lights, the road became much darker,
and the defendant still failed to notice. The black paint made the
vehicle a veritable deathtrap. There was absolutely no way for the
semi-trailer to see the BMW while merging from the Suffolk St. Ramp.

“When Mr. Roche, the
driver of the semi, approached the expressway, he saw it safe to
merge into the left lane. Coming off the ramp, he felt something
rattle his rear trailer. Initially, he thought a box of paper
supplies came loose, but when he heard the screech of tires and saw
the sparks of brakes locking up in his side mirror, he knew a car had
hit him. The impact forced the BMW to careen into the median, killing
Amanda and Vincent upon impact.”

The district attorney
paced up the floor. “Rick Soblinski took his best friend and an
innocent young woman down a dangerous path, and in this case, his
poor judgment resulted in tragedy. It is the prosecution’s
recommendation that the defendant receives the maximum sentence of
this crime.

“The prosecution
rests.”

The judge presiding
over the trial was the honorable Danny Watkins. “Mr. Soblinski, you
cost two people their lives. You have pled guilty to first degree
vehicular manslaughter; the crime is to the first degree because you
had illegal drugs and alcohol in your system when you got behind the
wheel on the night of the accident. Do you have anything to say
before sentencing?”

Perhaps the one shred
of good advice from Rick’s attorney gave was to take
responsibility. Rick had prepared for this moment by writing letters
to Vince and Amanda, apologizing for the accident, followed by
letters to their families. He never sent them, but the purge helped
him sleep in his cell.

“Yes your honor,”
Rick’s voice trembled. “First I’d like to apologize to Vince’s
and Amanda’s families.” He looked at them sitting in the
audience. “There’s nothing I can do or say to make the pain go
away. I just want you all to know I take full accountability for my
recklessness and bear tremendous guilt for my actions.

“That night, we celebrated Vince
landing the job that he wanted. It was never my intention for it to
end the way it did. I’d give anything to go back, stop myself from
driving.” His voice broke. “Give my own life to bring them back
to you.”

After a short
intermission, the judge returned with the sentence. “Mr. Soblinski,
I believe that you genuinely feel remorse for the accident. The
burden you bare is great. Now, you must face the consequences for
your disregard of the law.

This court hereby
sentences you to seven years in prison with the possibility of parole
occurring July twenty-eighth, two-thousand and six. My condolences to
the families of the deceased, Mr. Moretti and Ms. Bennett. This court
is adjourned.”

* * *

Russell, now alone
and detached from host, replayed Rick’s secret over and over. It
did little to satiate him but proved a formidable distraction. He
thought he’d never feed again when he saw a blurred figure
crouching in a field of transmission lines. His hands pulled him
closer, until behind the figure.
An illusion of hunger?

A man, in a patchwork
of rags, knelt by a rotting carcass of a dog, tearing out its putrid
guts. He stuffed a rotting gob into his mouth and looked over his
shoulder at Russell chewing. “Ain’t ‘propriate to sneak up on a
hungry man.” He looked down at his meal. “Ain’t no mutton, but
at least I’m guttin’, can’t do shit but eat dog n’ play with
Lincoln’s log—but you can just call me, Abe.”

Not used to being
noticed by the living—with the exception of his last host—Russell’s
aporia, whether this man truly acknowledged him or was just
chattering out of madness, forced him to remain silent. Finished with
Morrow’s rules, Russell had to act quickly for the sake of
survival. Grabbing Abe’s coat, he pulled himself onto his back.

Abe abandoned his meal
and fell back onto him. “Get your own chowder!”

Crushed underneath,
Russell pushed his head up by his ear and bit down the sweet spot.
“No more worries Abe, now you’re mine.”

She drove
northbound on I-190, across Grand Island, passing Fantasy Island, an
amusement park, on the right, the park’s automatons dormant for the
winter, waiting to awaken in warmer season. Snow flurries fell and
showed no signs of letting up. She drove two hands on the wheel, in
the right lane, opting for silence.

Earlier, when Allie
returned Rick’s calls, the phone rang twice, and he picked up. His
voice seemed off, strained and gruff; it could’ve been someone
else. “Rick? Who is this?”

The harshness in his
voice eased. “It’s me.”

“Oh god, are you
okay, did they hurt you?”

“Minor injuries, I
will survive,” Rick said.

Allie attempted to keep
her cool, but her voice trembled. “Want me to call the police—”

“No.” The harshness
returned to his voice. “I got away from the kidnapper, and he died
in the process. There will be no more trouble—I just need to get
home. I’m at a payphone, outside a laundromat, at the intersection
of Niagara Street and 13th.”

Niagara Street was the main drag
before coming to the Rainbow Bridge and served as entryway into
Canada. Allie knew the area. “I’m coming.”

On Niagara Street,
driving slow enough to anger the trailing drivers to pass, Allie made
sure to register every building and street as they went by. 21st,
20th, and then 19th street, and she felt her heart beating in her
chest. Something stunk about this.

Her Camry approached
13th street meeting place. The dilapidated building’s its roughshod
sign affirmed: “Laundromat”, in red stencil over a white
background. The payphone on the corner was covered in mostly
illegible graffiti: the only thing Allie could make out was a cartoon
depiction of male genitalia.

The small gravel
parking lot was mostly vacant. An old VW Beetle and a beat-to-shit
minivan were the only vehicles in it. Allie had reservations about
parking her almost new car here but had no choice. She grabbed her
things and walked to the front of the building. Through the window
she saw Rick sitting with his back to the window. His hair looked
damp.

Allie almost dropped
her purse, dashing inside towards Rick. “You’re soaked, should’ve
told me to bring a change of clothes.”

“I’m fine, let’s
just go home.” Rick turned away too late to hide a large scrap on
his face.

It was bad. Rick
usually applied good humor in bad situations but not this time. He
followed her outside, walking awkwardly. His left shoe had gone
missing. When sitting in the car, the compression of his damp clothes
squished on the leather seat.

“Aren’t you cold?”
She cranked up the heater to the max.

“I’m fine.”

They drove in silence
through Grand Island. Something felt off. There was plenty off: Rick
sat a stranger on the passenger side, sopping wet, pretending like
nothing happened. But there it was again, that something else. A low
vibration emitted from somewhere within the car, not heard but felt
faintly. She thought there was something wrong with her car, or
perhaps her own mind creating a distraction from unpleasant silence.

Allie wanted to ask
Rick about the other woman; the one that Payton, the intern, saw him
leave The Milkbar with, but the words that came out were weak
substitution. “I’m sorry I didn’t answer the phone right away,
went on a walk to clear my mind and was ready to go to the police.
W-where did you find a phone to call me?”

“The payphone out
front.”

“You just waited
outside, sopping wet in the cold?” Allie asked.

He said nothing.

Allie was sweating and
glanced over. His clothes were drying and color returned to his
cheeks. Something else caught her attention: he had a white paper bag
sticking from his pants pocket. Curiously, unlike his clothes, it was
dry.

Rick noticed her
looking. “You’re wondering what happened.”

“It speaks,” Allie
said. “Of course I want to know what happened. You had me scared
shitless.”

Rick closed his eyes
and continued. “Tuesday, at work, I was approached by a man named
Russell, who claimed to be a social worker from upstate—there to
audit our care of the new disfigured patient and to compile a report
on her abandonment, at least that’s what he told me.”

Allie eyes stayed
affixed to the road. “He was a phony?”

“He seemed legit, and
we immediately got along, so much that we agreed to grab a drink
after work. I recommended Slow’s, but he wanted to go to The
Milkbar, that yuppie joint. I remember having a few sips of my Crown
and Coke but nothing else after.”

And
then you left with the woman
.

“I woke up lying in
plastic in a bathtub. Russell, the auditor, hovered over me,
tightened bungee cord around my hands, and then left. My mouth was
full and tasted awful—I spat out my own sock and screamed for help.
He came back and slammed something heavy over my head—and I had
blacked out again.”

Could
he be making this up?
Allie looked at the scrape and saw
gashes on his hands.
He got into
it with something.

“It was dark when I
came to,” Rick attempted a thin smile. “But then a red light
switched on. Beneath me, there was a spare tire. Motion slung me into
a corner, crammed. I was inside the trunk of a moving vehicle.

“My bondage was
applied sloppily; I pulled my hands free and worked to force the back
seat partition, tried to fish my hand through, but the opening was
too small. I spun and kicked with both legs. On the third try the
seat folded. Through the opening I could see Russell at the wheel. I
went for him and he fought me for the wheel of the vehicle . . . my
vehicle. The car careened off the road and dropped off a hill into
water. When we hit, Russell’s head bounced off the steering wheel
and I broke out.”

The story was
outlandish, and no mention of the girl he left with girl from the
bar, go figure. Payton the intern had nothing to gain from lies.
Allie could ruin her career if her tale turned out to be bull . . .
and there was something else.

Rick’s monotone
recollection of the story was disturbing. How he told it to the exact
detail, like a detective giving a description of a crime scene, very
astute, very matter-of-fact. Not like Rick. Allie thought that an
attempt on his life would provoke him to a fury, but he just sat
there. “Why would this Russell want to kill you?” Allie asked.

“I’d bet it’s Mr.
Moretti, Vince’s father.”

Allie remembered Rick
sobbing when he told her about the accident that landed him in
prison. “The accident happened over a decade ago. Why would he wait
until now?”

“If I disappeared
during the trial, while emotions were high, he would have undoubtedly
been a person of interest,” Rick said. “Mr. Moretti is a powerful
figure in the Italian community, and working as a defense attorney,
I’m sure he has resources beyond the average person. Now that a
decade has passed, his involvement wouldn’t be as evident—the
disappearance of a man on trial is much more sensational than an
ex-felon vanishing.”

Allie tightened her
grip on the wheel and tried to focus on the road. The snow in the
headlights was disorienting. “I guess that makes sense. How do you
know he will stop trying to kill you?”

“I don’t.”

“We should go to the
police.”

“Absolutely not,”
Rick said in uniform intonation. “Being an ex-felon complicates
things. There is a dead man sitting in the bottom of the Niagara
River inside my car.”

“Did anybody see the
accident?”

“No, we were alone.
It occurred on a service road.

Allie pulled off of the Thruway onto
Sheridan Drive, back in Williamsville—almost home. “Let’s get
some rest. We can talk about all this tomorrow.”

When she pulled in
the driveway, Rick reached for the white bag in his pocket. “Before
I forget, a week from now, I want you to urinate on this.” He
pulled out a rectangular box.

A home pregnancy test.

Elias awoke after a
short sleep, a wink. He sat up thinking of the journal; the finality
of the mystery that had essentially eaten the Kingbird clan alive.
Downstairs, the old book sat were he left it, in the kitchen, on the
table. He made coffee and lit up a smoke, continuing were he left
off.

* * *

May 9, 1905

A few days after we
visited the construction site, I found something very strange on the
rocking chair in the bedroom: an old top hat, like the Quakers wear.
“Aart is this yours?” I asked.

“No, maybe one of
fathers Quaker friends left it.” He didn’t seem bothered that it
was left in our bedroom, our private space.

I left it on the chair,
and began nursing Joseph the last time before going to sleep.

In the middle of the
night, something woke me up. I heard a creak in the floorboard. An
unfamiliar voice whispered my name. Aart breathed heavily in sleep,
and the baby lay still, undisturbed in his cradle. I felt cold air
shift into the room, but the window was closed. I sat up to looking
around. Someone or something was there with me.

The rocking chair began
to move back and forth. The motion dissipated to stillness.

I went check on Joseph,
and his chest raised and lowered, sound asleep. I lit a candle and
looked around. The top hat was missing from the chair.