Resurrection Dreams Read online

  “Because you dropped your dress in front of him?”

  “Partly that.” Ace stirred her ice cubes with a finger, smiling down into her drink. “You wouldn’t remember those skimpy black panties I bought mail-order?”

  “You wanted me to order some.”

  “Those are the ones. Well, day after my run-in with Dexter, I mailed ‘em to his house with a note. Said, ‘Dear Dex, Keep these as a souvenir of our ecstasy. Love and kisses, Honey Pot.’”

  “You didn’t.”

  “Wanta bet? And I personally saw Minnie take the envelope out of the mailbox the next morning.”

  “Mean.”

  “He’s lucky that’s all I did,” Ace said, her amused exterior cracking for just an instant and letting out the bitterness. Then she was grinning again. “Poor jerk hasn’t pestered me since.”

  I oughta do something like that, Vicki thought as she rounded a corner and headed for Center Street. Make him think I’m crazy, so he’ll leave me alone.

  Or threaten to sic Ace on him if he gives me any more grief.

  Better just to move out and find a new apartment.

  Give it a couple of weeks, though, see how it goes.

  She leaped off the curb at Center Street and looked to the right. The downtown business area of Ellsworth was gray in the pre-dawn light. A few cars were parked in front of the shops, but no one was about.

  Light spilled onto the sidewalk from the windows of the bakery a block away. On other mornings, she had run in that direction. She knew the bakery was the only place open. Though she couldn’t smell the doughnuts from here, she remembered the delicious aromas and how they made her mouth water when she passed by.

  It was sheer torture to run through those sweet smells and not stop in.

  She decided to avoid that particular agony this morning, turned her back to the shops of the town, and headed north. She passed the dark windows of Riverfront Bait and Tackle, then left the walkway and ran through the grass of the long municipal park that bordered the river. A soft mist hung over the water. She saw a few boats far out, the silhouettes of fishermen sitting motionless with their poles. Somewhere, a loon cackled. She heard the distant putter of an outboard, but couldn’t spot the moving boat. It was probably out behind Skeeter Island.

  The ground sloped down toward the public beach and playground. She shortened her strides, wary of the dewy grass, and almost reached the bottom before her right foot slipped. Gasping, she saw both her feet fly up. She landed on her rump, tumbled backward, and dug her heels into the grass to stop her skid.

  Brilliant, she thought.

  She had that strange tightness in the throat familiar from other times (not very many and mostly long ago) when she’d fallen on her butt—a sensation that was like an urge to laugh and cry at the same time. It faded after a few seconds. Vicki told herself to get up, but she continued to lie there, panting for air. She felt the cool dew through her shorts and panties. The slide had pulled her T-shirt halfway up her back. The grass against her bare skin made her feel itchy, and it was the itch that soon convinced her to sit up.

  She reached behind her with both hands and scratched. She was mildly allergic to grass. The itch would probably keep bothering her until she got back to the apartment and took a shower.

  The back of her shirt was sodden. She had to peel it away from her skin before she could lower it. Then the wet fabric clung to her. She stood up, bent her arms behind her, and kept on scratching as she walked toward the beach.

  She left the grass. Her shoes sank into the sand. At the water’s edge, she was about to continue her run but spied a stick floating just offshore. It was about two feet long, and would make a wonderful back-scratcher. Since her shoes and socks were already wet from the dew, she went ahead and waded into the river. The chilly water rose around her ankles. She crouched, snatched up the stick, reached behind her back with it, and sighed as she scratched herself through the damp T-shirt.

  The sky in the east was lighter now. Soon, the first rays of sunlight would break through the trees across the river.

  She remembered the time she watched the sunrise with Paul. That was only a week before he went away. Late in the night, they had both crept out of their houses. They met and spent hours roaming the woods north of town, holding hands and talking quietly. It was a sad, sweet time. Long before dawn arrived, they found themselves here at the beach. They sat on the swings for a while. They silently climbed to the top of the slide and sat up there, his arms around her. Then they slid down together and wandered to the shore.

  Vicki let the stick fall from her hand. She stared at the diving platform floating on oil drums a distance offshore.

  They left their shoes and socks on the beach, that morning, and swam out to it. They sat on its weathered planks, shivering in their wet clothes. Then they lay down and hugged each other and the chill went away. It was as if she and Paul were the only people in the world. They kissed so long and hard that their faces were red around the mouth when the sun finally came up.

  Remembering it, Vicki felt a hollow ache.

  So many people, later in life, claim they have no regrets, say they’d do nothing differently if they had a chance to go back. But Vicki had a major regret. It filled her with sadness whenever she thought about that morning with Paul on the diving raft. If she had it to do over again, she would’ve made love with him there before dawn on the gently rocking platform. She had opened her wet blouse for him, and he had fumbled open her bra and lifted it up around her neck and caressed her breasts. That was far more than they had ever done before. It seemed daring and wonderful. Paul had never seen or touched a girl’s breasts before, and he was the first to look at Vicki’s and touch them. His hands never strayed below the waistband of her jeans, and she never touched him down there though she could feel him while they embraced and squirmed against each other. She thought about it, but the idea of actually taking off their pants and doing it seemed huge and grownup and terrifying. So it didn’t happen. When the sun started to rise, they untangled and sat up. Even as she fastened her bra and buttoned her blouse, she felt a peculiar emptiness. Something—she wasn’t quite sure what—had been missed or lost. She wept as she watched the sun come up over the river, and Paul put an arm around her back and said, “This was the best night of my life, Vicki. I love you so much. I’ll always love you, no matter what.”

  “I’ll always love you, too,” she said.

  Standing in the river’s shallow water, Vicki sniffed and wiped her eyes. Should’ve done it, she thought. Would’ve been so beautiful.

  Those are the breaks, she told herself.

  She turned away from the raft. Head down, she waded ashore. She was in no mood to continue her run. She scratched her back. She decided to return to the apartment and take her shower and get rid of the itch.

  It’ll be an interesting day, she told herself, trying to shake loose the mood of gloom. Charlie’s golf day. I’ll be in charge.

  So who cares?

  Her feet made sloshing sounds inside her soaked shoes.

  She wiped her eyes again.

  “You okay?” a man called.

  The voice stunned her.

  She looked up.

  Near the far corner of the beach, where the playground equipment stood, a man was perched at the very top of the slide. Paul? Had some strange twist of fate lured him back to the beach at dawn, all these years later? It seemed impossible, but she hurried toward him, staring, her heart pounding wildly.

  It can’t be Paul, she told herself. If he’d moved back to town, Ace would’ve told me.

  Maybe Ace doesn’t know.

  Maybe he just arrived.

  He seemed about the right age. His hair was the same sandy blond color as Paul’s. He looked bigger, though. Paul had been slim, whereas this man had broad shoulders, a muscular chest and arms. Maybe Paul filled out, she thought.

  Then she was close enough to see the features of his face, and her hopes collapsed.

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bsp; Paul might’ve grown big and strong, but his face couldn’t have changed this way. The man’s eyes were farther apart than Paul’s. His nose was larger, his mouth wider, his chin more prominent. Even his ears were different: they were bigger than Paul’s, and lay close to the sides of his head.

  Silly to think he could be Paul, she told herself.

  “Are you all right?” he asked when she stopped near the foot of the slide.

  “I guess so.” She felt cheated. And violated; she’d thought she was alone, but this man had been spying on her. “What’re you doing up there?” she asked.

  “Seemed like a nice place to watch the sunrise.”

  “Been up there long?”

  “A while.”

  She wondered if he’d seen her fall.

  “I have to get going,” she muttered.

  “See you around,” he said.

  Vicki turned away and ran toward the road.

  Chapter Seven

  The little red light at the back of the HotTopper went off, letting him know that the stick of butter had melted. Melvin’s right hand was bandaged and still painful from the bite, so he used his left hand to unplug the device, aim it down at the popcorn and squirt. The butter sprayed out as if from the shower nozzle, turning his popcorn golden. He sprinkled salt, shook the bowl, then sprayed more butter and sprinkled more salt.

  He carried the bowl of popcorn into the living room, placed it on the table in front of his sofa, and returned to the kitchen. He filled a glass with ice, took it out to the living room, then went into the kitchen again and removed a twoliter plastic bottle of Pepsi from the refrigerator. He carried that into the living room.

  He sat on the sofa. He filled his glass. On the television, David Letterman was introducing a Stupid Human Trick. Melvin pressed the Play button on his remote. Letterman vanished.

  Melvin grabbed a handful of popcorn and started to munch.

  His video camera, mounted near the ceiling of the basement laboratory and aimed downward at a forty-five degree angle, gave him a great view of the work table and the area around it.

  Elizabeth’s naked corpse lay stretched on the work table, strapped down with leather belts. The belts secured her wrists and ankles to the table top. Another belt crossed her throat. Another crossed her chest, just below her small breasts.

  Melvin watched himself step in front of the camera and smile up at it.

  “Handsome devil,” he muttered, and ate some more popcorn.

  The Melvin on the screen wore a glossy robe of red satin purchased by mail order from a sporting goods company that made such robes for boxers. He rubbed the back of his bandaged hand across his mouth, then said, “Tonight, we’ll be trying a method from page 214 of Hizgoth’s Book of the Dead. My subject will be Elizabeth Crogan of Black River Falls.” He stepped back and swept an arm toward the corpse on the table behind him.

  Turning away, he stepped to a cluttered cart next to the table. The back of his robe read, “The Amazing Melvin” in swirling golden letters.

  Melvin’s hand trembled as he lifted his glass off the table. He took a drink of Pepsi, set it down, and watched himself bend over an open book on the cart.

  Checking the recipe.

  He picked up a mayonnaise jar and raised it toward the camera. “The blood of three bats killed under the full moon,” he explained. He unscrewed the lid and stepped over to Elizabeth. Holding the jar in his right hand, grimacing at the pain, he poured some blood into his cupped left hand, and spread it over her face. When her face was redbrown with the syrupy fluid, he waved the jar over the rest of her body, spilling trails of blood onto her neck and arms and chest, her breasts and belly, her groin, and down the tops of her legs to her strapped ankles. He set the bottle aside. With his left hand, he rubbed the blood, smoothing it over her skin.

  Melvin let his handful of popcorn fall back into the bowl. He gazed at the television. His heart was pounding, his mouth dry.

  He spent a long time spreading the blood on Elizabeth. Then he stepped away and disappeared from the screen. Melvin heard splashing water while he cleaned his hand in the wash basin.

  Every visible inch of the girl’s body was painted. His fingers had left streaks and swirls.

  Maybe should’ve turned her over and done the back, he thought.

  He took a drink of Pepsi. The glass was slick in his buttery, shaking hand.

  Melvin came back, stared at the body, then stepped over to the cart and checked the book again. He raised another jar toward the camera. Pieces of this and that hung suspended in a cloudy white liquid. “Milk of goat,” he said. “Eye of cat, tail of newt, henbane and mandragore, spider legs, ashes of a dead sinner. Brought to a boil at midnight.”

  He opened the jar, set it down beside Elizabeth’s head, then slipped an aluminum funnel into her mouth. Standing behind her head so his body wouldn’t block the camera’s view, he poured the substance into the funnel. It made soft, slurpy sounds. After a while, it began trickling from the corners of her mouth. Little bits of things rolled with the liquid down her cheeks.

  The jar was only half empty.

  He frowned at it, glanced into the funnel, then stepped sideways. With his good left hand, he shoved down hard on her belly. Stuff gushed out of her mouth. The funnel overflowed, spilling onto her face and neck. He let up, and the funnel began to drain into her. He pushed again, let up, pushed, let up. Soon, the funnel was empty. He picked up the jar and dumped more in. It went down for a while, then started backing up again. He glanced at Elizabeth’s stomach, which was beginning to look bloated.

  Shrugging, Melvin set the jar aside. It was nearly empty. He took the funnel out of her mouth. Goop poured from its spout as he cast it away. Her open mouth was full. A dark lump floated in the middle on the milky pond.

  Melvin took another handful of popcorn and filled his mouth. He watched himself wink at the camera as he returned to the cart.

  He studied the book again, then addressed the camera. “Three candles, midnight black.” One at a time, he lighted the wicks, dripped pools of black wax onto the body, and placed the burning candles upright in the wax. When he was done, a candle stood in the tangled hair of her pubis and the other two rose from her breasts.

  Melvin bent over the book, slipped handwritten papers out from under the top page, and read aloud.

  “Master of Darkness, I, your servant, do humbly beseech you. I have prepared the earthly remains of Elizabeth Crogan in the manner prescribed. She has been annointed with the blood of the bat; she has consumed the Nectar of Hizgoth; the candles of the Black Triumvirate are burning at the three corners of the luminex. Her remains are in readiness. I beseech you, send me the soul of Elizabeth Crogan that she might join me in the service of your realm.”

  Melvin, listening to his voice, refilled his glass with Pepsi, took a drink, and ate more popcorn.

  On the screen, he kept on reading.

  Finally, he came to the end. “This I ask in the name of the Black Triumvirate.”

  He stepped around the cart. Standing beside the body, he plucked the lower candle from its bed of stiff wax, and plunged it, flame first, into her mouth. The Nectar of Hizgoth spilled down her cheeks. He tossed the extinguished candle aside, then dunked each of the remaining candles into the Nectar.

  Stepping behind Elizabeth’s head, he raised both arms high. Blood had soaked through the bandage on his right hand, and trickled down his wrist and forearm. He shut his eyes. He mumbled, “Come on, babe.”

  He looked down at her.

  Nothing.

  Melvin stopped chewing his mouthful of popcorn. He leaned forward, staring at the body, half expecting its eyes to open, its head to turn. He’d been there; he knew she wouldn’t move. But he could almost see it happening.

  “Come on, come on,” he said on the television.

  That Melvin lowered his arms, dug a Kleenex out of his robe pocket, and mopped the dribbles of blood off his right arm and wrist. Looking up, he glared into the camera.
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  He bent over the corpse, thumbed up an eyelid, and gazed at the eye.

  The lid stayed open when he released it.

  He stepped around to the side of the table. He shook her shoulder. Her head, with its single open eye, wobbled from side to side, slopping out the white Nectar.

  He bent over and pressed an ear to her chest.

  His face came up. He scowled at the camera. The left side of his face was smeared with bat blood.

  “Didn’t work,” he said to the camera in a calm voice. Then he yelled, “SHIT!” and hammered his fist down between her breasts. Nectar erupted from her mouth. He pounded her again and again, using both hands, crying out in pain as he punched her with his wounded hand.

  Melvin scowled as he watched. He didn’t much enjoy seeing himself in the throes of his disappointment and rage and agony. He especially didn’t like the way he’d lost control. He picked up the remote and pressed the Fast-Forward button.

  In fast-forward, he really looked like a lunatic punching her, shaking her, prancing around the table waving his arms as he silently shouted, cuffing her some more, rushing offscreen and reappearing with a mirror that he held under her nose, scowling at the mirror, hurling it away in disgust. As he scurried up onto the table, Melvin pushed the Stop button.

  The basement laboratory vanished. On the screen, a cute gymnast in a leotard did the splits on a balance beam while she talked about the “safe, sure feeling of confidence” she got from using Lite-Days Mini-Pads.

  Melvin shut the television off. He finished the Pepsi in his glass.

  He turned sideways on the sofa and looked at Elizabeth Crogan sitting there next to him, leaning back against the cushions, hands folded on her lap, legs stretched out, feet propped up on the table and crossed at the ankles. She didn’t look too bad. He’d cleaned her up after last night’s experiment, had even bandaged her broken skin, applied makeup and brushed her hair.

  “Still dead?” he asked.

  She didn’t move. She just stared at the blank television.

  “Last call for a come-back,” he said.

  Nothing.