Girl on a Mission: The Dead Do Speak

Chapters 17 & 18

Previously on Girl on a Mission:

While washing dishes at the mob club, Liza witnesses a violent shooting that leaves Carmine dead and the gunman being dragged to the basement for questioning, with Grandpa Tommy ordering the body to be disposed of without police involvement. Meanwhile, Detective Hallowell investigates the Ward apartment alone, where he communicates with the ghost of Carol Ward (Liza's mother), who cryptically reveals that Liza escaped through the window and that a mysterious "he" had been in the apartment, prompting Hallowell to ask Frank to help locate Liza.

Chapter 17

The Play Dead Killer drove through the gated entrance to his father’s Hampton’s mansion up the small incline of the long driveway to the sixty-two-room mansion, gripping the steering wheel the whole way up.

He couldn’t stand his father. The man was pure evil.

He parked outside the front entrance when a servant opened the doors for him. The Play Dead Killer killed the engine and stepped onto the driveway. He noticed how the sun was setting and wondered if he was late. He checked his watch: ten minutes to five. He cursed under his breath. To his father, if you weren’t fifteen minutes early, you were late, and his father was quite the stickler when it came to time, or rather, being on time. He slammed the car door shut and trampled to the front door.

“Good afternoon, sir,” said the servant as the killer walked into the home.

He stepped into the foyer, and the servant took his jacket. “Where is he?” the killer asked, his tone gruff and edgy.

“In the sitting room.” The servant properly draped the jacket over his arm. “He waits for you.”

The killer clenched his fists while gritting his teeth.

“Would you like some tea or coffee?” asked the servant.

Play Dead shook his head. “I won’t be here long,” he said and walked into the mansion towards the sitting room on the opposite side of the home. All was quiet except for the staff-twenty-three in all-scuttling across the mansion, getting dinner ready. He was sure the old man was hungry. Considering the time, he was definitely hungry, requiring dinner to be ready, and on the table by five thirty. No exceptions. And, of course, his father would be in the sitting room. Play Dead despised the sitting room. That’s where life had both stopped and started, for him at least.

He found his father in the sitting room, those old shoulders standing in front of a canvas, painting a garden scene with his back to the Play Dead Killer. What would it be like to wrap his hands around his father’s neck and squeeze, watching life drain from his eyes in reckless abandon? Satisfying, that’s how it would feel.

Without turning, his father said, “My only son returns.” He held his paintbrush inches from the canvas, as if questioning his next stroke. “Edmond, how have you been?” And the old man turned to his son, his jaw tight. It was obvious to Edmond that his father was not in a good mood.

“That’s not my name. Stop calling me that.”

“It’s the name I gave you. Be proud of who you are.”

Edmond eyeballed his father, wanted to punch him dead in the face. He looked away. “What is it, father? Why have you dragged me all the way to Long Island?”

“I thought we could have dinner together,” he said. “It’s been such a long time since we—”

“I ate already,” Edmond said. “Besides, I eat with people I actually enjoy having dinner with.”

Edmond glared at his father, and his father grinned.

“Just get on with it,” said Edmond. “I have places to be.”

“New victims to watch, Edmond? Surely you can’t still be indulging in that ridiculous game of cat and mouse you so enjoy playing. I remember when you were just a boy and…”

“Spare me, father. As I said, I don’t have time for your speeches.”

His father waited before continuing. “You’d tear off the heads of any pet I bought you.”

Edmond gritted his teeth, turning away from his father’s deep blue gaze.

“It’s okay, son. That’s simply just your nature. You are who you are.”

Edmond looked at his father dead in the eyes. “You mean I am who you turned me into.”

His father cocked his head, a knowing grin across his lips.

Edmond continued, “What would one expect when you are the father?”

“Indeed,” said his father with a cock of his brow.

Edmond shook his head. “Seriously, what is it you want from me?”

His father took a deep breath before turning around and laying his paint pallet on the table covered with sheets to prevent paint from getting on the Italian marble. He walked to the fireplace, stoking Edmond’s lack of patience.

“I’m concerned, Edmond,” said his father, turning to face him. “Concerned with the heat you’re bringing down on the family.” He crossed his arms behind his back. “This cat-and-mouse game of yours has become a bit on the suspicious side, Edmond. The powers that be are concerned you may be out of line.”

Edmond scoffed. “The powers that be?” He shook his head. “Those vile creatures who indulge in baby flesh are concerned about my exploits. Seriously?”

“Those vile creatures who are intelligent enough to keep things from the public eye, yes, Edmond, those very same creatures.”

Edmond rolled his tongue inside his mouth, then clucked his tongue, staring down at his father with a slight shake of his head. “I couldn't care less about them. My work is more important than their desire. And you, all you do is what they tell you. Well, fuck them. I won’t do what they tell me.”

His father turned his chin up, staring at the ceiling. The fire crackled in the fireplace, a low roar eating away at the wood. Edmond gritted his teeth, his nose curled, wanting, wishing to be let free from this inquiry. His father turned his gaze back to Edmond, his eyes narrow, and Edmond could see how his jaw was clenched. The man was not pleased. Not pleased at all.

“Tell me, Edmond,” said his father, “What is the significance of your work, as you so put it? Forcing women to play dead as you gut them like pigs. How is that important work?”

As if the old man could understand anything more than an arm’s reach from his greedy hands. Edmond knew his father could never understand, never would even attempt to understand. Plus, the man was a scapegoat, a pawn in a game played out for millenniums; he was so far from understanding he couldn’t see straight.

His father stepped closer, his head craned, eyeing Edmond as if his gaze could lift Edmond’s eyes to look at him and force his throat to squeeze answers over his lips. “Edmond,” he said, his voice taunting, goading. “You ask for me to understand your work. How could I even come close to understanding if you refuse to let me in?” Edmond said nothing, avoiding his father’s gaze. “Does this have to do with your mother? Edmond, I’ve apologized for decades about that incident. I didn’t know, son. I didn’t know you crept into the coffin with your mother. How could I?”

Edmond’s eyes were wide, head shaking with slight trembles, gnashing his teeth with a tight clenched jaw, and fighting off his tears.

“Is that what this is all about? Trying to bring back your mother?” He stepped within inches of Edmond, and Edmond could feel his father’s eyes on him, roaming, staring, looking for answers. “There are other ways we can satisfy that itch, Edmond. You don’t have to look for unsuspecting citizens; we have hordes of them to suit your tastes. But this game you’ve been playing…” He shook his head. “Tsk, tsk, tsk, not good Edmond. It brings too much heat, and we find your choice of location truly… disturbing.” He turned away, walked towards his easel and painting, to the leather-bound chair in the room’s center and took up the red cane leaning against the chair’s arm and then turned to Edmond. “You are completely aware Edmond of our dealings in Brooklyn and who we have working for us. Yet you choose to play your game in the same area. It’s almost as if you chose Brooklyn for this exact reason.”

Edmond turned to his father. “At least I’m not hacking up children.”

His father craned his head left, then right. “Old, young. What does it matter? They are all insignificant…playthings really…” He held his hand out, palm up, and curled his fingers into a fist. “For our desires. You could have so much more, Edmond. You deserve so much more. Bathe in their blood if you wish, get them to do all you want, but this cat-and-mouse game must end.” He took his seat, crossing his right leg over his left, his left arm draped over the chair’s arm, twisting the red cane.

“Are we done?”

“What is the significance, Edmond? Why do you write Play Dead over your victims?”

“Wouldn’t you love to know?”

“Tell me now, Edmond.”

“Stop calling me that.” He wiped the tear from his eye.

“Why Play Dead Edmond? Why?”

And Edmond answered, “All I see are dead people.”

Chapter 18

West Seventh and Avenue T, that’s the address Jerry was provided to find Liza Ward.

If she wasn’t at school-apparently her uncle had picked her up early-and she wasn’t home, it was likely she would be at the infamous club owned and operated by her great uncle-referred to as Grandpa Tommy to Liza. Not that Jerry had anything to do with the investigation into the organized crime connection with the Ward family, other than that he was a police officer, but he would keep an open eye for any misdeeds or questionable behavior while questioning Liza Ward.

He wasn’t concerned. Even mob men despised degenerates hacking up women in their neighborhood.

Jerry parked outside the club, scanning the windows for a sign of life. All seemed quiet, although he could see shadows passing across the light through the closed window blinds now that the sun had officially bid good night to the day. Jerry scanned each window. There were two on the side of the building where he parked. The double doors leading into the club were solid wood with no windows. Jerry clenched his jaw, lips pressed tight and breathed through his nose.

Maybe this is a mistake.

Maybe, but then again, he wanted to talk with Liza Ward.

Jerry exited his car and turned to the club, closing the car door, standing, looking, as he fixed his coat’s collar and pulled down on the lapels-using his forearms to press against his gun.

Just in case. Keep your wits in check.

Jerry performed his mental body check. Heart’s pounding a bit. Focused on his breath. Slow inhales, steady rhythm; let the breath exhale with no force. Calm the heart down. Clear the mind. Jerry tapped his jacket’s front right pocket. Shield on the ready. Tapped his left pocket. Notepad and pen, check. He clenched his fists, firm but soft.

Considering where I’m going, it may be best to lock out that seeing part.

Jerry understood there was a large possibility there’d be a few rotting corpses hanging out in the club. Ghosts running amok, captured in a dark spiraling energy that permeated their afterlife. Since the club had been mob owned for the better part of the last century, there was no telling how many mob men had lost their lives within the club’s walls. Jerry had no issue with mob men; the corrupt destroying the corrupt was no issue. The corrupt hurting every day common citizens, well, that was his forte. Corruption and crime were a part of human existence since the dawn of man and are woven into the fabric of our DNA.

He wasn’t here for mob men. He was here to solve a string of murders happening in their neighborhood. In turn, they were all on the same side. Sometimes it takes a criminal mind to solve a crime.

His attention was caught by the window blind. Someone had just looked through the window. The blind snapped closed.

That’s my cue.

Jerry walked to the front entrance, turning off that clairvoyant, seeing part of his mind.