Girl on a Mission: The Dead Do Speak

Chapters 19 & 20

Previously on Girl on a Mission:

The Play Dead Killer visits his sinister father in the Hamptons, enduring a tense conversation about his serial killings where his father criticizes his "cat-and-mouse game" and hints at deeper, more disturbing family dynamics. Meanwhile, Detective Hallowell arrives at the mob club on West Seventh and Avenue T, preparing to question Liza Ward about the recent murders, while mentally preparing himself for the potentially supernatural environment.

Chapter 19

Liza had just finished mopping blood off the floor when she heard Sonny’s panicked voice.

“Someone just pulled up,” he said. “I think it’s a cop.”

Silence. Tension. Liza looked at Sonny, Sonny looked at Grandpa Tommy, and Grandpa Tommy looked at Liza, everyone else was in the basement. Grandpa stepped to the basement door and took the first step down and told them to be quiet when the supposed cop knocked on the front door. Tommy capped it off with informing the men downstairs about the cop possibility and to keep it quiet before he closed and locked the hidden door. Looked like nothing more than a wall once the door was in place. He grabbed his suit jacket off the hook he’d hung it on after the shooter was dismantled and slung it over his shoulders, squeezing his arms into the sleeves. Liza noticed how the gun wedged between his back and belt vanished with the jacket on.

“Be civil,” said Grandpa Tommy to both Liza and Sonny. “Go about your business.” He turned to Liza. “Bring that bucket in the back and pour the water down the drain.”

Liza nodded and rolled the bucket to the back as another knock rapped against the door. She looked over her shoulder when Grandpa Tommy unlocked the dead bolt, opening the door with just a crack.

“Sorry,” he said, “We’re closed on Mondays.”

“Not looking for a good time, sir,” said the man in the door, the supposed police officer. “I’m looking for Liza Ward.”

Liza stopped cold. Her thoughts went to Mrs. Kensington when she looked back at the door. The cop had his badge in his hand. He looked young. Mid-twenties, Liza assumed. She loved his hair, straight thick dark locks that fell over his eyes, the kind Liza noticed she’d found rather intriguing, although she wouldn’t tell anyone in this room that information.

“And you are?” asked Grandpa Tommy.

“Detective Jerry Hallowell, homicide.”

Liza looked at Sonny, whose eyes narrowed as he shrugged. Liza had no response. What could she say anyway when a homicide detective showed up at a mob club after multiple homicides had just occurred not even a few hours prior?

Grandpa Tommy opened the door. “Homicide,” he repeated. “And you’re looking for Liza? Why?”

Liza noticed how Jerry replaced his badge in his right coat pocket. “Well, unfortunately, a neighbor of Liza’s was murdered last night in the apartment next to where Liza lives.”

“I don’t see how that has anything to do with Liza.”

“Maybe not, but there’s a witness who said Liza was in her apartment this morning and may have heard or seen something that can help us catch this killer.”

“Liza’s been staying with her uncle. Are you sure your witness is seeing straight?”

“Well, we’ve reason to believe that she was home.”

Quiet. Liza could hear Grandpa Tommy’s shallow breath. Knew his brain was turning over a billion possibilities.

“Look,” said Jerry. “I’m not here to cause anyone trouble. My job is to find a serial killer who's hacking up innocent women in our neighborhood. It could have been Liza who was the victim. I need help catching this piece of garbage before he hurts another woman. That’s my one and only task here…” Liza could see how Jerry’s eyes narrowed as he moved his head to the left then right as if providing a signal that he couldn't care less what crime was currently being committed by the Wards. “She could help solve this murder. Is she here?”

Liza wasn’t sure how Grandpa Tommy was going to play this hand. Like a poker game, sometimes you have to bet all your chips to get ahead. She scanned the club, floor to ceiling, even the chairs and windows, for any drops of blood or sign that a crime had been committed. Other than the blood tainted water in the mop bucket, all else seemed to be on the up and up. She looked at Sonny, who was walking towards her from behind the bar.

“She is,” answered Tommy.

Liza loved what Jerry said next. “Perfect, thank you. But I must say that since she’s a minor, I’ll need an adult present during questioning.” Well played indeed, giving Grandpa Tommy permission to listen in and lead the questions. Liza was sure this guy Jerry wasn’t expecting full trust from Grandpa Tommy but so far, he’s said all the right things to gain a bit of trust with understanding that Jerry wanted nothing more from Liza other than a statement and he would be on his way. Plus, Liza wanted to speak with him. She’d do anything to help catch Mrs. Kensington’s murderer.

Sonny took the mop handle from Liza’s hands.

“Liza,” called Grandpa Tommy, as he opened the door wide to allow Jerry in. Liza’s blood turned cold when Grandpa Tommy stared at her dead in the eyes and said, “There’s a police officer wanting to talk to you.”

“I’ll finish this up, Liza,” said Sonny.

Liza whispered, “Thank you,” her eyes never leaving Grandpa Tommy and the open door and the cop stepping into the club as Sonny wheeled the mop bucket to the back.

“Hello Liza,” said Jerry. He turned to Grandpa Tommy. “Is there somewhere we can sit?”

Grandpa Tommy shrugged, then pointed to the poker table. “Right here is fine,” he said. “It’s only the three of us. Sonny will stay in the back.”

“Thank you,” said Jerry. He looked at Liza and smiled. “Just a few questions,” he said.

Grandpa Tommy closed the door and locked the dead bolt, and Liza could sense how Jerry’s heart skipped a beat.

“Come on Liza,” said Grandpa Tommy, who cocked his brow. “Let’s get this over with.” He looked at Jerry. “No one likes it when women are getting hacked up in our neighborhood. Let’s help the detective find the right guy.”

Liza looked at the mob man and the detective. Seemed surreal in the most surreal sense of the word. Grandpa Tommy took a seat and patted the seat next to him as Jerry pulled a notepad and pen from his jacket pocket.

“Just a few questions,” Jerry repeated. “No need for concern.”

Liza nodded, and said, “Sure, I’d be happy to help,” as she shuffled towards the table. Her eyes were downtrodden when she noticed what she should have seen when the knock first came to the door.

Liza Ward had blood on her hands.

Chapter 20

Edmond refused the dinner invitation. He had to get out of that house and away from his father. Even more, he had to get out of that room. The sitting room always carried a thick, anxiety riddled energy that caught in his throat, suffocating his lungs. Edmond felt as if his throat were closing every time he was in the room. Past trauma sure has its way of finding you when you return to the scene of the crime.

He drove with a heavy foot, his hands wrapped around the steering wheel, clutching tight and trembling to the point that he was sure the wheel was going to snap in his hands. His gut shook and twisted and for a moment he convinced himself he was suffering an aneurysm and was sure his stomach was about to burst, pain surging from his stomach up his spine, squeezing his skull. Hard to breathe. He could barely get air down his throat and decided to pull over to catch his breath. Give himself a bit of time to calm his heart. The beach and ocean outside his windshield were not far at all, close enough to watch the dark ocean waves ripple against the tide and listen to those rolling waves crash against the sand.

He understood his father was aware of Edmonds’ despise of the sitting room. He knew all too well what that room did to him, the memories thick like moss over the eyes. But the memories were more than memories, they were real. They were happening now. Above the ocean waves. Inside the moonlight and the stars, he could see the coffin.

Edmond was only six when his mother passed. She had been sick during the months preceding her death. He was never told what truly happened to her. All he could remember is that his mother was a vibrant, full of life parent, and young too, but Edmond had no recollection of the youthful poise his mother carried physically. No, not at all. This youthful presence was reflected in the manner Edmond remembered she had been treated. Edmond remembered how his father scolded his mother, as if she were his child and not his wife, and how this reverence transferred to the home staff’s equally dismal treatment of his mother.

When she got sick, they locked her in her room and Edmond was refused visitation out of fear that she may transfer what ailed the woman to her son. He hadn’t seen her in months and then she was gone, never to return. And how he longed to see her again, sitting quietly in the sitting room, alone. Few people had arrived to pay their respects, an event Edmond never understood until he turned the ripe age of twenty. Why did so few people come to pay their respects to a father who had friends all over the world? It never made sense.

Night had arrived by the time Edmond decided he couldn’t live without seeing his mother one last time-a closed coffin wasn’t the same as seeing the body and made the tragedy seem unreal, as if it were a big lie.

He’d been sitting in front of the coffin for what seemed like an eternity, by himself. No one had checked on him, as if they were waiting to see what he would do, when he sat up from the chair he’d been sitting on, the first seat in a row of six seats, six rows in all.

He could hear his mother calling to him from inside the coffin.

“Come Edmond. Come, lie with me.”

At the time, when he heard her voice from the coffin, he believed with every fiber of his being that she was alive. A mistake had been made. They made a mistake. She’s not dead, she’s alive. WE NEED TO GET HER OUT OF THERE! But he had to see for himself. Had to make sure. How daddy would scold him if he were wrong and caused a hassle. Had to make sure.

“Come Edmond. Come, lie with me.”

He reached for the coffin, the lid so heavy to Edmond’s frail and youthful arms and hands. His eyes were wide, and his hands were shaking when he popped the latch open, and a stench escaped from the coffin as if that stank was bursting to be free.

“Lay with me Edmond. Come to me…”

His breath stuttered over his lips, caught in his chest, and the entire world seemed to hold its breath with him, as he wedged his tiny fingers beneath the lid.

“Come Edmond. Come…”

Every bone, every muscle, every organ, and limb tensed and constricted in the moment he lifted the coffin lid, and, as if his eyes turned the size of wide boulders, Edmond gasped at the sight of his cold, dead mother.

“…play dead with me.”