Markhad considered telling Constance; perhaps she could talk to his supplier andmake a more affordable trade—and then immediately dismissed the thought. Ifthat bizarre body she’d commissioned them with was any indication of her ideaof business, then this was the last he wanted to deal with her.
Crossinginto Massachusetts, he turned off the highway and proceeded down several long,winding roads. Pulling into their driveway, he parked behind Chad’s car andhauled out the tub of freshly-picked mushrooms and went inside.
“Yo,”he called out, wrinkling his nose at the immediately familiar, acrid,burnt-smelling odor on the air.
Hewalked into the kitchen to find, as expected, a half-sliced mushroom lying onthe counter beside an empty pan. “Shit,” he cursed, his patience evaporating ashe raised his voice. “Chad?”
Hemoved into the Garden and straight to the tank on the far side of the room,then gasped.
Thefine greyish mold ringed the bottom of the tank, pockmarked by a fewhalf-formed buttons; but the middle of the tank was an expanse of stained,moist glass in the rough size and shape of the bizarre body that no longeroccupied it.
Mark’swide eyes wandered to the top of the tank, and he frowned when he saw the lidappeared to be very much in place. Around the tank, he saw only a pair ofdiscarded latex gloves and a filthy knife; but otherwise, the table and thefloor were bare and clean.
“Chad!”he hollered and, looking around, he saw the basement door was ajar.
Markdescended the stairs, ready to yell at him, to ask him what the hell he’d beenthinking, to demand where he’d moved the body. All of those thoughts vanished,however, when the burnt smell was replaced with a thicker, more coppery, one.
Andthen he saw the red puddle spreading across the floor: blood. So muchblood, everywhere.
Inthe middle of it was something small, dark, and rectangular. Chad’s journal.
Mark’sjaw worked uselessly, trying and failing to form words that he already knewnobody else would be able to hear.
Hewas so transfixed by the reddened floor that he somehow didn’t notice thefigure slumped on the chair until now. His eyes took it in and widened whenthey found Chad’s—as much as was left of them in the ruined red mess spreadupon the chair—and then he finally found his voice.
* * *
Markstood in the front doorway and stared at his twin reflections in the huge,round, black lenses of Constance’s sunglasses. As with the first time he’d mether, they’d stayed on, even now that the sun had long ago set. She was dressedin a neat, grey business outfit, her skirt and jacket clean and well-kept,jewelry glittering at the base of her neck and her wrists.
Afterreaching her over a private messaging network, Mark had received a call fromConstance’s private number. Her surprise had quickly shifted from pleased tocurious as he’d demanded that she come see him at once.
He’dspent the long wait for her arrival debating exactly what he was going to tellher. More than once, he’d suspected her of somehow being behind what hadhappened; yet he knew that this was unlikely. There were a million other waysshe could have stolen the body without having to harm a hair on Chad’s or hisheads.
Afteran hour that had felt like eternity, Constance arrived. As soon as she cameclose to the door, Mark told her that Chad was dead, and that the body she’dsent them was missing.
Hewaited for her to scowl, to yell, to coolly threaten him. Instead, she cockedher head, eyebrows disappearing behind her black shades. “Please show me.”
Markturned and led her inside, listening to the clicks and snaps of her high heelson the tiles and floorboards behind him. He took her through the Garden, notstopping to show her the empty tank—not yet—and brought her straight downstairsto what was left of his friend.
“Oh,my,” Constance said, and Mark was surprised to watch her walk toward thecouch, stopping and crouching down directly before the uneven ring of red gobsand puddles.
Markcouldn’t look at the chair again; he turned away, cringing as he noticed thepuddle of puke he’d left upon discovering the massacre.
“Thisis quite bad,” Constance continued, and when Mark looked, he saw herhand moving beside her face, fingers lifting away from her shades. She stoodslowly, one heel tapping on the concrete as she straightened and turned to lookback at Mark. “You don’t have any clue as to what happened?”
“None.”
“Anykind of indoor security cameras?”
Markshook his head, looking away, glassy-eyed.
Hecould hear Constance murmuring something about tunnels, and turned to find herglancing around at the basement floor. After a moment, she slowly looked backto the pulpy, red flower spread out on the chair.
Markfelt a chill in the back of his neck even before Constance turned back to him,and he started shaking his head.
Constancecontinued to stare at the bloody chair. “Perhaps—”
“No,”Mark growled.
“—hecould show us,” she said, her thin lips curling into a smile.
* * *
Constancecontinued to speak to Mark as if he’d chimed in, as if he’d shown any sign ofinterest; but all he could do was stare at the nearest area of unbloodied floorand listen. When Constance was done talking, Mark silently began walking forthe stairs, and she followed.
Upin the Garden, he showed her the empty tank. She muttered something thatsounded like fascinating, and Mark turned to find her staring at it.“It… It came from a former monastery in Barbados,” she said. “Locals said it—”
“Nomore,” Mark said quietly. When Constance turned to him, he shook his headslowly. “No more. We’re done.”
Hewaited for an inevitable retort, some kind of menacingly aloof promise that hecouldn’t back out of their deal; but much to his surprise, she simply said, “Iunderstand.”
Marklooked into her unreadable lenses for a long moment before turning away.
“I…doknow certain folks who are very good at cleaning things up,” she said. “In moreways than one.”
Marksaid nothing.
Constancesighed heavily, then said, “I’m very sorry about your friend.”
Mark’slips tightened.
Aftera long moment, Constance turned and made her way back into the office.
WhenMark heard the
