Previous Segments:
Prologue and Chapters I through X
Chapter XI
Chapter XII
Chapter XIII
Chapter XIV
Chapter XV
Chapter XVI
Chapter XVII
Chapter XVIII
Chapter XIX
Chapter XX
Radu-Chapter XXI (A Novel by Patrick Kelley)
15 pages approximate
Radu-Chapter XXI
The funeral was a quiet, solemn affair, though the emotional undercurrent was stronger than anything Brad Marlowe ever experienced in his twenty-three years as a mortician.
Lynette Khoska’s four brothers, at first glance, seemed to have formed a pact that precluded them from associating with most of the other members of the extended family, including their own mother and father, who sat at the front of the chapel with their respective spouses.
It was a very incongruous situation. Lynette’s father was forty-three years old, and married to a woman fifteen years his junior. Lynette’s mother was forty-two, and married to a man eighteen years her senior. The two recent spousal additions to the family sat side by side, the respective parents of Lynette beside their respective spouses. Lynette’s mother looked to be on the verge of tears, but controlled herself as she smiled somewhat idiotically when anyone spoke.
Phillip Khoska, the father, sat stone faced throughout the service.
The deceased’s uncles, twins who were both Romanian Orthodox Priests, did not really look the part. They were themselves late middle-aged, and looked to be more the type of men you would see lounging at the pool area of some country club or on the tennis courts or golf course, than conducting an ancient ritual of any church.
They in fact seemed not in the least fazed by the premature death of Lynette Khoska. Whenever another family member approached them, they would smile and engage in conversation, while their respective wives, children, and in-laws seemed to look on with subdued interest. They also had twelve grandchildren present, mostly teens, one of whom herself looked to be expecting.
The old Priest who was Lynette’s paternal grandfather, Aleksandre Khoska, seemed uncomfortably out of place, and spoke very little to his family, limiting his conversation to what few times he was engaged, which was seldom. He seemed to be as much a stranger to most of his grandchildren as he was to the numerous relatives of Lynette’s mother in attendance.
There seemed to be a controversy over the funeral, which was not unusual. Some expressed dismay at the prospect of cremation, and at one point Brad feared that Aleksandre and Phillip Khoska might well come to blows over the matter of the remains. Lynette wanted her grandfather to have them. Phillip Khoska seethed when Aleksandre stated this fact, but said nothing.
Flowers arrived from Romania, sent by an aunt, a nun that for more than twenty years now ran an orphanage in Bucharest. She had expressed regret at her unfortunate inability to attend the service. It was a simple floral arrangement of white roses that sat in marked contrast to the ostentatious display provided by an uncle, Voroslav Moloku, which consisted of roses, tulips, and foxglove. Yet, despite the abundant nature of the expression of sympathy, the uncle in question had yet made no appearance.
It was a numerous family, with few others in attendance, though Brad noted the presence of a young man named Teddy who seemed to be somewhat inebriated. One of Lynette’s brothers had informed him of his former fiancés demise, and at one point, the younger brother, together with a cousin, seemed to delight in the young man’s agony. They told him something which seemed to illicit a pained reaction from the young man, who soon left the service. The two young men laughed as he left, and continued until Phillip Khoska shot them a waning look that seemed to have a chilling effect on their inappropriate mirth.
Brad could tell that Lynette’s respective stepparents seemed to be hitting it off quite nicely as the service progressed. There was thirty-three years between them, but few inches, it seemed.
As the service began, officiated by a non-related Priest of the Romanian Orthodox Church, Brad made his way to the office, where Detective James Berry sat waiting for him, going over the contracts Lynette signed.
“Well, I take it everything is in order?” Brad asked.
“Yeah, looks like it,” the detective responded as though he barely heard the question. He then looked up as though a thought just occurred to him.
“I wonder why it is she wanted to be cremated,” he said.
“Is that what this is about?” Brad asked, perturbed by the intrusion into his business matters to begin with, and particularly incensed that it would occur in the middle of a service.
“Yeah,” he said. “She was supposed to be entombed in a special crypt. That is what she said she wanted anyway. She told me that she was going to arrange for just that. So, you’re sure there is not any possibility you might have accidentally handed her the wrong contract forms to fill out?”
“Officer Berry, I would never make that kind of mistake,” Brad replied. “Besides, I strongly encourage my clients to read the contracts thoroughly before they sign, just to avoid any type of misunderstanding. That was unnecessary in her case, because I explicitly remember her stating she wanted to be cremated.”
“Yeah, well sometimes people do change their minds.”
“Officer Berry, why is this so important to you?” Brad inquired as suddenly a loud, crying voice manifested from the chapel area of the funeral home.
“Look, I really should get back out there” Brad said. “Are we finished here?”
“Yeah, sure,” Berry replied. “I think I’ll take a seat outside. After all, I did come to pay my respects, you know. Lynette and I became quite close. You might say I feel like I’ve lost a member of my own family.”
Brad walked outside as Berry followed along behind him. Lynette’s mother now cried, loudly and uncontrollably, as two of her sons and her new husband tried futilely to console her. Phillip Khoska yet stared ahead, as though aware of nothing, as his new wife sat there quietly and anxiously.
He noted then two new arrivals, a middle-aged woman and a younger woman of about Lynette’s age, who looked to be mother and daughter. The two of them approached Aleksandre Khoska, who greeted them teary eyed. Brad noted that though the girl was very pretty, the mother was somewhat more attractive, which was unusual, especially since the woman did not seem to put an extravagant amount of care into her appearance. She was in fact quite stunning, and obviously had no need for the augmentation and enhancements displayed by many older women of uncommon attractiveness.
Brad found himself wondering how she would look naked on his embalming table. He could almost picture her in his mind’s eye. If the girl she accompanied was her only child, she might yet have the tight, well-toned stomach that he prized so highly in women, but which was all too rare in women approaching middle age. He must remember to give her his card, he thought to himself.
He watched her all the time she stood talking to Lynette’s grandfather, and assumed that she must be Lynette’s aunt. She bent down to hug old Aleksandre, and Brad could make out the outline of what looked to be quite a fine ass. He got aroused looking at her, and continued for quite some time, until he eventually caught sight of the woman’s daughter now looking at him strangely, staring at him with eyes wide and mouth agape, in an attitude of shocked amusement.
Mortified, Brad turned away quickly, and decided to throw her off by pretending casually to engage in conversation with Berry. When he turned, however, he saw that Berry was no longer beside him. He looked around the room, and saw no sign of him. The girl now whispered frantically to her mother, who looked in his direction.
Great, he thought. With my luck, she is going to want me to ask her out. He tried to act nonchalant, and decided he would casually step back into his office. Before he did, however, he noted the new arrival of Doctor David Chou. Chou signed the guestbook, and then looked frantically toward Brad. Brad went back into his office.
Chou was there in less than five minutes.
“I was expecting to hear from you yesterday,” the Chinese doctor told him. “Why did you not return my calls?”
“I’ve been very busy, Doctor Chou,” Brad replied. “I intended to get back to you after the weekend. Surely I’ll live until then.”
“With your blood pressure I would not make any bets on that, if I were you,” Chou replied.
“What about that other stuff you were telling me about?” Brad asked. “You said I might have contracted some kind of ailment from exposure to those body gases. So, did anything turn up?”
“Oh, as far as that goes, you are a very lucky man,” Chou informed him. “Fortunately, assuming this to be the reason for some of Marlowe’s strange afflictions, it would seem your exposure to the gases was nowhere near as profound as his was. No, if you had contracted something due to that, this would have turned up quite some time ago.
“Of course, I ran several repeat tests, just to be on the safe side, but on that score you seem to have escaped any kind of serious contamination. Your blood pressure, however, is a different matter. It would seem unlikely that such a profound change in your health would be coincidental to your contact with the gases, but that seems to be the case.”
Chou at that point handed Brad two containers of prescription medications.
“I advise you to take them both immediately, and take another two tonight. Take one of each, once in the morning and once at night. This should do you over the weekend. Please come to my office Monday afternoon, and I will start you on a diet regimen.”
Brad Marlowe now looked anxious as he noted the serious expression on Chou’s face.
“Is it really that bad?” he asked.
“I’ve been concerned about the blackout spells you reported,” he said. “The one pill I gave you is a sedative. It should not contradict the blood pressure medication. In fact, they should compliment each other nicely. To answer your question-yes, it is that serious. You are in as much danger as anyone I have ever known from a sudden massive coronary or stroke. What mystifies me more than anything is the abrupt change from the usual results of your check-ups.”
“Very well,” Brad said as he tried to adopt an attitude on unconcern. He took some water from the cooler that sat in his office, and swallowed both of the pills.
“I just ate a ham and swiss sandwich a few minutes before you came in,” Brad said.
“I am afraid that will not be a part of your new diet regimen.” Chou said with a disapproving tone. “Still, as long as you have some food in you, that will have to do for now.”
“Will you save a little room on the menu for KFC and Papa Johns?” Brad asked. “Please?”
“One of them, once a month only,” Chou said with a bemused smile. “So long as you are a good little boy the rest of the month, that is. If you are not, I am very much afraid you will be a very dead man, and in not a lot of time either.”
“All right, all right,” Brad promised his long time family doctor. He actually felt somewhat foolish for having avoided Chou for as long as he had. He had gone through so much the last few months, however, he could not stand the prospect of any more bad news.
Since Chou was here, and was dressed for the occasion, he took a seat in the funeral chapel as the service for Lynette Khoska winded down. After the Priest from Philadelphia finished the sermon, he ended the service with a prayer, whereupon the funeral attendants filed by Lynette’s open casket. She looked almost like she looked at the age of sixteen, more than a few of them noted. She looked now so young, so fresh, and so innocent and naive. Yet, at the same time, deceptively strong and wise for her years, a woman of strong values and judgment with her sights set on long range foals, which she would have pursued with an abundant zest for life.
These words spoken in tribute by a variety of family members seemed cliché. Yet, though they were typical of many similar funerals across the country and the world, they seemed more fitting and proper, and meaningful, at this one than at most. Brad Marlowe seemed to recognize this, although he barely knew Lynette Khoska.
Despite his urges, he appointed Elaine Fallon, his newest cosmetic assistant, to perform the work on the body. Her work was not quite up to the level of his nephew Marlowe, but then again Marlowe was an artistic genius. He had a way of making the most damaged, ravaged, and aged corpses take on a seeming new life. He would refuse at times to stop until his work met his own peculiarly high standards. At times, it seemed as though he was determined to restore life to some cadavers. What the result would have been had be worked on this girl he had no doubts. He would be impressed with Elaine’s work, but on the other hand, the damage to the body was not that severe except for the deep gash to the throat.
He looked over toward her grandfather, the old priest who discovered her body. For some odd reason, he had expressed an interest in Marlowe’s family history, which Brad put down to their Romanian ancestry. He wanted to know all about them. What part of Romania had they immigrated from, in what year, and had they always lived in the Baltimore area, or elsewhere? Was there a reason for the modification of their names aside from a simple desire to blend into the mainstream of American culture and society?
Brad talked to him at some length, and told what few things he knew, which was considerable, though of course he left out that part about Marlowe’s discovery of the bones of the old gypsy woman and the horrid mummy in the iron trunk buried with her outside the house.
The old man listened with interest, though he seemed unsatisfied, as though he were desperate for more information. Brad thought it was most curious, and decided he just wanted to think about something other than the murder of his niece, a person he obviously loved deeply, which occurred within his own church and almost under his nose.
“It makes me sad that they evidently turned away from the religion of their forefathers, but then again, I have no knowledge of their situation,” Khoska said to him at some length. “Are you by any chance Romanian?”
“No, I’m just an English and Scots-Irish mutt,” Brad replied. “I would be surprised if Richard could have pointed Romania out on a map. Marlowe was a lot more interested. He was taken with all this Gothic subculture, and Dracula and vampires, all of that stuff most people typically associate with Wallachia.”
The old man looked shocked at this pronouncement.
“Wallachia? I am surprised to hear that term from you, as it is not a commonly known designation. That is one of the regions of Romania, you know. In fact, I am from that region originally, from Ploesti.”
Brad shrugged, not that mystified at the slip.
“I just remembered hearing my nephew mention it,” he said. “Marlowe researched the area. He used to talk about going there at some point, and doing a pictorial essay about the region. He was interested in photography too. He was interested in it to the point that if he had gone to graduate school for history, which he also considered at one time, he planned to do his thesis on some aspect of Romanian history.”
“So he does know quite a bit about it,” Khoska observed.
“Well, he knew about it before he died, yes,” Brad said, suddenly finding himself uncomfortable at the old mans seeming obsession with his late nephew. “I would imagine he managed to forget more Romanian history than most people ever learn. Then, he developed this interest in this Gothic sub-culture and immersed himself in it to the point that he thought of nothing else. I didn’t think it was healthy myself, but Richard and Mabel seemed to think it was nothing to worry about, just a fad, a phase he was going through. Well, he never phased out of it.”
Suddenly, the old Romanian priest from Philadelphia interrupted his reveries.
“Was there some sort of song you was supposed to play, Mr. Marlowe?” he asked. “I think it is time for that now, unless I am mistaken.”
“God damn it, I almost forgot,” he blurted out, to the priests seeming discomfort. “Please forgive me. I have had so much on my mind lately, I did almost forget about it. I have it set up here now.”
“That is quite all right, Mr. Marlowe,” the priest replied. “Any time you are ready.”
Brad was unsure how the song “Swing Low Sweet Chariot”, recorded at the earlier funeral of Marshall Crenshaw, would be taken by this crowd of funeral attendees, but Lynette insisted she wanted it played at her funeral. Sometimes, Brad wondered if Lynette had been as aware of her own up-and-coming demise as Marshall had been of his.
After the song finished playing, Brad stepped back out of his office, and noted the effect on the crowd. Almost everyone cried either openly or silently, while Lynette’s mother wailed loudly. Only Phillip Khoska and his father, Aleksandre, sat solemnly and silently, Lynette’s father looking cold and hard, her grandfather seemingly lost in another world. He seemed at one point to be praying.
Lynette’s two uncles and four of her male cousins carried the coffin to the conveyor, which led from inside the chapel to the crematory furnace just outside. The old Priest performed one last prayer and blessing for the soul of the deceased, Anna Lynette Khoska, at which point Brad pushed the button that started the conveyor. The coffin disappeared briefly to the inside of the furnace attached to the main body of the house.
Within a matter of twenty minutes, the procedure was finished, and Brad retrieved the ashes and placed them inside an urn. He handed this to Aleksandre Khoska, who looked sadly and morosely toward his son, who turned from his stare. He approached his former daughter-in-law, and swore they would be treated with the respect he would give any relic of the church.
“She wanted you to have them,” she told Aleksandre. “That is all that matters. I only ask that-did she say what she wished you to do with them after”-
“After I have died, you mean?” Khoska asked, aware of the obvious discomfort from the woman. “No, she made no mention of it. If you would like, then I will”-
“Just do what you think is best, Aleksandre,” she said. “I will trust your judgment. I just wish she had been entombed or buried. This was so unlike her. That Marshall, he was such an influence on her, I can’t but think”-
“Actually, she expressed to me not long after coming here that she wished to be cremated,” he told her. “This was well before she actually met Marshall Crenshaw. Still, you are correct in that he had an influence on her. That song was actually recorded during his own funeral, in fact.”
“If that is what she wanted, then it was only right to honor her request,” Phillip Khoska now stated in one of his rare moments of conversation. “Everyone should have their funeral wishes honored. If she wanted a Negro spiritual played at her funeral, I guess that would seem to have been an accurate reflection of the last few months of her life, however little related it might seem to be with the most of it.
“I am frankly more concerned about the fact that she is dead at the age of twenty-three for no apparent reason that makes any sense, at the home of a person who vowed to watch out for her and protect her. Well, now perhaps it will be much easier to look out for her now that it really does not make a fucking bit of difference.”
Aleksandre looked toward him coldly, as his former wife seemed shocked and mortified at such an outburst. The old Priest made no reply, and at length turned from his son’s hateful, hurt gaze.
“Phillip how could you?” the woman finally asked. “That was so uncalled for.”
The man said nothing in response to his wife, not so much as acknowledging her presence.
“Have a nice day, father,” he said in a sarcastic tone, after which he turned and walked away.
As the woman apologized profusely to her former father-in-law Brad quietly walked away to leave them alone in their private grief, a grief he could not share. He felt uncomfortable having heard to what extent he had the agony that overlapped the frayed collective nerves and emotions of this family.
He hated being around the living bereaved in any event. It was almost never about the deceased, it was usually about them. They wanted pity, notice, and even praise it would seem, in some cases, or justification in others. The children were usually a more accurate reflection of the family. They cared about their own selves, and acted as though they were at any other boring family function. Most adults had learned the proper demeanor of sympathy, but in most cases it seemed to Brad to be all for show. It was only the parents and children, and few others, who truly belonged at a funeral. He really believed that. It would certainty make his job a hell of a lot easier if this was the standard. Now, he had what seemed to be a medium sized room full of flowers that were useless, and he had to do something with them.
He remembered Philip Khoka and his ex-wife discussing at one point the prospect of buying a memorial stone for their late daughter. He wondered absently if he would like the flowers placed there, but unfortunately, Philip Khoska had now left, along with his new bride and two of his sons, so that opportunity had passed. He hated to throw them away unceremoniously.
When Aleksandre came to his office sometime later, he asked him what he wished to do about them, whereupon the old priest said he could send them to his church if he wished. Brad sighed with relief. He wished all his problems were that easily solved. Aleksandre, it turned out, had other things on his mind.
“I noticed that Detective Berry here earlier,” he said. “He has been asking questions about Lynette’s murder.”
“Well, that is understandable, seeing as to the nature of her death,” Brad said gently. “It’s not very many people whose blood is completely drained with very little left to be found, either in or around their bodies. I just hope he is able to solve the murder of your granddaughter. She deserves to have her murder avenged, and besides, whoever perpetrated the crime might well kill again. In fact, I’d bet on it.”
“But why her?” the old Priest asked. “She never harmed anyone. I never knew of her doing anything but good for people. She was so happy and bright, and even when she was not at her best it was a comfort and a joy to be around her. How could anyone murder someone such as her.?”
“There are evil people in the world, Father Khoska,” Brad replied, perturbed and at the same time in pain at the thought of this old man desperately seeking answers from him. He was a Priest, and should have all the answers, or at least more than Brad could provide him. Brad should come to him for guidance, if anything.
“Berry is a good cop, from what I’ve heard,” Brad continued. “Give him time, and I’m sure he’ll catch your granddaughter’s killer. If he don’t I’m sure somebody will.”
“That’s just it,” the priest said. “He came the night of the murder, right after I called. If I did not know better I would swear he was right outside the door when I made the call. It was he in fact who climbed up the terrace to her room and actually discovered her body. I had been unable to enter her room. He was the one that called for backup and insured they arrived at the scene sooner than they would have otherwise.
“He came by the next day and asked me some questions, and that was it. It has been four days since then, and I have not heard a word from him. Yet, I see him here, but he says nothing, outside of hello. He is a very mysterious man. Lynette knew him, you know. He was investigating her late fiancés former associates when she met him. He swore he would give her murder his full attention. Yet, I hear nothing from him, or from anyone else.”
“Well, if it makes you feel better, he came here to make sure she really wanted to be cremated,” Brad told him. “I had to show him the contracts she signed, and he still wasn’t satisfied.”
Aleksandre looked very disturbed at this news.
“Why would he concern himself with such a thing as that?
“I don’t know,” Brad answered. “As for his staying away up until now, I would imagine he simply wants to allow you some time to grieve. I am sure he thinks there is no reason to intrude on your time during a period such as this.”
“Yes, of course, you may be right,” Khoska replied, though he did not truly seem convinced.
Aleksandre then left, but not before Brad made a pitch for his services, a prospect at which the old Priest seemed to shudder in momentary discomfort.
“I’m afraid I have already made my arrangements,” he said politely. “Thank you anyway, Mr. Marlowe.”
“By the way, I was meaning to ask you,” Brad said as the old man started to leave. “There was a woman here, who came to the service somewhat late. I think she was with her daughter. She talked to you for a few minutes.”
“That was my daughter Dorothy, and her daughter Marnie,” Khoska replied. “In fact, they and Dorothy’s husband were responsible for most of the flowers. Why do you ask?”
“She just seemed familiar,” Brad replied. “I wondered if maybe I know her.”
Aleksandre looked at him strangely.
“Yes, a lot of men seem to think they know Dorothy from somewhere,” he said. “Believe me, you do not, nor do you want to. She is my daughter, and I love her, but she and that daughter of hers are both trouble. They are ‘bad news’, as they say. Considering the falling out that transpired between Lynette and Marnie, in fact, I am frankly surprised they were here at all. Nevertheless, they were, and so added even more to my discomfort. What can you say? I guess it was proper that they made an appearance. On the surface, that is, it would seem to be proper.”
The old Priest then said goodbye and left. Brad found himself growing more annoyed, as the last of the visitors filed out, and left him alone with the workers. They had three hours yet, and he wanted them gone, but could not easily dismiss them. After two hours, it appeared as though they had everything caught up. He called them in the office, one at a time, and told them he was allowing them to take off the rest of the day.
Derek then reminded him of old man Farris, who needed further work before he would be ready for viewing two days from now. In addition, they had seven funerals scheduled for tomorrow. Saturday would be a very busy day.
As indeed it would be. The first funeral Brad had scheduled for nine-thirty in the morning, the last one for 4:45 in the evening. There would be two simultaneous, overlapping funerals, scheduled for 12:30 and 12:45.
“That’s just my point,” he told them. “Tomorrow is a busy day, and I want you all here ready to go at it. A little extra time off tonight would seem appropriate to me.”
He realized he needed them if he was going to keep the business open, but damn what he would not give to just fire them all and run the damn thing himself. He could handle two funerals a day, five days a week. The business he was doing these days was just too damn much. It was a constant stream of paperwork, and he had no private time. He could not even think of taking a vacation. Sometimes, he wished his lawyer had failed to stop the injunction. He had enough money saved he could afford to retire in relative comfort, and he had a respectable amount in a mutual fund that would pay big dividends in just seven more years. That is all he had to do, wait seven years. If it were not for the potential for lawsuits, he would chuck it all.
After the employees all left, he decided he would resume his workout routine. He went downstairs where he had his stationary bike, and his Bowflex, and he started the regimen he had pursued faithfully for more than three years. By the time a little more than an hour went by, he was exhausted, and his heart was pounding.
He told himself there was no need for him to worry. If they did exhume the bodies of his latest clients, including the Evans girl, he worried somewhat about the potential for evidence of post mortem sexual contact. He had watched enough CSI to understand that post mortem sex was easily determined if discovered closely following a death, but what about months following the event? Would it show up as easily? Would it show up at all?
Then, there was the problem of semen. He could not bear to burden and restrict his pleasures with condoms, so of course there would be semen. He found himself wondering how long it would last before it was completely degraded. If any remained after so long, would the DNA point to him? On the other hand, after so long there was the possibility the degradation of the semen might possibly enable him to blame his nephew Marlowe.
Then, another problem presented itself. He typically waited until after he pleasured himself before engaging in the embalming process of the bodies. Might this possibly preserve the ejaculated semen to where it would point to him to the exclusion of all other possibilities, including Marlowe? He told himself that was unlikely, but he was not certain. Therefore, he had this worry as well.
He finished his exercise regimen, and checked himself in the mirror. He appreciated the improvement of his physique as compared to what it was three years prior to this, when he was a pudgy little overweight man. Now, he was muscular and well toned. He made his way to the shower, all the time fighting off the urge to send out to Papa Johns. Damn, could he ever use a pizza, with all the toppings and extra cheese. He lusted at the thought of breadsticks and jalapeño poppers. He was one of the very few people he knew of that actually enjoyed anchovies on his pizza. He liked them as a side order. He would eat some slices with the anchovies, some without, and as he thought of this, he started thinking about beer. He would damn sure include beer in his once a month Papa Johns allowance.
After he showered, he dressed and made his way back downstairs, ready to spend an evening watching television. There was a new show debuting tonight on television, about a private detective who just happened to also be a vampire. Yeah, right, Brad thought. He opted instead for the season premiere of Friday Night Lights. He relished the thought of Aimee Teegarden, dead and naked on his embalming table. What a fine fuck that would be, he thought to himself, as he found himself heading for the fridge. He extracted a beer, and decided he would have one this one last night. What could it hurt to have a beer or two-or three? If anything, it might actually help, he said to himself as he dialed from memory the number of the local Papa Johns.
Fuck it, he decided. Chou said he would start him on his regimen this coming Monday. Well, he had the weekend ahead of him. Might as well live it up, he decided. He sipped his beer as he watched television, and tried not to worry as he glanced towards his prescription bottles. He watched in aggravation as the school nerd tried in obvious discomfort to put the moves on the neighborhood bad girl, a tall, leggy blonde named Tyra. He wanted to put his arm around her, yet was afraid to, despite the fact that he was sitting there caressing her arm. What a dumbass, Brad thought. On the other hand, he could not blame him. Tyra was intimidating, and, attractive though she was, he could not picture her as a corpse on his embalming table. She probably yet would refuse his advances.
Of course, that is a stupid thing to think, Brad thought, and then it happened. His heart started pounding, and he started gasping for breath. He rose in terror, and automatically felt himself giving way, collapsing back toward the sofa. He only hit the edge of it, however, and ended up rolling off onto the coffee table, which gave way with him, spilling the entire contents onto the floor around him. He felt himself losing control, and for a brief moment, he felt as though he were outside his body, a mere spectator to his own imminent demise.
Then, he grasped for the prescription bottles, and hurriedly opened them. He swallowed down a handful of pills from each bottle, and then grasped his beer, which had somehow retained a good three drinks as it ended up wedged between the sofa and the legs of the end table. He drank it hurriedly down. He still felt as though his chest would explode as he gasped for breath. He then slowly pulled himself up, back onto the sofa. He looked back toward the prescription bottles as he put the coffee table back upright. He told himself it was probably a mere panic attack, but could not be sure. He only had three blood pressure tablets left, and four tranquilizers. He had taken about a two-day supply of each at one time. Now he had to worry about an overdose, but then again, maybe such a dosage would be appropriate in his case.
Then, he heard the voices. They seemed to come from an unfathomable distance. They seemed familiar, and though they were distant, yet they were loud, and they made his head pound. Soon, the static and whine that accompanied them subsided, as his mind filtered the voices to where they came into focus. It was the voices of children, teasing him.
“Brad’s got a girlfriend-Brad’s got a girlfriend,” they said repeatedly, as he found himself leaving school in the company of his stepmother, the red-headed town whore who married his father less than two weeks following the untimely death of his own beloved mother. She was, at the age of 24, closer to his own age than she was to that of his own father, at the age of 43. She was also a dirty bitch who rarely bathed, was constantly sweaty, and stank to high heaven.
He now recalled how he walked in on her and his brother, in his father’s bedroom, to the sound of groaning and screaming, as his older brother was fucking the bitch that dared think to replace his beloved mother. When his father came home that day, he told him. His father did what his father always did. He got drunk and raised hell with everybody, about anything he could think of to raise hell about, but nothing was ever said about his brother’s and stepmother’s indiscretion.
A couple of weeks later, however, Brad was confronted, by his brother and his stepmother. They made Brad watch while they fucked. Then, they made Brad eat her pussy. His brother grabbed his head and smeared his face inside the stinking, sweaty cunt, still overflowing with his own brother’s semen. They made him lick it clean, inside and out, and warned him that this was nothing compared to what would happen to him if he ever told his father anything else.
Then, his brother, one of the town ne’er-do-wells, told his friends at the school. They teased him mercilessly, in the most humiliating way imaginable, culminating in the embarrassing tease the day she picked him up from school, on a day that he had been sick with the flu.
His father would come home, dirty and sweaty and stinking from the water plant and sewage treatment center, and would commence getting drunk. He wanted to tell him, but feared doing so. He would do nothing anyway. He probably did not believe him that first time, or did not want to believe him.
Then, one night, while his stepmother was asleep in bed with his brother, in his brother’s room, he decided he would tell his father. He sneaked into his room. He would make him get up and see the two of them together. When he walked into the room, however, he could hear the sound of a young girl crying. He turned on the hall light, and cracked open the door to his father’s bedroom, and there was Mabel. She sat naked at the side of the bed of their father, who lay there drunk, dirty and sweating, as Mabel cried in solitude.
Mabel left home not too long afterwards, and he never spoke of the incident with her. Now, he wished he had. Maybe things could have been different. Instead, he as always kept things to himself, as was expected of him. After Mabel left, Brad knew that he as well had to leave. He could no longer stand it.
It was not long after he left home that his father went to prison for life without parole, for the shotgun murder of his own wife and son, Brad’s stepmother and older brother. He died in prison seven years later, of cirrhosis of the liver.
Now, on this night, he could hear their voices. His stepmother and his brother, both of them laughing at him and taunting him, offered the long dead woman’s services as she now smiled at him with a lascivious glare. His brother cackled hatefully at him. His father then stumbled into the room. He was drunk, staggering, and as always smelled of the sewer. He joined them in their mocking laughter of him.
Then, Mabel appeared. She too laughed at him as she affected a scolding and derisive tone.
“Why wouldn’t you fuck me, Brad?” she demanded. “Daddy always did. Marlowe did. You sucked Billy’s cum out of Charlotte’s pussy. Why would you never fuck me? Is it because you knew you could never be man enough for a real woman-a living woman? Or is it because you never got over our dead mother? Is that it, Brad? Are you sad because you never got to fuck our mommy before she died?”
"Mabel, you sick bitch, that's our mother you're talking about," Brad angrily lashed out at her. "And you're my sister-my god damn sister."
Mabel merely laughed all the harder in evil derision, as did the rest of the baleful spirits, all of them mocking him in unison, enjoying their sadistic torture of the hapless Brad Marlowe.
He then cursed at all of them, but the more he cursed, the harder they laughed at him, until finally, they suddenly just vanished with a great whoosh of air. He found himself surrounded by a dark gray mist that enveloped him, and through which he could now see a pair of baleful, dull red eyes, eyes that seemed to look through him. For an instant, he seemed to be floating, with no sense of directions, as he grew ever more nauseous.
Then, just as suddenly, almost as though it never happened, he was back in the living room, by himself. Gone were the wraiths from the past. Gone were the mocking, hateful voices and laughter. Everything was back to normal, and as Brad glanced at the clock, it seemed as though the entire vision transpired in a matter of seconds, though he had actually been out for well over twenty minutes. Now, the school nerd murdered the would-be rapist of Tyra Banks in the course of defending her honor. Now, the two of them plotted to cover up the crime. They dumped the body off a bridge into the river below.
He sat on the sofa and turned off the television. The pizza soon arrived, and as he paid the deliveryman from Papa Johns, he realized that he was inexplicably famished. After what he had gone through, after what he had seen and experienced, he was surprised that his stomach was not in knots. Did the medication cause that, he wondered. Although it would seem to make sense, it seemed unlikely that even that much of an overdose of any kind of medication would work that quickly.
He sat down to eat, and opened another bottle of Guinness. He was so hungry he wolfed down four large slices of pizza as though he were a hungry wolf.
Suddenly, he heard a sound emanating from the basement. It sounded like a girl. It sounded like a girl screaming-or was she laughing? It was for no longer than a brief three seconds or so, but he knew he heard it. Surely to God it was not happening again, he thought with growing dread.
He made his way to the door, and opened it carefully. After a few seconds, he heard the voices, and knew he was right. He also knew who was down there. He hurriedly made his way down into the basement, in time to view the sickening sight of Detective James Berry, mounted on top of a young woman, pounding away at her, as she writhed and sweated in ecstasy beneath him, he as well sweating and groaning and cursing. He was pounding hard into her, savagely going in short, brutal thrusts, each one punctuated by a miniscule period of motionlessness. The frequency of his thrusts increased until he collapsed, and then rolled off onto the floor beside Marnie Moloku, who was obviously unsatisfied, and disgusted. She rose, climbed on top of him, and looked at her watch and then back to him derisively.
“If that’s the best you can do,” she said, and then saw Brad standing there.
“Oh, shit,” she said.
“What the hell are you two doing here?” Brad demanded.
“Uh, we’re fucking,” Marnie replied.
“Brad, my man,” Berry said. “Just the person I wanted to see.”
“Both of you get dressed and get the fuck out of here,” Brad demanded. “You are disgusting. This girl is young enough to be your daughter.”
“Age doesn’t matter,” Marnie said. “Believe me-he fucks more like he’s my grandfather.”
Brad did not answer, but turned his back as the two of them dressed. Marnie then hurried past Brad, but then turned to face him.
“I think I’ll keep this locket, by the way,” she said. “I found it on one of the tables. It belonged to my cousin. I think she would want me to have it.”
Brad indeed recognized the locket, which he had intended to keep, but now he realized he must give up the possession.
“I must have misplaced it,” he said. “Sure, you can have it. As far as what went on down here, we will forget about that. From now on, though, I advise you and our detective friend to make other arrangements.”
“He knows where I’m staying,” she said, and walked out without another word.
“So what the hell do you have to say for yourself?” Brad demanded.
“She followed me down here, what can I say?” Berry replied. “I’ve known her for a few years now, in case you haven’t figured it out.”
“So if she followed you down here, then I guess the next question is, what the fuck were you doing down here?”
For a few seconds, Berry said nothing, as he glanced around at the various embalming tables, and the numerous corpses that yet waited. He noted one in particular, an auto accident victim who died of trauma to the chest and resultant internal injuries. She also had a significant head injury, which seemed patched up fairly well.
“She is quite attractive,” he said. “How was she, Brad?”
“You are a sick man,” Brad said. “Those rumors are all lies. You are welcome to check her out if you want.”
“Oh, I already did that. Believe me, I know what to look for. I even rolled over some of these old geezers and checked their asses. All clear, as far as I can tell. Of course, I admit it would take a thorough lab exam to know for sure.”
Brad looked at him in savage fury, as his heart started once again pounding and racing, and he had difficulty once again breathing.
“Damn!” Berry shouted almost as an afterthought. “I forgot to check their mouths. Do you mind?”
He then looked into the mouth of the forty-ish female accident victim, utilizing a flashlight as he peered as deeply into her mouth and throat as he could.
“Are you quite finished?” Brad asked, growing extremely and obviously perturbed.
“Um, not quite,” Berry said. “See, I’m curious about something. According to bank records, you have made a couple of transactions over the last few months I find very curious. For one thing, there is the matter of a deep freeze unit, purchased from Home Depot, as of seven weeks ago. The weird thing about that is, I cannot find it down here anywhere. That is really strange, seeing as how I did a follow-up, and so I know you never returned it.”
“And this is your business because”-Brad said.
“Oh, I don’t know, it might not be my business,” Berry replied. “Of course, it could well be my business, just like a recent twenty thousand dollar withdrawal from your personal account might be my business. That is quite a huge withdrawal, Brad, wouldn’t you say? Just on a lark, I looked into the possibility this withdrawal went into another private account, and imagine my surprise when I found out that the day following the withdrawal, there was a deposit made in the account of a Grace Rodescu for the exact same amount-twenty thousand dollars. My, my, my, but what a coincidence. Grace Rodescu, your thousand-dollar hooker, if I recall correctly.”
“Yeah, I’ve got her services on retainer,” Brad replied with bitter sarcasm. “Now, is there anything else you want to know?”
“Yeah, the freezer,” Berry replied as he now took on a more serious and determined demeanor. “I want to know where it is, and more importantly, I want to know what you have in it-or, should I say, who you have in it?
“They never delivered the damn thing, all right?”
“You are a lair!” Berry declared. “I saw the papers where you signed for it when it was delivered. Do not hand me any more of your crap, Brad. I know you have that freezer in this house. I know you have somebody in that freezer, and I want to know who it is.”
Suddenly, the determined detective pulled his gun and pointed it straight at Brad, who was momentarily stunned at the move. His heart now raced and pounded faster than ever before, his breathing came in short, deep gasps, the room spun around and he just stared at Berry, in shock, unable to answer him. He held himself upright by a supreme effort, and then, suddenly, it was as if he was rooted to the spot. He tried to answer him, but could not. He tried to speak, but his lips would not move. He tried to move his throat muscles, but though he formed the words he wanted to say, he could not give them any substance.
“This is your last chance, Brad,” Berry said commandingly. “Take me to the freezer, or I will shoot. After all, there is no reason anyone should ever know I was ever here. By the time anybody discovers your body, Marnie will be back in Chicago and will never hear about how the perverted little mortician was found shot dead in the basement of his mortuary.
“And let’s face it, Brad-there are a lot of people that would probably like to kill you, such as various members of Mary Evan’s family, for example. I’m sure there are others. So, what do you think? Are you going to tell me what I want to know, or are you just going to stand there looking at me like a deer caught in the headlights, until I finally lose my patience and blow your perverted little brains out?”
He just stood there and stared, feeling nothing and almost knowing nothing, in a state of shock, as Detective James Berry continued to rant at him angrily. His words became a blur, all running together in a cacophony of indistinct noises that soon faded out all together. Berry’s face drew closer to him, and his expression grew ever angrier, ever more assertive, and ever more determined.
Then, Berry’s face grew ever more frantic, ever more terrified, ever more desperate, as Berry’s eyes bulged out and his face grew red.
Then, once more, Brad could hear Berry’s voice, desperately begging him to stop. He had Berry’s gun hand in a vise-like grip of iron, squeezing relentlessly and mercilessly, Berry’s hand still clasped to his revolver, which like Berry’s hand Brad could now hear crushing under the pressure of the bone shattering grip of the mortician from Bethesda. Berry’s voice was starting to fade, as the hapless detective seemed to be on the verge of phasing into unconsciousness.
“Please-stop, I’m begging you,” Berry pleaded desperately.
Suddenly, Brad was now back to consciousness and, horrified at the implications of what he seemed to have just done, dropped his grip on Berry’s wrist and hand, which still held the gun. That same gun now seemed to all intents and purposes little more than a useless heap of scrap metal all but welded to Berry’s gun hand, which was itself now similarly crushed and useless. Berry whimpered in despair, as Brad realized he had to do something.
“Get the hell out of here,” he commanded the detective. “Don’t ever come back here. If you ever give me any more trouble, I will turn you in for harassment. Do you understand me? I know enough about the law to know you cannot just barge in here because you are a cop, without a warrant, and demand I do what you want. Any more hassles from you or anybody else in law enforcement, warrant or not, and I’ll sue your ass for what you tired to do here today. I’ll also put in how you used my private property as an illicit romantic rendezvous. See, I know who that girl was, and I know how to find her if I have to call her to testify. Now go on, get the fuck out of here.”
“All right, I’m going, just please-don’t hurt me any more, please!” Berry pleaded. He groaned and cried and he pulled himself up the staircase railing painfully and slowly, as Brad kept his eyes peeled on him. So mangled was Berry’s hand, the gun welded so forcefully into his grip, Brad knew he would have to undergo intensive surgery to remove it, and he doubted he would ever regain the use of his hand. To all intents and purposes Brad had ruined this man, possibly ended his career. How had he done this? Brad did not even know what had happened.
He followed Berry up the steps and watched the detective until he left the house in agony. He maintained watch until he saw Berry cross the road to where he had his car parked down the road at an adjacent property. He continued to watch as Berry painfully drove out of sight, very slowly.
He could no longer take any chances. He could not take it for granted that Berry would refrain from any further investigations, and that he might not as well bring other detectives into the investigation with him. He returned to the basement, and firing up his blowtorch, he set about hurriedly removing Marlowe’s corpse from its tomb. He would have to cremate Marlowe’s remains, and hope he could come up with a valid explanation later. He would have to take whatever steps were necessary to insure that Marlowe’s DNA was not present anywhere on the property. Since Marlowe was Brad’s nephew, he had to hope that any trace DNA recovered from the corpse of Mary Evans or any other would by now be suitably degraded to where it might as easily be identified as belonging to Marlowe as to him. Of course, if forensic evidence positively identified any of Marlowe’s DNA, that might not be possible.
Therefore, he hurriedly extracted the corpse, and laid it on a table. He knew what he had to do. What other choice did he have? He sat down beside the corpse, and cried.
After a few minutes, he remembered something else-the freezer. He hurriedly went to the locked door that contained it, and opening the door, he proceeded to the newly purchased unit, which upon opening revealed the now frozen corpse of Lynette Khoska, more beautiful in death even than she had been in life.
His little subterfuge during the funeral had worked, but was all for nothing. Now, he would have to destroy her anyway, despite having first determined that he would keep her from now on. He wished now he had killed Berry. It was too late for that now, though. He remembered how he had earlier placed a corpse into the furnace, the night before Lynette’s funeral. He remembered how he had then blocked the entrance to the crematory furnace so that the coffin that contained Lynette would not go into it. When he turned the furnace on, it cremated the other corpse-a necessity in case someone might think to conduct tests to insure that what he handed over to Aleksandre Khoska was indeed human ashes. He had taken pains previously to insert a couple of Lynette’s bone fragments into the funerary urn chosen to store her remains.
After the workers left, he then proceeded to carry the remains of Lynette Khoska down the outside steps that led directly into the locked room that contained the freezer. It was a good thing he had set this up and performed the deed in this manner, he realized, as had he taken the chance of carrying Lynette’s body down the main stairs from the inside of the house into the large basement area, he would have been discovered by Detective Berry, and by Marnie Moluku as well.
Now, here he was with her in the former storage area, which he had recently converted into his own private love nest, where he could store his most beautiful clients in perpetuity, keeping them completely for himself, for his own lifetime pleasure. Unfortunately, Berry had ruined all of this. He had intended to keep Lynette forever. In fact, when he first acquired her, he seriously considered the prospect that she might well be the only one he would ever need. He began to fall in love with her, experiencing emotions and feelings he had felt for no other cadaver.
He was sure he had found the one-his one true love. Now, it began to seem as though she, too, would be just another one-night stand. He opened the bottle of cognac he had purchased for just this occasion, and stored in this room, now decorated with exquisite furnishings and the best pictures he could find at all the Baltimore thrift stores and antique shops. He had paid more than 200 dollars for the pictures alone, though any one of them new would be worth at least half that much. He had put out more than five hundred dollars for the other furnishings. The freezer was a deluxe, and in addition to Lynette, held his favorite gourmet ice creams and Italian ices. He undressed Lynette and laid her on the canopied bed-another 2000 dollars down the drain, like the exorbitant 2400-dollar freezer itself.
He gorged on chocolate ice cream and smeared it on her pussy and breasts, and in her mouth. After he finished eating a bowl, he sucked it out of her mouth, and then he began licking it off the corpse. He tried not to think about Berry. He did not want to spoil what might well be his one night of ecstasy with the gorgeous Lynette Khoska. He put on a CD, the Red Violin Concerta, recorded by the Baltimore Symphony Orchestra. As the music began to play, he poured a snifter of cognac, which he put first to her lips, and then to his own.
He ate her pussy as he fondled her large, fulsome breasts. Then, he sucked upon her breasts for long, countless minutes. He kissed her neck and then her lips, as his hardened cock made its way up her inner thigh. He sucked upon her lips as his dick, throbbing with passion, entered her. He began thrusting, slowly at first, but ever faster as time went on, until he was pounding away at her, carefully at first, but then ever more forcefully and savagely, brutally squeezing her neck and her shoulders as he fucked her with a force he had never before allowed himself to display. He had always previously been timid and cautious, aiming for quiet out of fear of discovery by Richard or Marlowe. Now, however, as the music played at a furious tempo, he knew he had the place entirely to himself. He plunged his painfully throbbing cock harder and harder, deeper and deeper, until it seemed as though the friction of his thrusts elicited a muscular response.
Lynette’s virgin pussy responded by tightening, its muscles expanding and contracting in unison with the thrusting of his hungry, hardened cock. Never had he experienced such a sensation as this. After so long, he could hold it in no longer, He ejaculated inside of her, feeling as though his cock would explode, and he moaned in pained, desperate pleasure. Finally, he collapsed, inside her and on top of her, as all his muscles finally went completely limp, along with his dick. He breathed in ecstatic relief as he kissed and caressed her and even told her he loved her.
Lynette’s arms then tightened around Brad’s shoulders as she squeezed. Brad stiffened in shock at this reaction.
Then he heard her groan.
Brad looked down and saw her eyes, her cold, lifeless eyes, staring at him as though from a great, unfathomable distance.
She then laughed a hellish, gravelly pitched laugh of anger and hatred as she pushed herself up, and Brad suddenly began begging in horror for his life and sanity. Then, he screamed desperately, in mortal terror. Suddenly, the dead girl relaxed her grip as her eyes recoiled, as though she were suddenly as repelled by Brad Marlowe as he was by her. Immediately, he pulled away from her and backed up frantically toward the door. Yet, as he kept his eyes peeled towards her, she rose slowly from the canopied bed upon which he had laid her. She rose, and glared once more at him. She looked toward her pubic region, then back towards him in a rage.
“You will pay for this,” she promised in her gravelly cold voice of living death, as her eyes now glared in his direction as though she were looking through him. His breathing quickened and the pain in his chest resumed, now seemingly worse than ever. He could not allow himself to collapse in the presence of this creature, he realized, and so he hurriedly backed out of the room.
However, others were there, others whom he could not see, though he could certainly feel their presence. Soon, he could hear them. They were back, and they were once more laughing at him. His father, his stepmother, his brother-all were back and laughing at him derisively. Mabel, his sister, was back as well, this time along with her husband Richard, they too laughing in mocking glee at his despair and fear. Then, Lynette Khoska lumbered out of the room towards him.
They were all laughing at him as they invited him to join them within their domain of never-ending death and torment. While they watched and waited, Lynette made her way towards him with a look of sheer vicious hatred on her face and her eyes. He continued to back up, and then noticed that she had blocked the way to the stairs. Still, so overwhelmed with terror was he at the apparition that he doubted he could have made it up the stairs in time. He continued to back up, towards where Marlowe’s corpse lay yet on the table, as she made her way towards him.
Now, Lynette took on a different demeanor, as she pleaded with Brad from deep within her lifeless eyes, eyes that were dead and yet somehow saw everything.
“You are going to pay for what you have done,” she said in her gravelly, murderous voice.
He looked at her, her still naked form, almost perfectly beautiful, an ideal of perfection he had scant minutes before felt honored to have in his possession forever. Now, it all came down to this. This could not possibly be happening. Everything in his logical mind told him it was impossible, and yet he was seeing it with his own eyes.
“Lynette, I really love you,” he replied desperately. “I only wanted to be with you.”
The reanimated corpse now began laughing a manic gleeful laugh of evil intent as she once more viciously stalked towards him.
“Stay the fuck away from me Lynette”, he warned her. “I’m warning you, stay the hell away from me.”
As he said this, he picked up the blowtorch with which he had hastened the extraction of Marlowe’s corpse, and lit the flames, as he aimed it towards her.
“I’m begging you, please-I don’t want to have to do this,” he warned her.
The corpse continued walking towards him, however, watching him curiously, as he could yet hear the voices from beyond the grave, yet laughing, some howling in delight at his predicament and his agony. He knew then he would have no choice. He could not allow her to continue, to get any closer to him. He aimed the blowtorch and turned it up to the fullest extent, and watched as the intense heat of the fire ignited her dead skin, setting it ablaze, as she continued to walk towards him. He backed up and continued to apply the flames, until they engulfed her. They burnt into her flesh, causing it to reek of a sickening sweet odor. She continued to walk towards him, as he by now backed up against the crypt of Radu. Suddenly, she collapsed onto the ground, a burning, raging heap, cursing him and yet seemingly at this point helpless to advance any further against him.
Then, the others appeared. Linda Bellamy, Mary Evans, Raven Randall, and all of the other female corpses, young and old, that he had molested over the years, all gathered around him. They glared at him in silent anger, in scorn, in virulent hatred, and in absolute derision, as they stood before him in a semi-circle. He trained the blowtorch upon them as well, but they laughed at him. They were not physical bodies, such as the burning heap that had been the corpse of Lynette Khoska, who now wailed impotently and helplessly on the floor as the flames devoured her reanimated cadaver. The rest of them were vengeful spirits, against whom earthly flames had no effect, and so they drew closer to him, wailing, moaning, and shrieking in vengeful wails.
Soon, Brad noted the flames threatened to engulf the entire basement. They, like the vengeful wraiths, surrounded him and blocked his exit. Then, Brad saw something else he never expected to see. His mother, standing directly ahead of him, was calling him to her. She was beautiful, just as he remembered her before she died. She motioned him now to join her. He dropped the blowtorch, and walked towards her. Then, for a brief instance, he saw her as he had that day they exhumed her corpse years following her death, the day he watched, convinced in his child’s innocent, trusting mind that his mother was not truly dead. He saw for the first time on that day her rotted corpse, and knew that it was she. The scene sickened him. Maggots and beetles had devoured much of her flesh-the rotten stink assailed his nostrils, as he stared transfixed at the leathery mummified skin, and the hollowed out eye sockets and decomposed mouth that seemed to laugh mockingly at him.
“I’ve been waiting for you,” she said, and then transformed once more, from the hideously decayed corpse that haunted his nightmares, into the vigorous, beautiful, loving mother from his childhood that he always strove to remember. Gone were the voices, the recriminations, the shrieks of vengeful hatred and scorn. He knew it would not be long before the chemicals and other flammable and explosive equipment would react to the intense heat and flames, which now stifled his breathing. Even now, they licked at his skin and flesh, searing him with maddening pain as they along with the burning chemicals assailed his nostrils and lungs with blistering heat. Different areas of the large basement exploded with blasts of various sizes and intensity, some of which occurred at intervals of mere seconds apart.
He no longer cared. He felt his consciousness fading and he was quickly numb to the pain of the flames and the heat. His mother was now there to protect him, as she always had been when he was a young child. The searing pain and agony was no more, as he made his way past the burnt and crumpled heap that had been Lynette Khoska. His mother smiled with outstretched arms, waiting to embrace him.
As he made his way towards her, the music continued to play, but now he barely heard it. There was one final, all-encompassing explosion that reverberated through the midst of the surrounding gray smoke. Then, there was nothing.
