The Fifth Descent of Lexi Montaigne Read online

  “I was hoping I could use the com—”

  “Oh no,” Simon put his hands up and made to restrain her. “Not again. Last time I allowed you access to the Police database you used it to wage your own personal vendetta against the Lieutenant, who, believe it or not, is my boss. What are you looking for this time?”

  “It’s personal,” Lexi crossed her arms over her chest and glared up at Detective Simon.

  He grunted, refused to budge. “Hyde indeed. Lexi-Hyde never reveals anything, Lexi-Hyde is all secrets and no fun.”

  “Keep calling me that and you can have fun by yourself tonight,” in words as sultry as they were threatening. A couple of cops had begun to stare from opposite ends of the lot. She was known, and being known can suck.

  Simon bent forward to embrace her but then noticed the old oak box in the cab and his face took on a stern expression. The alteration was so abrupt that it unnerved her.

  “What is that?”

  “Just some junk Gramps gave me.”

  An intake of breath, then Simon seemed to deflate. His face softened, taking on that generous look she liked. “His obsession?” he asked. She nodded. “You should burn it.”

  Lexi looked around and scowled at the other cops. They flinched under her gaze like stupid deer caught in headlights. “Why would you say that?”

  Simon massaged her shoulders as he spoke, leaning down to stare into her amethyst eyes. “I know what the obsession did to your father and grandfather. I just don’t want to see you suffer the same fate.”

  She wanted to believe him, but when he spoke his eyes darted momentarily to the left and he blinked far too often. Whatever his reason for wanting to burn the box, it was clear it was not to protect her. She stared at Simon before sidestepping him to enter the station.

  After asking the Lieutenant if he needed any help—even a consulting profile—and receiving a “no” sautéed in sarcasm, she left and headed down Main. Simon’s Intrepid was trailing three cars back. But on second glance it disappeared.

  Traffic down to a crawl. Batavia was getting awfully big for its britches, round in the seat oh-my-God-Becky-look-at-her-butt type big.

  Lexi couldn’t decide if she hated old drivers or teen girl drivers more. Either way they all tried their darnedest to slow her down and keep her from reaching all her appointments. Somehow she made it home before dark and as she pulled into her driveway (‘driveway’ was a generous term considering it was rundown to the point of being dirt) she wondered how she was supposed to pay the bills when criminals remained stubbornly sane, with transparent motives. Free-lance psychology does not pay.

  Lexi carried Gramps’ oak box inside and set it on her desk. She couldn’t stop thinking about Simon’s bizarre order. Had he not said anything about the box, she might have indeed burned it of her own accord. But now . . . the old Montaigne curiosity was taking charge.

  Chapter 3

  Later that night Lexi removed her “kit” from its hidey hole. Natalie Merchant’s Ophelia CD, pack of oil-fresh razor blades, bottle of iodine, Kleenex (for blood, not tears). She pressed play on the faux wood stereo, track number 5, My Skin. Soft piano harmonized with the haunting alto as Lexi set blade to thigh.

  Her breaths were steady in the eerie calm that always preceded cutting. She thought of how she had treated Gramps and of her mother’s last days in the asylum.

  The blade arced across a small patch of creamy flesh. As her thighs had become a tapestry of scars, it was getting hard to find unscathed plots from which to harvest the blood.

  Through the speakers Natalie crooned, ‘—as if I’m becoming untouchable.’

  Lexi felt compelled to cut again, and again, as if someone in the dungeon of her mind demanded punishment. She cut, whispering her mantra, “Not good enough. I assure you, certainly. One more time, this will definitely do it, I assure you.”

  Blade opens flesh, widens the groove of a previous cut, deep-deep, separating pallid flesh, cleaves epidermis, dermis. For an encore it pierces sub cutis, our skins’ basement.

  “Only one more time I assure you certainly, this will definitely do it.”

  She inhaled and looked up at the ceiling. Endorphins rushed out, gave birth to a tiny smile. The vague, ever present headache dissipated along with all thought. There was only the sweet flow of blood, the thrill of absolute control. She waited until Natalie was finished before wiping away the small coagulated rivulets of crimson fluid. Some had hardened to burgundy crust, forcing her to scrub, reopening some of the uniform cuts.

  After a shower she wondered for the hundredth time why she cut and why she had OCD only when cutting. If it truly is punishment for my vices, then why do I enjoy it? From the so called dungeon the answer came: you are an addict. There is no reason, only compulsion. Perhaps, but she refused to agree even with her dungeon, that darker part of her conscience that was not so much a voice in her head as it was an extra sense from a place so uncomfortable that she refused to believe it was a part of her.

  It was dark out. Where had the day gone? She flicked on the desk lamp in the den. A somber glow illuminated the oak box. Dossiers of homicides and half written profiles lay strewn about the executive-style desk. She cracked the lid of the box and stared at the grainy image of the man known as Dorl.

  Satan rubbed up against her legs. “Where did Gramps get his ideas from, huh kitty-boy?”

  As if in answer a gentle wind rustled the papers and blew a page out of the box. She picked it up and it nearly crumbled in her hands. It was even older than the newspaper photo, which still had a legible date but a scrummed up headline. She dropped the paper and flipped the brittle photo over, revealing a faded date and note scrawled in Gramps’ shorthand: January 30, 1933, “This is the earliest known photograph of Dorl, but I believe there may be more, much more.”

  Something cracked just outside the window. Lexi flinched and the photo crumpled into yellow confetti. She deposited the newspaper and ash into the old oak box and laughed. “That’s what I get for indulging him.”

  The box found itself bouncing around in slender white hands as it was carried to an unlit fireplace. It felt potential energy coiling from the hands that held it, poised to thrust it in. This energy abruptly ceased and the box relaxed. It would not be burned tonight.

  Lexi spotted something unlike all the other yellowed contents of the box. It was a clean, alabaster envelope, crisp anachronistic velum sandwiched among papers of a bygone age. She picked it up and laid it flat on the desk. Under the dull light she read ‘Lexi’ in the same scrunched shorthand: ‘My darling Alexis, I wrote this in case you refused to hear me out today, for you have your father’s stubborn nature. I know you are still convinced that my stories of the Tower, of Mr. Dorl, were fairy tales to get you to sleep when you were a child, but he was very real. And I am certain he has returned. Since you rarely watch TV or listen to the radio, I am sure you have yet to see him. He has not allowed any clear photos or videos of himself, but it is the same man. Please, my little angel, discover Dorl’s intentions and expose him before he causes yet another catastrophe. You will have to be quick. He rose to power in 1933 in what seemed like overnight. I still have my trove for you to look over. I think you will find it enlightening. Michael certainly did. Goodnight. I hope to see you tomorrow. Gramps.’

  It all seemed too Da Vinci Code to be real. Lexi replaced the letter in the envelope and stuffed everything back in the box. “Look what I’ve inherited, Satan,” she said. “Proof of Gramps’ madness.” And she put it out of her mind, for a warm bed beckoned.

  The first thought on waking was what to do with the box. She had only taken it to placate Gramps after all. There was no way any of his obsessions could be real, especially not after his wild-eyed claim that Dorl was alive and well in present day America, at what, a hundred and ten? And where’s Methuselah been hiding all these years? Yeah, I’m convinced, Gramps.

  Beethoven’s third movement of the Ninth was interrupted by a knock on the door—an excel
lent way to get on Lexi’s bad side. But she answered it anyway and managed a genuine smile when she found Simon standing there. Twilled Calvin Klein jeans twined themselves around his legs while an athletic style white t-shirt hugged a taut frame under a Black Stallion welding jacket which he wore everywhere.

  He stood there with that cavalier stance of his, one leg crossed over the other, one elbow planted against the doorframe. “Hello sexy.”

  “What are you doing here? I thought you were temporarily assigned to Buffalo yesterday.”

  “Can’t a man visit his lady friend without being interrogated?” he leaned down to kiss her. This time she accepted while Beethoven celebrated in the background. “Anyway,” Simon scooted inside, “your house is on the way to the Queen City, and I’m sure there’ll be plenty of crimes waiting for my expertise.”

  He set a box of donuts on her kitchen counter.

  She scrutinized him as he cast his eyes about, head steady, feet chasing each other along the base of her bookcase. Beethoven exploded one more time before silencing.

  “Don’t you ever tire of that old cripple? Screaming fat people and trumpets . . .”

  Is he trying to pick a fight? Lexi wondered. As Simon waltzed over to the desk, he eyed the old oak box. He ran his fingers across it and sighed. When he spoke next, it all came together.

  “Oh,” in an unusually high voice. “I thought you said you were going to burn this. Huh.”

  She sat down at the desk and placed the box on the floor underneath it. Being lied to was one thing—it’s human nature after all—but being played struck her on a deeper level. Rage could be swallowed though. “It’s Gramps’,” she chirped. “I can’t bring myself to burn it.”

  “I could do it for you,” Simon said in that too-high fake voice. “It’s no big deal, I have a burning barrel at my house—”

  “If it’s no big deal, then why do you care at all? I just said it was Gramps’.” Her mouth went pencil thin.

  They stared at each other for interminable moments before Simon finally inhaled and threw his hands in the air. “You’re right, of course. It’s no big deal and I really do have to get going. See you in a few.” He fairly jogged for the door. Lexi listened as his Intrepid squealed out of the drive and raced down the street. Satan jumped up on the desk, demanding attention.

  “What is this box to him, huh kitty-boy?” The cat refused to reveal the mystery of her friend and sometime lover.

  Out of instinct (or maybe out of weirdness), she toted it out to the Dakota and set off for the Alfred C. O’Connell library at GCC. She couldn’t let a little thing like a box of crumbling letters and blurry photos distract her from working on her manuscript, Universal Psychology, the Definitive Guide to Comprehending Your Friends and Family.

  On the way down Richmond she thought of her former co-worker Dr. Edwards at the University of Michigan’s Psychology Department: “You are a brilliant psychologist, Alexis,” he’d said, “but you’re just no damn good with people. You should go back and focus on getting your Ph.D. for the scientist-practitioner model. You’d be a star in research. You’re more suited to that than clinical work. Just ask your last five patients.”

  She had thanked him for his guidance and ever since earning that Ph.D. had worked full time in research, never looking back to the years of struggle in the clinic. There wasn’t much pay now, but she was happy—or at least as content as one with schizoid personality disorder can be.

  Richmond was full of crazies as usual, drivers weaving through the lanes as though intent on creating a collage of collisions. As she checked the bruise on her forehead in the mirror, Lexi noticed a car changing lanes. She thought it was one of those new Camaro’s painted in a brilliant crimson sheen, with the tinted windows and the aggressive stance that says Let’s race.

  She adjusted the mirror to follow it but the Camaro turned into North Side Deli when she turned left onto Bank Street. The rest of the drive to GCC was performed in a stupor as Lexi wondered if she was seeing things. Why would anyone follow me?

  Not even Beethoven could shake her from her reverie. It wasn’t until the Dakota was parked and sitting in silence that Lexi realized she’d arrived.

  Card flashed to the librarian, booth found, she logged on. Next to the Police Database, the Alfred C. O’Connell library boasts the most gigabytes of any mainframe in Batavia. Though Lexi made some progress on her book, thoughts of the box reigned supreme.

  The pencil wrapped in her fingers danced a rhythmic samba against the desk top. She ignored the eyes of every student in the library and was deaf to their symphony of ‘shushes!’

  “I know that sullen beat,” a young baritone said on the other side of the oak divider. A student leaned over the edge of the booth, spiky blonde hair first. He stared down at Lexi, had to tap her shoulder to grab her attention. “What’s eating Gilbert Grape?”

  “Hey Linnux,” she said and smiled up at him. “Sorry, was I tapping Ode to Joy?”

  “Course. Working on your book?” Linnux hopped his chair over to hers. “You have that look, you know, the one you get when curiosity morphs into obsession.”

  “I do not get obsessed.” But her words were wasted. She could never fool Linnux. It was one of the reasons she liked him; he never let her get away with lame excuses. “It’s just, have I ever told you about the stories Gramps’ used to tell me?”

  Linnux stared at the ceiling—an endearing gesture, as they both knew it never took him more than a moment to recall anything. “The inimitable Mr. Dorl? What about him?”

  The aroma of spent tea bags wafted into the library. Lexi crinkled her nose. Who drinks tea in a college library?

  “Gramps gave me a box yesterday filled with articles and photos and now I can’t get them out of my head.” She fingered the keyboard, Googled “Mr. Dorl.” All she got was the expected Facebook association and the acronym of some obscure music group.

  “Well, I guess that’s all the proof I needed.” Lexi returned to the Behavior Modification site, feigning interest.

  “That’s it, huh?” Linnux accused.

  “What do you mean? You saw it. If Dorl existed, even seventy years ago, don’t you think the web would have something on him?”

  “In theory, yes,” and Linnux smiled that goofy smile of his, all pearly teeth and perfect gums. “But do sites exist concerning the construction of nuclear weapons? Sure, there may be a smattering of pages regarding thermonuclear couplers and the shielding necessary to contain the nuclear waste created with the expenditure—”

  “I don’t want to know why you know those things,” Lexi said. “What’s your point?”

  “My point is, if this Dorl was real and he was as mysterious as your gramps says, then the government would have taken notice, and they have entire divisions devoted to screening the Web. Design a few specific word-and-phrase filters, throw in a V-bomb designed to attack anyone who approaches the secure pages and kaplow! He’ll exist only in a government processor more powerful than my brain, and that’s not possible, you don’t even know.”

  Linnux sat back down to catch his breath. He was still smiling.

  “You know,” Lexi chided, “if you keep doing that, your face will get stuck that way.”

  “Really? Cool.”

  Lexi considered his statement on Dorl and government divisions. “Help me find him.”

  Chapter 4

  “What will you give me?” Linnux demanded.

  Lexi could smell the Aqua Velva that barely managed to mask the musky stench of sweat. She knew what he wanted. She had known since the day they met five years ago when Linnux was a fifteen year old prodigy trailing on his over-stressed mother’s coattails to Lexi’s office. Even then his hormone levels had rivaled his IQ. He had even pretended to require a consultation with her.

  “I will go on one date with you, but—” holding up a finger “—no physical contact.”

  Linnux pretended to consider her offer, but the corners of his mouth twitched and his fing
ers would not stop moving in unconscious tells she had never bothered to point out to him. “Deal, but might I include an addendum? Let’s say a situation arises when a kiss seems both appropriate and indeed inevitable, one or other of the party should possess the power to consummate the aforementioned smack. Agreed?”

  She smiled and nodded. If it came to it, she would permit a peck on the cheek.

  “Hey!” Linnux said, startling Lexi out of her chair. “Have you seen the news about that meteoroid? Alison Van Heusen—love her—says its trajectory will bring it within three-hundred miles of earth’s orbit four or five weeks from now. Can you believe our luck? Care to come over and watch it through my telescope when it passes?”

  Lexi tittered. “You have a telescope. Why am I not surprised?”

  “My telescope is rather prodigious, you know. If you’re nice, I might let you touch it.”

  “Focus, Linnux. I need you to set your hormones aside and focus that big brain of yours.” Through the corner of her eye she saw something flash and turned to see what. No one was even moving around, but she noticed a tea cup still spewing steam on the other side of the library. Shaking it off, she said, “What would be the first step to finding out if Dorl is real?”

  “Start by picking out a pink dress,” Linnux said, stroking his hairless chin. “And leave the rest to me. Give me a few days and I’ll be able to tell you what size his underwear is.”

  “Good as good.” Something Gramps would say. I don’t like this pattern.

  She worked alone on her book for the next few hours, the warm air of the library making heavy blinders of her lids, until the screen melted into oblivion, tiny black letters oozing into each other, white background dissolving into dreamy clouds. Beethoven danced idiotically under a hazy afternoon sun, his baton keeping tune with old box lids slamming up and down. One cracked its top, waking Lexi.

  She wiped the accumulated drool and looked around. Three students were staring.