Ronald Malfi - Floating Staircase

I couldn’t stop my feet: they moved of their own will. Beside me, Dentman was huge, and it was like being ushered by a giant stone bell tower. He was breathing strenuously, and I could feel his heartbeat through the tightened grip of his palm around my elbow.

“He was autistic,” I said.

David grunted.

“Your nephew. He was autistic, wasn’t he?”

“You’re out of your mind.”

“Is that why you killed him? Because he was different and you didn’t understand him? Maybe he frightened you a little, too.”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“You may have fooled the police but you didn’t—”

Dentman yanked my arm back, nearly dislocating it at the shoulder.

I stumbled and almost spilled the notebook and photos to the ground.

Still gripping my elbow, he swung me around until I was staring directly at him. “You . . . shut . . . up,” he breathed.

My mind rattled with things to say, none of them strong enough for the moment.

We crested a snowy embankment and slipped beneath a canopy of trees. The moon was blotted out almost altogether. I paused only once, more than certain of my own impending doom, but Dentman jerked me forward, and I clumsily continued to follow. We crossed through a shallow grove of trees that emptied into a vast clearing covered by sinister ground fog. I was surprised (and relieved) to see more lights ahead. In front of us stood what must have been a ten-foot-tall wrought iron fence. Beyond the fence, the dorsal fin crescents of tombstones rose from the rolling black lawn.

A cemetery.

“Come on,” Dentman urged, letting go of my arm and moving along the length of the fence.

I watched him lead for some time, his enormous head slumping like a broken puppet’s, before following. We came to a small gravel driveway that wound through an opening in the cemetery gate. Without waiting for me, Dentman passed through the entrance and continued to advance up the slight incline of the cemetery grounds, passing granite botonées like mile markers.

I pursued the hulking behemoth, suddenly less apprehensive of my own safety. Curiosity drove me now. Curiosity and finality. I walked across the cemetery lawns, the frigidity of the air finally driving its point home. My breath was sour and raspy. I could sense my pulse throbbing beneath the palms of my hands. We passed a large mausoleum and beyond that several grave markers fashioned to look like stars and stone angels. Now trying to keep up, I hurried down a gradual slope and saw him stop beneath a great oak tree at the far end of the cemetery grounds. He stood looking down, half leaning against the wrought iron gate. For all I knew, he could have forgotten all about me.

Solemn was my approach. Strong wind rattled the bare branches of the oak. What sat before us were two headstones with two different names on them. The first:

B

ERNARD

D

ENTMAN

The second:

E

LIJAH

D

ENTMAN

B

ELOVED

S

ON AND

N

EPHEW

Along with their respective dates.

“I’m not a smart man, Glasgow. I don’t write books, and I don’t wear a suit and tie to work. But I’m not an imbecile, either. I know you. You’re the type of person thinks they can get away with any damn thing they want. Any damn thing in the world. You think this whole fucking universe would just crumble to pieces if you didn’t exist to keep it all together.”

“I don’t.”

“That’s bullshit. See, you been asking about me. But I been asking about you.” He sprung at me, causing a moan to escape my lips. Again, he spun me around, and looked at the fresh granite tombstone, still too new to be overgrown with vines and weeds. Beloved Son and Nephew.

I felt a fist strike the small of my back. Wincing, I dropped my notebook and the crime scene photos. The wind was quick to gather up the photos and bully them across the cemetery grounds.

“You’re kneeling on my nephew’s grave. I’m trying to instill a little humility in you, a little reverence. You ever have to bury an empty coffin?”

“Get . . . off me . . .”

“All your writings about ghosts and murders and dead children,” he said at my back, his voice trailing in the wind. He could have been shouting ten stories above me for all the difference it made. “Go on. Ask the grave whatever ghostly questions you got, you motherfucker. Ask it.”

Twisting in his grasp, I told him again to get the fuck off me.

He didn’t. “I can’t have you sniffing around in my family’s business. My sister ain’t strong enough, and I won’t let you torment her anymore.” His head just over my shoulder, I could feel his hot breath crawling down the nape of my neck. “See,” he practically whispered, his mouth nearly brushing my ear now, “my father was a rotten, miserable son of a bitch who caused more harm than anyone should ever have to endure. I took my sister away from him and raised her. Until I die, she will be my sole responsibility. Until I die. Ain’t no one gonna hurt her. Especially you. She’s my sister and I love her, no matter what.”

I managed to turn and look at him. His eyes were the eyes of a wolf—hungry, desperate, wild. “I’ve already told the cops about you. My brother’s a cop. He knows what I’ve been up to. You kill me, they’ll catch you this time.”

Dentman grasped my right wrist. His face was nearly on top of my own, his breath reeking. There was a complete absence of expression on his face—no smile, no bared teeth. Just a set face, set mouth, clenched jaw.

In a futile attempt to wrench my wrist free, I lost my balance and cracked the side of my head smartly against Elijah’s gravestone. Instantly, capering swirls exploded in front of my eyes, and I felt the world tilt to one side. I thought of fireworks and a filmstrip slipping in the grooves of a projector. Blindly, I began clawing at the front of Dentman’s shirt.

With seemingly little effort, Dentman pinned my right hand to the ground while stepping on my wrist with his booted foot. “You stupid bastard. If I wanted to kill you, I would have done it already.”

He brought down his fist on my face. Eye-watering pain blossomed from my nose and spread out across my face, rattling like a rusty shopping cart with crippled casters through my head. I hardly cared about struggling free at that moment. I just prayed my death would be swift and painless. All I could do was cringe in anticipation of the next punch.

But it did not come. Instead, Dentman grabbed my hands and dragged my body about two feet to the left of the gravestone and allowed me to roll over on my side.

I inhaled a deep swallow of air. It hurt my lungs, my chest. I still couldn’t open my eyes, still couldn’t bring myself to do it until I caught my breath. I was aware of Dentman’s hulking shape above me, and I imagined him withdrawing that same imaginary handgun I’d dreamt up from before and plugging me once, assassin style, in the head.

Finally, I opened my eyes and rolled over on my back. Coughing. Sputtering. My vision was still blurred, but I managed to turn my head and seek out my attacker.

His face stoic and unreadable, Dentman moved away from me like an out-of-breath hunter admiring his catch.

“What the hell are you going to do to me?” We say such pitiful things in our final moments of desperation.

Dentman sneered. “Jesus fuck, boy. You’re pathetic. Look at you.”

“You can’t kill me.”

“Piece of shit.” Kneeling down beside me, he gripped my wrists again.

Peripherally, I caught a glint of moonlight on metal, then heard a sound like pocket change being jangled. When I looked up, I saw he’d handcuffed me to the fucking iron fence. “You can’t leave me out here. I’ll freeze to death.”