The Bangover

by Valente, Lili

  “You’d better. I’m not playing any more fucking games with you, Regina.” I hang up and storm the rest of the way down the hall to the elevator. I make it through the mezzanine level of the casino, down the curved staircase, and through the lobby to the ice cream shop and kids’ indoor play structure in no more than five minutes. I give Regina another ten minutes to get her ass in gear before I call Kirby’s phone.

  But there’s no answer, just a series of rings and then Kirby saying, “Can’t come to the phone right now. Leave me a message. Or, better yet, send me a text and I’ll get back to you as soon as I’m out of the word cave. Later.”

  The sound of her voice makes the worry gripping my gut squeeze tighter. She’s out there somewhere, drugged and unconscious. Anything could be happening to her. I have to find her and keep her safe. If I don’t, I’m going to lose my fucking mind with worry. I’m about to call again—and call and call until Regina picks up—when fluffy blond hair bounces around the lobby desk.

  But when Regina’s face comes into view, her expression is anything but bouncy. Her mascara is smudged beneath her eyes, and her face is almost as pale as Kirby’s.

  “What’s wrong. Tell me,” I demand, crossing to meet her near the empty shoeshine station.

  “I didn’t mean for this to happen,” she whimpers. “I promise, Colin.”

  “Tell me,” I say, panic tightening my voice. “Please, Regina. As quickly and efficiently as you can.”

  “I took Kirby’s phone so I could look through her texts and see if you were cheating on me with her while we were together,” she says, focusing on my face as she does her best to oblige. “But I read through a ton of messages and didn’t find anything. So then I decided to check her email since she’d left it open in her browser.”

  “Fuck, Regina,” I grumble, unable to help myself. “You can’t just invade people’s privacy like that. And no, I was never cheating with Kirby.”

  “I know, I’m sorry,” she says, holding out Kirby’s purse, which I take with as little violence as possible. “I didn’t find anything in her email either, or her chats with friends or photos. But even looking through all that, it didn’t take me that long, you know? I mean, no more than thirty or forty-five minutes could have passed before I called you.” She blinks tear-filled eyes. “But when I went back to make sure she was okay before I came down to get ice cream with you, it was gone.”

  “What was gone?” I demand.

  “The coffin where I left her to sleep it off,” she says sheepishly, as my brain explodes. “It was gone. All of it was gone, the entire carnival exhibit. It’s like it just vanished into thin air. So maybe ghosts are real, after all? Maybe it was all haunted and just…disappeared?”

  I pull out my phone, hitting 911. I could keep trying to understand what the hell Regina is talking about, but I don’t know how much time Kirby has. She could be in serious trouble. “I need to be connected to the police,” I tell the woman who answers. “My friend has been drugged and potentially kidnapped. She’s been missing for at least an hour, maybe longer. I have the woman who drugged her here with me.”

  Regina’s eyes go wide as she whispers urgently, “No, I can’t, Colin! I can’t get arrested. I took way too much shit tonight. I’ll fail a drug test.” She bites her lip with a wince. “But don’t worry, I’m not pregnant. Sorry. I only lied because I needed to talk to you so much.”

  I glare at her as I answer the operator’s questions, “No, I’m not in any danger. I just need the police. Yes, I’ll hold.”

  I cover the receiver as I hiss at a retreating Regina, “You stay right there. I want you to tell them exactly what you gave Kirby and where you—”

  “I can’t, gotta go, sorry!” And then she turns and sprints away. Actually sprints—in heels, her muscled, former-track-star legs carrying her across the lobby and up the stairs to the street so fast catching her wouldn’t be easy.

  And if I chase after her, I won’t be here when the police arrive. So even though a part of me wants to take off after my ex and insist she stay to face the consequences of her actions, I hold tight where I am and have a talk with the Vegas Police Department.

  Officers Davidson and Goodnight arrive just a few minutes later, and together, with the help of casino security, we get to the bottom of what happened. We watch most of it on tape, in fact—Kirby walking into the carnival exhibit, not noticing the “Closed” sign that had been tipped over beside the clown entrance. Kirby collecting her fortune from one of the remaining machines while the guys packing up the exhibit were on a break on the loading dock. Kirby emerging from a hall of mirrors, and then Regina confronting her in the mummy display and finally hoisting her into a coffin.

  I watch Regina struggle with Kirby’s limp body, hold up Kirby’s phone to her face to get access, and then slam the lid of the coffin closed like she’s just finished taking out the trash. And then the movers return and load up the last of the carnival display without realizing that there’s a girl inside one of the coffins.

  The last footage we have is of the moving truck leaving the underground parking garage half an hour ago.

  “She won’t suffocate in there, will she?” I ask in a tight voice.

  “She shouldn’t,” Officer Goodnight says. He’s by far the nicer cop so far. Davidson, a broad woman with a no-nonsense chin, has barely spoken at all and keeps shooting suspicious glances my way. “It didn’t look airtight, but we should find her as soon as possible. We’ll put out an APB on that truck. And your ex-girlfriend.”

  “In the meantime, can you come back to the station with us, answer a few more questions?” Davidson asks.

  I nod, even as a sour taste fills my mouth. I’m not surprised—the boyfriend is always the lead suspect—but it still makes me sick to know this woman thinks I had something to do with Kirby’s disappearance.

  But I guess I did. If I had handled Regina better, Kirby wouldn’t be missing right now. I blame myself. And if she isn’t okay…

  No, I can’t go there. Not yet, hopefully not ever.

  After a quick call to Bridget to explain what’s happening, and comfort her as best as I’m able, I climb into the back of the police cruiser and let the officers take me downtown, praying that they will find Kirby soon.

  But they don’t, and eventually the police send me back to the hotel, where I watch my first sunrise in Vegas alone, feeling more scared and helpless than I have in my entire life.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Kirby

  I wake up to pitch blackness, and for a second, I’m certain I’m dead.

  But for some reason, I’m not scared.

  I mean, it’s disconcerting—to wake up dead, in the dark—but I’m also warm and cozy, and there’s a gentle rocking motion that jostles me lightly from side to side, reminding me of last summer when Peter was away on a PI Job and the boys in the band were in town for the Fourth of July weekend.

  They rented a boat to take Bridget and me out on the water, and we spent the entire day basking in the sun and waiting for tugs on our fishing lines, while the boat rocked pleasantly and Cutter told every horrific shark story he could remember from his long, sick, and twisted obsession with shark attacks.

  And then Colin got out his guitar, and he and Zack whipped up a ridiculous song they titled “Losing My Teeth For Love”—because sharks keep losing teeth and making more for as long as they’re alive—and Bridget laughed so hard she had to jump into the water to pee because Cutter was already in the tiny boat bathroom. And then Shep jumped in after her because she couldn’t stop laughing, even while she was peeing, and he was afraid she was going to drown, and then Bridget almost died of embarrassment because Shep jumped into her pee.

  It’s one of my best memories, filled with laughter and sun and the people I love.

  Love…

  That’s my only regret about being dead. I’ve always had a keen sense of my own mortality—multiple near-death experiences when I was too little to run damage control o
n my mother’s poor life choices left a lasting mark on my psyche—but I’m weirdly grateful for that. Too many people take tomorrow for granted, thinking they have all the time in the world to get over their fears and hang-ups and start really living, where I’ve always known that tomorrow isn’t a given. For the most part, I’ve lived my life so that if for some reason a particular day turns out to be my last, I’d be at peace with checking out.

  But I wish I’d told Colin that I’m in love with him. Even if he doesn’t love me back the same way, I wish I’d let him know that he’s that kind of special to me, my very favorite person in the whole world.

  He knows a voice in my head assures me Now close your eyes and get some rest. It’s going to be a while before we get there.

  On some level I realize my inner voice is talking out of its ass—it has no idea where we’re going or when we’ll get there—but I’m so tired and warm. So snugly on the soft mattress beneath me. It makes it hard to…

  Keep…

  My eyes…

  When I blink on again, the world is still dark, but with slivers of light streaming in through cracks in a rectangular shape above me.

  I am also hot as hell, not simply warm, and my mouth is so dry it feels like I placed first in a sawdust-eating contest. The heat evaporates the fog in my brain, and in a rush, I remember everything that went down last night.

  Specifically that—

  I was drugged.

  I was pushed into a coffin, where I passed out.

  The coffin was moved while I was still pretty out of it.

  I do not remember crawling out of the coffin, which means…

  A soft keening sound like an orphaned puppy fills the hot, cloying air, and it’s coming from my own bone-dry throat.

  I clap a hand over my mouth, silencing the hysterical sound. I have to keep my head on straight. If anyone is equipped to survive being buried alive, it’s me. I wrote the book on being buried alive—literally.

  In the third installment of the Funhouse series, a serial killer kidnaps Amy and buries her alive, and Beau has to become a wolf shifter to get a nose sensitive enough to track her to the place where she was interred before it’s too late. I did enough research that I’m able to make a very educated guess about how much air is left in this crate and how long I have to get out before I suffocate.

  I’m thumbing through my mental files, pulling anything that might help me stay alive long enough for Colin to find me, when I push on the lid and it pops off without a bit of resistance.

  My adrenaline levels plummet and a disappointed, “Oh,” escapes me, because apparently, some not-right part of me was looking forward to the challenge of outwitting the person who buried me alive.

  “Sicko,” I mutter as I sit up, squinting in the bright desert sun.

  It takes my eyes a few moments to adjust, but when they do, I see that, other than the coffin, everything around me has changed. Now, instead of the cool darkness of the casino’s Mummy Curse room, I’m surrounded by a junkyard full of random shit, which is surrounded by a high, barbed wire fence, which is surrounded by lots of middle-of-nowhere beige desert and some faint blue mountains in the distance.

  I twist to look behind me, hoping for a more encouraging view, but I can’t see anything past the giant clown face grinning back at me. The entire carny exhibit has been dumped out here to bake in the sun. It’s equally enraging—these are irreplaceable antiques—and troubling.

  If the owner of these treasures abandoned them, it doesn’t bode well for me finding help before I die of thirst. I’m already so parched that my tongue feels three sizes too big for my mouth.

  Still, I can’t resist the instinct to call “Help,” in a scratchy voice. And then “Help me, please,” a little louder.

  But the only response is a gust of wind that scatters gravel across the ground beside my coffin and the soft cry of a crow far away.

  Shivering despite the sweat dripping down the hollow of my spine to soak into my sparkly panties, I stand up, wobbling on my bare feet on the lumpy mattress. I glance down, searching the bottom of the coffin for my shoes, but they seem to have vanished, along with my purse and—

  “Shit. My phone.” I press my fist to my chest, willing my once-again racing heart not to punch a hole through my ribs. My phone, and getting in touch with Colin, should have been my first thought. It wasn’t, which proves my head isn’t completely clear yet. I have no idea what Regina slipped into my drink—or if Forearms the bartender was in on the plot—but it was some serious stuff. By the angle of the sun, I’m guessing I’ve been out for at least seven hours.

  Still, it could have been worse, I realize as I step out of the coffin and pad gingerly across the gravel lot, looking for signs of life. I’m thirsty and my head is fuzzy, but I’m not sick to my stomach or unsteady on my feet.

  Or dead.

  “Not dead is always good,” I mutter, the sound of my own voice comforting in the ringing silence. I can’t remember nature ever being so quiet. In my neck of the woods, there are always waves crashing and birds chirping and tree leaves whispering in the breeze.

  Here there’s just quiet, a rush of desert wind, then more quiet.

  I circle a wooden cut-out of a strongman and find several rows of slot machines covered in a fine coat of sand and the top half of a life-size Tyrannosaurus Rex, his mouth open in a roar. But Rexxy is clearly a homegrown job. His proportions are all off—teeth too big, snout too small, and eyes disturbingly close together—and the spots where his protective coating have eroded reveal tufts of papier-mâché material beneath. Still, he’s pretty fabulous kitsch, and some TLC could return him to his former glory.

  “People throwing away perfectly lovely things,” I tut as I continue my hunt for a way out.

  And now I’m one of them.

  Regina pushed me into a coffin and threw me away. And if I can’t manage contact with the outside world—or at least get out of this barbed-wire-surrounded island of misfit toys—I could die here.

  It’s a worst-case scenario, and the rational part of me knows that if someone brought me here, someone will likely show up sooner or later, but my pulse isn’t listening to reason as panic sets in.

  I rest a hand on Rexxy’s warm flank, forcing my shoulders to relax as I inhale to a count of four and exhale the same way. Freaking out is a waste of energy. I have to remain calm and make choices that will increase my odds of survival—starting with getting out of the sun and protecting my ghostly-pale flesh from a burn.

  Clinging to the pockets of shade, I make a circle of the storage lot, passing more orphaned slot machines, a collection of lightly dented go-carts, a plastic statue of a bearded man in a yellow chicken suit, and enough pink plaster pillars to create a Pepto-Bismol colored Grecian temple, but nothing that looks like a guard house or anyplace that might have a phone.

  And when I reach the gate, it’s wrapped in heavy chain and secured with a padlock.

  “Shit,” I whisper again, tangling my fingers in the chain link as I stare at the road outside my prison.

  It’s not much more than a set of ruts in the sand, stretching so far into the distance that it disappears into the horizon. Even if I figure out a way to bust out of here, I’m going to have a long walk ahead of me, and the longer I wait, the weaker and more dehydrated I’m going to become.

  “Think, Kirby, think,” I chant as I finish my exploration and come up with nothing of use except a knock-off Mary Poppins statue, complete with a faded gray umbrella that I appropriate for sun protection.

  Back at my coffin, I search the lumpy padding at the bottom again for signs of my shoes or purse—still no dice—before turning to survey the yard again. There’s a weak place in the barbed wire not far away, where the wind has twisted it into a knot small enough to step over, but the chain link is too small to get a decent toe-hold. I could try, but chain link messes up your feet pretty quickly.

  I learned that the hard way, sneaking over the fence to swim in the pool at the
apartment building down the street from my childhood home. I usually made it, but the fence was shorter, I was lighter, and there were still times when I’d tear the skin between my toes on the way over, making the chlorinated water sting the entire time I swam.

  If I hurt myself on the way over this fence, I’m going to have at least a two-mile walk through the hot sand in my bare, bloodied feet after.

  “Something to cover them,” I say, congratulating myself on my creative problem solving as I rip the satin lining out of the coffin and tear the aging fabric into strips I can tie into makeshift shoes before I start my walk.

  But first to get over the damned fence…

  If I just had a ladder, so I’d only have to deal with the chain link on the way down. Or a rope, maybe, or…

  “A giant T-Rex head.” I shoot a narrow glance Rexxy’s way, already knowing he’s not as heavy as he looks. When I put my hand on him earlier, there was an echo. I’d bet money that he’s hollow inside and that I can probably push him up against the fence, where his head will be level with the weak spot in the barbed wire.

  Tucking my strips of coffin lining through one side of my halter top and resting my umbrella on the ground by Rexxy’s torso, I lay my hands on his sun-warmed side and push, sending him scraping across the sand only an inch or two. He’s heavier than I thought, but that’s a good thing. That means he’ll be less likely to collapse under me as I’m climbing onto his head.

  Rolling my shoulders back and bending my knees, I push from my center of gravity and am rewarded with a nearly foot-long scratch in the sand. I keep it up—pushing and resting, pushing and resting—slowly giving birth to hope as Rexxy and I inch our way over to the fence.

  By the time his nose butts up against the barbed wire, I’m covered in a sheen of sweat and my mouth is stuffed full of cotton balls, but I’m not nearly as frightened as I was before. I have a plan, and I’m getting out.