Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee

by Edward Lee

  "Yeah. And I used to get tkroum out of here a lot. I'm very happy that I quit drinking." Westmore sat down with a sigh. For some reason or other, the meeting with Vivica-however thrilling-left him exhausted now

  "So if you're trying to quit drinking-"

  "Not trying," Westmore corrected her. "I did quit." He knew what was coming next.

  "Then why do you still go to bars? Why put a drink in front of you? I'd think the temptation would be overwhelming sometimes."

  "It isn't. And I do it because it helps me think. I'm a writer. Writers have weird self-rituals." He picked the glass up, peering into its amber. "I like to look at it. I like to hear the ice clink. I like to sniff it. It clears my head." He smiled at the glass. "It's my abstraction. It's my crystal ball."

  "It's interesting that you should say that. One of the people at the house is a crystal gazer," she said.

  .. p" Re

  "Perhaps she has her self-rituals too." Karen twirled a finger in her drink, then pointed to Westmore's scotch. "Have you ever seen the future in it?"

  "Not now But I used to. I used to look in these glasses of eight-dollar hooch, and see my death. Right outside by the bus stop there's a homeless bum. He looks like he's rotting. I used to see a guy like that a lot in my future."

  "Well, that's cool. I can control it, though. I'm not an alcoholic. I believe that anything in moderation makes you a better person."

  Baby, YOU'RE an alcoholic, he thought when he saw her finish the martini. "There's no such thing as moderation, not for me. The clinical addiction rate for alcohol is about fifteen percent. I'm one of those fifteen."

  She looked away wistfully. "A false romanticism, though, right? Like Hemingway? All creative people have a demon that's more powerful than them."

  "That's an interesting observation."

  "And let me guess. You're a drinker with a writing problem."

  Westmore smiled. "Hey, that's a great line!"

  She ordered another martini. "Blue cheese in the olive this time," she said rather testily to the keep. Then, to Westmore: "I'm glad you can refrain from temptation. You're going to need that power."

  Westmore sniffed his drink. Sharp vapors titillated him. "Where? At the house? Or, excuse me, the Hildreth Mansion?"

  She didn't say anything. She just smiled to the mirror behind the liquor shelves.

  Westmore ordered a dozen oysters on the half-shell, then pegged her, "So you guys put a tail on me, hired an investigator? Can't imagine how else you'd know that I used to come to this bar, that I always order a Dewar's and don't drink it, and the name of my local hangout."

  "Of course we did," she said. "Vivica is a cautious person. She's also a determined one."

  Westmore remained quietly bewildered. The herbal scent of her hair kept drifting over, distracting him. It's a good thing I like puzzles, he thought. When his plate of oysters arrived, Karen smiled and said, "Is there something you're not telling me?"

  "Oysters. It's true what they say."

  "Oh, yeah?"

  "Yeah." She snorted a laugh. "They make me horny as fuck."

  The abruptness of that particular word jolted him. It didn't sound right coming out of the mouth of someone he perceived as a stiff, proper business woman. Even stranger was that after she'd made the comment, she returned to sipping her drink and looking straight ahead. I guess I better not offer her some, he thought as a joke. Instead, he sucked a few down and said, "It's probably all just psychological."

  "You don't know the meaning of the word psychological until you spend a night in that house. The place will ... make you take a good, long look at yourself"

  "I don't know what you're talking about but I guess I'll find out tomorrow. So you'll be picking me up? I'd take a cab but I don't know where the place is."

  "I'll find you." She turned and leaned over, reaching for something on the floor. Westmore looked at the wide tan thighs spreading the black skirt, the dip of the obviously implanted breasts as gravity pitched them forward. This is one hell of a day for innuendo. First, Vvica practically comes on to me, and now I've got this sexual fireplug getting hammered and talking about oysters as aphrodisiacs.

  She handed him a small briefcase. "Here's some info on the victims, if you could call them that. Resumes and stage photos, police reports-mostly drug-related-and autopsy reports. They're all pretty much the same."

  "And most of the victims were-"

  "Porn stars, yes. Two men, the rest women-all very attractive. Mr. Hildreth liked to surround himself with what he called `positive visual energy.' That's why he bought T&T Enterprises. He saw the people in it, liked the way they looked, so he bought the company. Then he re-based it in the mansion."

  "A porn studio in a Gothic mansion?"

  "Yes:'

  Westmore had to ask. "Where do you fit in here?"

  "I was the company's accountant."

  "Well, you kind of have that `accountant' look. Kind of."

  Karen got it. "Yes, Mr. Westmore, I used to be one of his movie girls, too. From age twenty to about twenty-five. After twenty-five, in that business, you're considered old news."

  More interesting information, but Westmore wondered what use it would be. "Tell me about Hildreth. Did he and Vivica have any kids?"

  "God, no. I can't imagine a couple less cut out for children."

  "How old was he? What did he look like?"

  "He was about sixty. And he was tall. He was a strikingly handsome man. "

  Westmore was careful to use the past tense because he wasn't sure if Karen knew Hildreth's obituary was fraudulent. This was a crux.

  She slipped out a glossy eight-by-ten and passed it to him. "Meet Reginald Hildreth."

  Almost a cliche. Longish, swept-back dark hair, "distinguished" gray at the temples, obviously a good dye job. Searching eyes, thin lips, long thin face. Debonair but tainted, Westmore perceived. He looks like a ride phony. "And you think this guy murdered all those people? With an ax?"

  "Why? Because he was insane?"

  don't believe he was insane," I Karen stared straight ahead and finished her next martini.

  "I don't know, and forgive me for being judgmental, but if a guy chops a bunch of people up with an ax-to me, that's a pretty good sign of a mental instability."

  Her ice-blue eyes slowly turned to him. "You don't know what instability is." She maintained the deadpan expression for several seconds ... then smiled.

  Wow.

  Westmore shook his head when she ordered yet another martini. "Mr. Hildreth didn't kill all of them, of coursehe just had the denouement, his final act. Somebody else killed the prostitutes."

  "Prostitutes?"

  "The crack-whores upstairs." She pointed to the briefcase. "It's all in there. I think it was Three-Balls who killed them:'

  "Three-Balls?" Westmore made a face. "That's somebody's name?"

  "Yeah, one of the ... actors. He had three testicles, some genetic thing. Perfect for the porn business."

  Westmore's mind raced to assimilate the information but before he could ask his next question, she pointed to the briefcase again. "His fingerprints were found on the knives in the parlor. It's all in there, in the cop reports. Hildreth's were found on the ax."

  "Where," he began, then thought, Careful! "Where was Hildreth buried after his suicide?"

  "The cemetery on the property."

  That's rich, Westmore thought.

  "The other guy was Jaz»

  "The other-oh, the other male victim?"

  "You'll see. Jaz was another natural. Had a cock on him like a knockwurst."

  Mother jolt.

  She continued: "It was almost funny how you could tell who was who just by their body parts---2 lot of them were beheaded, dismembered, like that. The girls weren't as easy, of course, but you could tell by their tit jobs and pussies. And the guys? One had his head cut off, and the other was cut in half. But you could tell which body was which by their cocks."

  Westmore sat stunned, by the
combination of the horrid imagery and her sudden shift to slutty anatomical nouns. He couldn't respond for several moments but the obvious occurred to him rather quickly. "How did you know that?" he asked very slowly.

  "I was the one who discovered the bodies," Karen said. She didn't flinch at the acknowledgment. "I drove into work the next morning, like I always do. Right after sunup. I walk into the house, and there it was. Everyone dead, everyone butchered. There was blood everywhere, and it was still wet."

  Westmore's mind reeled. Hildreth turned the place into a slaughter house, and I'm supposed to find out everything that happened that night. Kind of like being sent into a death camp after all the prisoners had been incinerated. All of a sudden this dream job was losing its luster, even in spite of the money.

  Silence. It was awkward, there in the dark bar, and all this looming ahead of him. The barkeep stood at the other end, talking to the oyster man. Westmore felt isolated from everything, as though the few people around him existed in a different plane of existence, and he was somewhere else looking in. His eyes fell on the full glass of scotch-his crystal ball-and in that gold-tinted ice he saw something chaotic yet undefinable.

  He shivered when Karen's hand touched his thigh. Her fingers squeezed, then slid an inch toward his crotch.

  "What are you-"

  Her drunken gaze looked faraway yet very focused, burning. Of course she's drunk, he rationalized. Of Course she's gonna be half out of her mind for a u+lhik. She's the one who discovered the bodies ...

  "What's wrong?" she asked.

  He was going to grab her hand, urge it away. He felt embarrassed, on edge ...

  "Don't worry, no one can see." Fingers worked higher on the inside of his thigh. Then she said, "Look."

  Westmore looked down. She'd hitched the black skirt up, parted her own thighs more. No panties down there.

  Fantastic. A drunken nympho.

  "Let me drive you home now. We'll do it at your place."

  Finally words ground out of Westmore's mouth. "This is crazy. What are you doing?"

  "I'm coming on to you. This is Florida, remember? All men are cockhounds, all women are sluts."

  "I don't ever remember seeing that endorsement at the Florida Department of Tourism." Again, his thoughts told him to push her hand away but instead, he just sat there. Now she was openly caressing his crotch. Westmore's gut squirmed in a mad arousal.

  "What's the matter? This defies your sense of morality?" she joked, her voice a lulling whisper. "You've never picked up a woman in a bar and fucked her?"

  "Plenty of times, and it's always a mistake." Still embarrassed, he glanced over and saw the barkeep and oyster shucker still too far away to see or hear.

  "Let me blow you in the car ... "

  Common sense propped up as fast as his erection. He grabbed her hand, placed it on her own thigh, then hitched the hem of her skirt down.

  "We both work for the same person-"

  "Moral turpitude?" she slurred a laugh.

  "Yeah." He left money on the bar and rose, grabbed the small attache case she'd brought. "I have some research to do tonight."

  "Of course. The dutiful reporter."

  "And I'll grab the bus back. You're too drunk to drive me or yourself anywhere." He pulled out his cell phone. "Let me call you a cab."

  "Not necessary." She looked idly at her drink, which was almost done. "I'm staying in Vivica's guest room tonight. I'll pick you up tomorrow and take you to the mansion."

  "Great." The wake of the uncomfortable situation left his words stilted, phony. He just wanted to get out. "See ya tomorrow," and then he shook her hand quickly and walked out.

  Unbelievable, he thought. I'm flypaper for whackos.

  A gust of relief when he looked at his watch: the trolley home only came once an hour down here but he'd only have a five-minute wait. The city was cooling down as the sun sunk. Very few cars could be seen. The streets seemed pin-drop quiet.

  The scene with Karen bothered him; in his drinking days, he'd have been all over it. But all he was left with now was the numb arousal and a primal regret. Bar pick-ups weren't his style anymore; it seemed vapid, juvenile.

  "Somebody else is gonna fuck her," a voice rattled.

  It was the bum, still essentially collapsed in place by the bus-stop garbage can.

  "You a faggot or something? That bitch is a hot number. You should'a seen her in the movies."

  "How do you know she was in movies?" Westmore blurted in irritation. Out here, the man couldn't possibly have heard their conversation at the bar.

  "I know lots of shit, man" His face was a shadow, below the level of Westmore's waist. "Someone tells me things sometimes."

  "Yeah? Who?"

  ..Your father."

  Westmore squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "My father's dead."

  "I know"

  Sure you do. "I'm surprised my mother didn't tell youshe's dead too."

  The bum paused. "I didn't know that."

  Westmore let it pass. His mother was alive and well and living in San Angelo, Texas. "Look, man. I know you need help. I'd be happy to call the county and find out where the nearest shelter is."

  "Fuck that. Gimme more money. You've got a shitload on you."

  The homeless crazies always seemed to pick Westmore out-they always had. But there was nothing he could do for this one. The downtown trolley squeaked up, its doors flipping open. When Westmore stepped aboard, the bum kept croaking, "Hey! Hey!" but it sounded more like a dog barking.

  Westmore got on and paid. The bum kept yelling.

  "More and more of these crazy guys keep landing here," the driver said. "Each year there's more."

  "Mmm," Westmore murmured. Now the bum was practically hysterical. "Can't even understand the poor guy."

  "You're going to a house?"

  Westmore stalled in the aisle, turned. "What?"

  The driver was pulling away. "That crazy. He was yelling `Have fun at the house."'

  Westmore sat down, feeling sidetracked and ill. He glanced back through the window, stared, and blinked.

  In the shadow, the bum didn't appear to be the bum anymore. The face within the hood seemed highly angled--a wedge-with a hole for a nose and teeth gleaming through a lipless mouth. Darkness blacker than the shadow radiated in eyes like knife-slits in meat. The arms rose, a taloned finger pointing back at Westmore as the bus rumbled away.

  Chapter Four

  I

  "Father Nyvysk?"

  "Just ... Nyvysk," Nyvysk corrected.

  "Oh, right. Thanks for coming. Most of the others are already here.'

  Nyvysk knew most of them, except for this much younger man who'd shown him in.

  "I'm Mack Colmes," came an enthused introduction. "I'll be taking you to the South Atrium now. The mansion is big, and confusing at first. But you'll get the hang of it. I'll bet this whole thing turns out to be a blast."

  A youngster, Nyvysk thought at once. Fire in the eyes. He thinks this is afield trip. "You're a psychic?" he asked but seriously doubted it.

  "No, sir. I'm just the security guy. I'll be staying at the house with you guys, just to check the grounds, the alarm, stuff like that. I work for Vivica. The psychic stuff-that's your turf." Short-haired, muscular, a fast bounce in his step. The FLORIDA STATE muscle shirt, knee-length shorts, and expensive sneakers with no socks made him look like a typical spring-breaker. "You've got your equipment outside, right?"

  "In the van, yes."

  "And there's another truck coming?"

  "Yes, hopefully within the hour. Bunks, partitions, supplies. I ordered it all with Mrs. Hildreth's permission, on her account."

  Mack nodded. "Yeah, Vivica said that you'd kind of been appointed as the boss of the operation."

  "Not the boss, the coordinator," Nyvysk corrected. He'd been on jaunts like this before, and without someone supervising domestically, bedlam soon ensued. Especially with this group, he realized. The craziest of the bunch, at least in this
country.

  The inside of the mansion stunned him more than the exorbitant exterior. Trimmings of a thousand-square-foot black-marble foyer made him feel as though he'd just stepped into a cross between a museum, art gallery, and antique exhibition. Handsewn Tablez throw rugs with Byzan- tinesque patterns lay arranged around the foyer's perimeter, while a dozen foot-tall granite statues stood in the center. Nyvysk-a historian-didn't recognize the brooding, longcoated figure. "Who's the sculpture? Klinnrath?"

  "Oh, I don't know," Mack answered. "I'm not into it."

  • "It's Edward Kelly," a voice informed him from the short banistered galleria overlooking them a story up. "Dr. John Dee's apprentice in alchemy and sorcerial science."

  "Willis," Nyvysk greeted when he raised his eyes. He knew the tactionist from a previous outing and some docu mentary shows. The man was as real as they came-too real, actually. Nyvysk was surprised Willis hadn't committed suicide by now. "How have you been?"

  "Lousy, until I got this invitation."

  "It should be an interesting junket, or we can at least hope so."

  Willis' appearance had worsened since their last meeting- a secret appreciation of Nyvysk's-handsome but haggard, older than his years, a man who'd seen too much from the inside out. Yet he smiled down genuinely in spite of the psychical corrosion that his talents had exacted on him. He pointed to the statue. "If you're interested, Hildreth's main library has some Dee translations-originalsand some letters from Kelly."

  "You're joking:'

  "Nope. There's nothing fake in this house," and then Willis glanced to Mack. "Right, Mack."

  The young security man frowned, which Nyvysk found interesting. The two couldn't possibly know each other.

  "Yeah, that's right," Mack snapped back.

  "We're down here," Willis redirected his attention to Nyvysk. "Come on in."

  Willis disappeared through an inlaid walnut door.

  "I don't know where you want all your gear set up, but let me know and I'll get it moved in," Mack offered.

  "Thank you. I'm too old to do much lugging." Nyvysk paused a moment. "You seem to be acquainted with Willis."