Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee

by Edward Lee

  And now this is all that's left of Gabrielle Cox akaJaneJohnson of Green Bay, Wisconsin, Westmore thought, still unable to take his eyes off the cover photo. Apiece of paper on a plastic box.

  Her body had been found in the Hildreth Mansion on the morning of Saturday, April 3rd. Hands and feet severed, evidence of vigorous sexual intercourse with multiple partners. Cause of death: "strike-trauma by six-inch-wide lower-abdominal impactation," the autopsy report coldly informed-an ax buried in her belly. "With possible perimortal transvaginal evisceration."

  Westmore closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

  The place was dark, smelled sweet with something-some fashion of air-freshener. Westmore had only been in this porn shop once-oblivious-in order to buy an appropriate gag gift for a friend's bachelor party. He was as familiar with pornographic videos as he was with Euclidean geometry. He'd read somewhere once that the porn business comprised a multibillion-dollar-per-year industry now And now, in the shop, he looked around at wall after wall of X-rated videos and DVDs. It's a world to itsef An under orld, he thought.

  A rough but feminine voice drifted across the shop. "We've got more of hers."

  Westmore saw the proprietor, from a high checkout area. "What's that?"

  "More films by Gabrielle. I can check on the computer to see which ones are in stock."

  Westmore walked over. A large-breasted woman with awful-looking dirty-blonde cornrows, weathered and chunky. Rode hard and put away wet, he deduced. "I'll take this one, and, yeah, could you check the computer for more films by T&T?"

  "Sure." She was smoking a black cigarette. Stapled to the wall behind her were scores of ad posters sporting more preposterously attractive woman in striking poses, either naked or barely clothed. A stark sign at the top of the wall read ASK ABOUT OUR LINGERIE MODELS! Westmore didn't get it.

  "Yeah, Gabrielle was cool. You want me to run just her films or-"

  "Anything by T&T," Westmore said. "You sound like you knew Gabrielle."

  "Not well. Every now and then she and the other T&T girls would come to the store to do autographs." She pointed behind her, to a poster bearing several signatures, four nude woman in a Charlie's Angels-type pose "Wild bunch but they were all cool. You may not know this but all their main stars were murdered early in the month."

  "Yeah, I ... heard about that. Some guy named Hildreth."

  "Um-ham."

  "But explain something to me." He was looking at the back of the first DVD. "T&T Enterprises is a Florida-based company, according to the papers. Why does this disc say Redondo Beach?"

  "That's where they were based before Hildreth bought them. Psycho billionaire. He bought the whole company because he saw one of their DVD's and liked their looks. Moved the company to his house, for God's sake. Before the buy, T&T released fifty movies a year, but since Hildreth bought them out, they only release a few." She paused. "Er-well, now they don't release any."

  "Why is that, though? It doesn't make sense for a rich guy to buy a successful porn company and then not capitalize on its value. When rich guys buy businesses, it's for a return on their investment."

  "It didn't matter that's how rich Hildreth was." She clicked down on the computer screen, the black cigarette hanging unbecomingly off her lips. "It was an impulsebuy-seriously-because he liked the look of the girls. He moved them all into the house to live for free, like the damn Playboy Mansion. Gabrielle said 'he was obsessed with beautiful women, they were his furniture."

  Furniture, Westmore thought, depressed by the notion. And then he put an ax to it all.

  He wound up taking four more DVD's, T&T's final releases, which all starred most of the victims from the murder. He pulled out his wallet. "How much are these each, by the way?"

  "$49.95."

  Westmore about had a cow. DAMN! The five discs wound up costing more than half of his rent. He looked at the last one she'd taken out. Another stunning woman-a redhead with a tongue stud-standing with nothing but whipped cream over nipples and pubis, while four muscular men grinned behind her. CREAMING ON JEANNIE, it was called. He recognized the cover-model's face from a police post-mortem photograph of her severed head sitting on an autopsy table.

  "Thanks. Come back again," the woman said. She'd put his purchase in a black plastic bag.

  Unlikely, Westmore thought.

  "Oh, and if you're interested," she added. She pointed back to that sign: ASK ABOUT OUR LINGERIE MODELS.

  Confusion. "What is that?" he asked.

  "Thirty bucks for a half hour, fifty for an hour ..." She stood on her tiptoes, leaning over the counter, looking out. On the side of the store was a black-curtained doorway. "Hey, Natalie?" Then, to Westmore, "She's probably in there crashed. We're both pretty hungover from last night."

  Westmore had no idea what was going on until the curtain parted and out stepped a Gothy young woman with black bowl-cut hair tinted by metallic pink and purple highlights. Dark eyes and eyeshadow, red lipstick. She was large-boned but not overweight, and when she came out and looked right at Westmore, she offered him a wolf-like smile. Fresh white skin radiated around lacy black lingerie.

  "What, I go in there and she poses or something?"

  The woman laughed. "Well, yeah, if that's all you want. But she's got a lot of repeat customers."

  A stiletto heel tapped when she parted one leg. A hand drifted up to a lace-cupped breast and unseated it, showing a pert nipple.

  The woman continued, "You tip for whatever extra you want. She's pretty reasonable. Handjob, blowjob, straight lay."

  Westmore looked back at the woman, astounded.

  "Or if I'm more your type," she finished.

  This place must get busted a lot, he thought. "How do you know I'm not a cop? Just because I bought some DVDs? I could be undercover. Are you nuts?"

  The woman laughed. "I know you're not a cop. I used to see you all the time, couple years back."

  Westmore was sure this couldn't be true. "Where did you see me?"

  "Pretty much any bar around here." She smiled. "Any guy who parties that hard can't be a cop."

  Jesus. She remembers me from the bad old days. Probably saw me passed out in half the neighborhood bars ... He was standing in a porn parlor, being propositioned for prostitution, yet he was the one who felt morally bankrupt. "Well, I'll pass on the offer." He held up the bag of DVDs. "But thanks for your help."

  He turned to leave. He took a last look at the model in the curtain and smiled, embarrassed. She nodded, put her breast back in the bra. Then his eyes shifted in a vertigo. He stopped, focused. He knew it was just a trick of dim light but when she smiled, her face seemed to broaden and form grooves. Her mouth looked full of fangs ...

  I new should have taken that LSD in college. He rushed toward the entrance door, gratefully winced at the explosion of sunlight when he finally got back outside.

  "You're the last person I'd peg as a porn-addict," someone said the second he stepped through the door. A black silhouette stood before him, forged by the glare of sun. Westmore shielded his eyes. It was Karen.

  He didn't like not being able to see her; it unnerved him. He walked to the side to get the sun out of his eyes. "How the hell did you know I was here?"

  "I'm psychic," she said baldly.

  A moment ticked by. "Come on! Are you serious?"

  "Well, no. I was a little early on my way to pick you up so I went over there." She gestured to the coffee shop across the street. "Saw you walk in." She chuckled. "You're really funny."

  He felt doubly embarrassed now. "I went in there to pick up some DVDs by Hildreth's company. Most of the girls in these are all victims of the murders. I don't know much about the adult video industry, kind of wanted to see what it's all about."

  "Hardcore sex is what it's all about. But you should've saved your money. There're DVDs all over the house-you can watch 'em till your socks blow off."

  Westmore felt perturbed by her tone. "You don't understand. I don't want to watch pornography; I'
m not interested in it, and I didn't buy these to blow my socks off. I wouldn't want you to think I'm some pervert who's obsessed with that kind of thing. I bought these DVDs just to have a better understanding of that whole scene."

  "Sure," she dismissed and turned. "Go get anything you want to bring. I'll wait for you in the car."

  Westmore ran across the street to his cottage, grabbed his travel bag and laptop, then jogged back. Only now did he take any detailed notice of Karen, a delayed reaction-perhaps from the jolt of being caught walking out of a porn store. Her sandy-blonde hair was tied back now; she wore a field-gray tube top and black-leather jeans which, if anything, were too tight and bordering on more trampish than enticing. Sunglasses somehow de-personified her, made her appear even more stolid. But Westmore dragged his eyes away from her tube-topped bosom and the ghosts of nipples shadowed by the tight fabric.

  He frowned when he noted the car she was getting into: a brand-new black Cadillac ETC convertible.

  "That's funny," he joked away his jealousy. "I have the exact same kind of car ... in the shop."

  They got in, chunked the doors shut. "Really, Mr. Westmore. One of the first things we learned about you was the fact that you lost your driver's license for driving intoxicated."

  "It was just a joke," he groaned. The car's passenger seat felt more comfortable than any chair he'd ever owned. "None of my business but-well, judging by these wheels, I guess Hildreth paid you pretty well."

  "You're right. It is none of your business, and, yes, he did." She pulled out of the lot; Westmore jerked in his seat when she accelerated through a yellow light and soared over the bridge. "Mrs. Hildreth will retain me-if I'm lucky. I know she's keeping me on for a little while, at least."

  "You're an accountant," he said. His hair was blowing around in the wind. "You'd be able to find work anywhere."

  "I'm not an accountant, I'm a washed-up porn star," she clarified, looking ahead. She drove fast but not cockily. "I only learned how to do T&T's books by looking at them enough times. Years of doing fuck-flicks doesn't look great on a resume."

  "I'm sure you'll do fine," he said for lack of anything else.

  "Oh, and I'm sorry about last night," she added, and changed lanes around a slow truck.

  "Sorry about what?"

  "About coming on to you. You must think I'm a total tramp. I can tell you're pretty business-oriented, no nonsense. It must've made you very uncomfortable."

  "My fragile psyche's not injured," he said. "It made me uncomfortable and it made my day."

  She didn't laugh. "I was drunk and depressed. I always drink too much when I'm depressed."

  Westmore found her sudden openness inspiring. "We all get drunk on occasion-take it from a guy who spent most of his adult life in the bag." He thought about it, then decided it couldn't hurt to ask. "What were you depressed about?"

  Her lips seemed pursed as she drove. "I can't say that I was really friends with any of the girls who got murdered. But a lot of them were nice, and now they're all dead."

  "What about Hildreth? Were you friends with him?"

  "Good question." She seemed the most unreadable now, the sunglasses camouflaging her thoughts. "Before he bought T&T, we did a lot of movies .and barely held our own against the competition. Nobody made much money. Next thing we know all that's changed, we're living here, the company's revitalized, new equipment, new studio, and all of a sudden we're making great money and living the high life. So when a person does that for you, you consider him a friend ... but.. . "

  "But something wasn't right," Westmore concluded.

  "Nothing was right, and we all chose to not face up to that. We weren't really even a movie company anymore; we'd do a few releases a year because it's what Hildreth wanted, and nobody asks questions when the bills are paid. They shot enough footage in that mansion to make a couple hundred flicks a year, but almost none of it was ever distributed because Hildreth didn't seem to care much about it. He didn't want a porn company as a business investment. He wanted us for something else and we never acknowledged that. We were too busy partying and not seeing the light. So, yeah, we all wanted to think of him as our best friend because he gave us a new life. Then we all found out the hard way that the new life was phony. He was just an eccentric psychopath with a ton of money who was using us for his madness." She paused, stared dead-ahead. "He seemed like the nicest guy in the world, but in truth he was the most evil man I've ever met. "

  Westmore was intrigued by the information. "He wanted you for something else? What?"

  "I'm not sure. Imagery, I think. He was always talking about imagery, the imagery of the flesh, the energy of lust-a stimulated environment. It sounds crazy, doesn't it?"

  "Sure, and he was crazy."

  "I don't know about that."

  "You just said he was evil, he was a psychopath."

  "Neither of those things has to mean he's crazy. He was ... something else. You'd have to have been there to get it. I guess Three-Balls and Jar got closer to that part of him-the men."

  "But they're all dead now. No one left to tell the tale."

  She didn't say anything, her sullenness casting a shadow over her.

  "The imagery of the flesh?" Westmore went on. "A stimulated environment? Sounds crazy to me. What's all that mean?"

  "Only Hildreth knew"

  "Yeah, but what do you think?"

  "All I can say is, wait till you get to the house. Wait till you've spent your first night in that place." Her voice roughened. "It'll start to seep into you."

  He didn't want to press her anymore; he'd burn her out. The subject by now had drained her, and probably just kept reminding her of what she walked into on April 3rd. Instead, he said, "I'm looking forward to it. You've got my curiosity stoked."

  More silence. Westmore let it go. Strip malls and traffic passed in a blur. He tried to relax, tried to clear his mind and closed his eyes to the sun.

  Miles later she laughed faintly and said, "Earlier you asked me if I was psychic."

  "Yeah?"

  She was pulling up now, onto a long wooded road. "I'm not, but the people you're about to meet are."

  II

  After her shower in one of the luxurious third floor suites, Cathleen walked the grounds. She'd always thought of herself as practical in such situations but now ... she felt uncomfortable. She didn't tell anybody-she'd feel weak and silly, and she mustn't present that appearance. But she could feel it; she could feel it on her skin:

  There's something about that house.

  Standing in the sun, she glanced back at the mansion. A car engine could be heard, then she saw a black convertible cruising up the road to the outer court before the front doors. For the hell of it, she quickly plucked some petals off a lone rhododendron and dropped them in the grass between her feet, keeping her eyes on the car. It was an ancient but simple augury dating back to the Aztecs. If two or more petal-stalks pointed away from her, that was considered a positive omen; if they pointed toward her: ill omen. She took her eyes off the car and looked down. Oh, great, she thought. The stalk of each petal pointed toward her. She squinted a last time at the car and thought she saw a blonde woman driving and a man with glasses in the passenger seat. I wonder who they are ...

  Cathleen was multifaceted; she was "into" many things. Personally, she considered herself a medium-since she'd long ago abandoned further pursuits in telekinesis--but she also possessed other sensitivities: crystology, divination, palmistry. At the height of passion-or lust-she could read thoughts. But she was mainly a medium-nothing very complicated. Sometimes things came to her. Sometimes they acted through her.

  She worshiped God and Buddha, Nergal and Ra, Mohammad and the Earth Mother ... because she knew they were all the same.

  Her only major problem was sin ... but that was another story.

  God, it's beautiful, she thought, traipsing past the grounds proper. The mansion behind her, she proceeded into the woods, barefoot, a pale-lime sundress hugging he
r body. The sun played in her blonde hair but its heat dropped drastically when she stepped past a bordering weeping willow that must've been a century old. She didn't notice a single palm tree up here on the hill, just hundred-foot pine trees and the sprawling willows whose branches hung draped with Spanish moss. Deeper in the verge of woods she found herself walking on beautiful beds of wildflowers-carpets of pyxies and pink and white malts of arbutus. Look at me, I'm the Nature Girl, I'm the happy sprite of the forest, she thought, and then she thought: Fuck! when her bare foot landed on a stem of sand spurs. She hopped away, feeling ridiculous, to lean against a tree and pick them out. God, those things hurt!

  Beyond, the forest seemed to grow more dense, kudzu and other vines stretching across trees like twisted cordons. The forest's aromas enticed her but at first she didn't see a point in going on-the vines too thick, the overgrowth too wild, but then she noticed a pass, and what seemed to be a gate.

  perhaps her inclinations had brought her here, for she wasn't just out for a walk.

  She was looking for something.

  This isit...

  The oblong shape of land looked carved into the forest's denseness: a graveyard. A spiked iron fence encrusted with rust formed the perimeter. Uneven ranks of stones pegged the rust-covered ground. Some stones dated back to the mid-1800s, while the markers in the rear appeared to be a haphazard cuttings of granite with hand-chiseled names that could no longer be read. Cathleen crunched back to the furthest corner, and noticed a date from the 1600s.

  This place went WAY back.

  She wondered what else did.

  Back toward the front she found what she'd come for.

  REGINALD HILDRETH read the new but simple black-granite. D: 4-3-2004. Cathleen wasn't puzzled by the exclusion of a date of birth. Hildreth liked to keep people uaon- dering, she suspected. A phony. It was the house that bothered her, not the man-at least at this point.

  I came herefor this, so let's do it, she told herself. She knelt six feet from the stone, set her bag down. From the mansion's pantry she'd brought some things, and she removed one now: an egg. Nothing special, just a Grade-A Large, no doubt from the nearest grocery store. With a sandstone spike--a relic given to her from an archaeologist-she gently tapped each end of the egg, breaking a hole. Then she tipped her head back, brought the egg to her lips, and blew. Its contents splattered upward in a plume, then the plume inconveniently landed in an angled line to her right.