Erin Monroe sighed. Through the flash-induced blurriness, he could see the nicely dressed woman roll her eyes. Her raven-black hair draped her shoulders, curving around her head and laying on her chest just above two large breasts that pushed the shirt between her coat’s lapels to its capacity. Sleek mounds jutted up above the seam line, glossy under the sunlight.
He didn’t care how attractive she was, it didn’t give her the right to be somewhere she didn’t belong.
“I work for Repose Publications. We publish the Fable Wisconsin book series. Surely you’ve heard of us?”
The name didn’t sound familiar and he was certain his facial expression told her so.
“You’ve never been to the website?” asked her partner, a middle-aged man, who was a foot shorter than Erin, with a beak of a nose and a moustache hanging from underneath like a dead caterpillar. He wore a fluffed-out coat with the sleeves zipped off to make a vest over a flannel shirt.
“Should I have?” said Randy.
The man turned to Erin, shaking his head as if Randy had just accidentally soiled himself. “I bet he’s never read any of our books, either.”
“Obviously not,” said Erin. “Look where he’s living.” She looked at Randy, smirking. “I bet you’ve never heard of Mystic Lane, have you?”
Randy had, but he wouldn’t admit it. Saying nothing, he lowered the ax to the ground. He put his hand on the end of the handle as if it were a cane.
“Sure you have,” she said. “Then you realize you’re the proud owner of the scariest place in all of Wisconsin, and that says a lot.”
“I know about what happened in Doverton,” Randy said. “To be honest, it does concern me, but not much…” When he saw Erin fumble in the pocket of her jacket and brandish a voice recorder, he realized he’d taken the bait of giving her information she didn’t have. Randy switched directions. “The owner died three years ago?”
“Right, with a boatload of others in the fire. Mind if I ask what brings you out here?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing.”
“Fair enough.” She folded her arms over her breasts. “I’m a writer. I’ve written the three Fable books. Fable Wisconsin Stories, More Fable Wisconsin Stories, and Fable Wisconsin Three. We’re working on a fourth volume, so naturally my editor sent me to Doverton to check up on things and to investigate the recent disappearances.”
“Recent?”
The corner of her mouth arched higher, turning the smirk into a wicked grin. “Not very recent—back in June. Two sisters. Taken from their home. What was left of the boyfriend of the oldest girl was found in the living room. Nasty business.”
“You don’t sound too disturbed by it.”
Her smirk twisted into a scowl. “Up yours, pal. It’s my job not to be affected.”
“I’ll bet,” said Randy.
“Anyway,” she said, “we were asking around Doverton about the girls when we found out somebody had bought the Carlson place. And we just had to come see for ourselves.”
“And document it for the book,” added Lawrence.
Erin snatched a quick glance of the house over her shoulder. When she turned around, her lower lip was puckered out and her eyebrows were raised. “Looks good so far. A bang-up job covering up things.”
“Thanks,” said Randy without merit.
He wanted to tell them to leave but didn’t know how.
Easy. Tell them to leave.
“Can I interview you for the book… I don’t even know your name.”
“Randy Bishop. And no.”
“Please.”
“No.”
“Can we at least get some pictures of the work you’ve done on the house.”
“I’m sure you already have.”
“Well, yeah, but will you sign a release so we can use them? I’ll pay you.”
“No.”
Erin harrumphed. Her lips curled as if she wanted to snarl. “You’re not making this easy for me.”
“I’m not trying to make it difficult for you, but we’re rebuilding this house for a reason. A good reason. We want to help people and absolutely do not want to be exploited in your book…”
“Whoa,” said Erin, holding her hand out. “Who said anything about exploiting? Our books are informative coffee-table guides. We are not gossip anthologies and Grandma Fritter’s folklore. We’re too respected for that nonsense. But it would be nice to let our dedicated readers know someone has purchased the house.”
“And in the process see if we have the same kind of trouble as the original owner?”
“I’m not going to lie to you,” she said, then shrugged. “Most likely it’ll be just like that family living in the Amityville house. Nothing’ll happen.”
“I’m glad we have your confidence, but no thanks. I’m not interested.”
“Well…” She put the voice recorder back in her pocket, not before Randy noticed her shutting it off.
She was recording all of this.
Randy wasn’t surprised.
This time, when her hand came back out, it had a business card pinched between two of her fingers. “Here’s my card.” She gave it to him. “My cell number is on there. We’re staying at a hotel in Cradle Elk. You know where that is?”
Randy nodded. “Passed it on the way in.”
“Good. You’re vaguely aware of the area. We’ll be there for a couple more days. Even though it’s a backwoods town, there’s still a lot of Doverton to cover. A lot of…history. Doverton was our main story in the first book and we always revisit the locations.”
“Hm.” Randy looked at the face of the card. It was rather ordinary—nothing at all like the person it represented—just a white background and boring black lettering.
“We’d like to see Mystic Lane again and, because it’s on the Carlson farm, which you now own, we’ll need your permission.”
Randy sighed. Before he could respond, Erin spoke again, “Maybe you could ride along? Take me out there?”
Randy’s head jerked up just as Erin’s buddy spun around to face her.
Both men said, “What?”
Laughing, Erin nodded. Her smile ruined any chance of her leaving a bad impression on Randy. It was much too wonderful, too sweet. Her eyes seemed to sparkle above the curve of perfectly straight teeth.
“Sounds tempting enough, but…” He remembered their phone wasn’t hooked up yet. “I have no way of reaching you. We don’t have a phone at the house and…”
“Your cell phone reception is shit, I know,” she said. “At the hotel I have four bars, but here I get nothing. Tell you what, we’ll make it the last leg of our tour. The snow might delay us a day or two, so that’ll give you some time to get settled in and think it over. We can stop by in a couple days, weather permitting, of course.”
“Well…”
He couldn’t just go off and leave the others to handle all the work while he went gallivanting with Erin Monroe. Even if it was only for a couple hours. Any chance of gaining the respect of his team would be spoiled.
Even with that in mind, he said, “Sounds like fun.”
Heather
“We should get some food,” said Ted. “We’re late for breakfast.”
“Not a bad idea,” agreed Shaun from the driver’s seat. “But where?” He pointed to the window beside Debbie, who was riding shotgun. Trees zoomed by in russet blurs. “As you can see, our choices are pretty limited.”
“I’m sure there’s somewhere close by,” said Steph. “We’re not in the middle of nowhere yet.”
“Might as well be,” said Debbie.
Ted held up a finger, as if quoting a source. “Every town has at least three places to eat. It’s a fact.”
Debbie turned around and shot him a smirk.
Laughing, Steph said, “Got a gun? Mayb
e we can bag a deer and have some venison.” She playfully swatted at Ted’s shoulder.
Ted held out his hands, forming them into claws. “These are my weapons.”
“Oh?” said Steph.
Ted nodded. “Illegal in five states.”
Heather smiled as she watched them from the third row. It was cute banter and very obvious to her, probably the others as well, that Steph liked Ted. She’d made it a point to touch him on multiple occasions. Whether it was just a tap, a poke or a gentle squeeze, she hadn’t been able to keep her hands to herself with him.
Steph leaned over, probably to hide what she was going to say. Being in the very back, Heather could still hear. “How good are you with those hands?”
Ted turned to her, an eyebrow arched. “Only one way to find out.”
“I just might have to. For all I know, you could be making it up.”
Ted softly laughed. “We’ll see.”
Wow. Already practically making out in the seat. Once they have a bed, or anywhere private, they’ll be boning each other’s brains out.
Heather smirked, but another thought killed the humor. Would it become a problem if they screwed around? Ted was only going to be here for the first two weeks to help with the arduous workload, so it shouldn’t be that much of a big deal.
But if they started fighting?
Heather wasn’t going to worry about it now. She’d have to see how it played out. Maybe they’d fall in love and all would be fine.
Debbie reaching for the windshield brought Heather’s eyes to the front. She pulled the GPS down and started jabbing the screen with her finger. Soft beeps resonated from the device.
“What are you doing?” asked Shaun.
“Finding a place to eat,” answered Debbie without looking up.
“Hungry too?” he asked.
“Starved.” Debbie looked back at the passengers, the seat belt tugging against her shoulder. “Any preferences? I can search by what we want to eat.”
“Breakfast,” said Ted. “Fried eggs, bacon, sausage, some hash browns…”
Heather’s stomach grumbled its displeasure for not having the foods Ted mentioned. “Stop talking about it. My stomach’s going to kill you.”
Laughing, Ted held up his mock claws. “Does it want a taste of these?”
She thought about saying something to the effect of letting Steph have them, but she didn’t. “Put butter on them and it might.”
Ted pitched back his head and laughed. “Nice.”
“Anybody like grits?” asked Shaun.
“Grits?” said Steph. Her face scrunched up as if she’d smelled something foul. “What the hell is that?”
“Creamy goodness in a bowl,” he said.
Ted pointed his finger at the back of Shaun’s seat. “That’s like Malt-O-Meal, right?”
“Way better. I had some when I was visiting a friend in North Carolina. Her mom made some one morning and I have never tasted anything like it since. There’re some places in Wisconsin that have it, but it’s not the same.”
“A friend, huh?” said Debbie.
Shaun glanced at her. “Old friends. As in, used to be. In the past. No longer are we an item. That ship has sailed.”
“Yeah, I get it.” Shaking her head, Debbie lowered her gaze back to the GPS. “Ah, found something. A place called Golla’s.”
“If it’s open and has food, then it’s perfect,” said Ted.
Heather was apt to agree. She hadn’t realized how hungry she was until they’d started talking about it. “How far away is it?”
Leaning forward, Debbie popped the device back into its windshield-mounted clip. “Says we’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Great,” said Heather.
She checked her phone, frowning at the lack of cell phone service. How was the GPS able to acquire a satellite connection and she couldn’t even get one bar?
They arrived at the small, shoebox-shaped building constructed of white-painted cinder blocks in ten minutes, due to Shaun’s heavy foot. Dark blemishes peppered the paint like bullet holes. A banner hanging from the eave over the door announced the establishment’s name: Golla’s—Good Food and Cheap Gas for Your Car. The tag line brought a smile to Heather’s mouth.
Only a couple pickup trucks were parked in the dusty lot. Heather listened to the soft pops of tires rolling over dirt and rock as Shaun drove past the trucks to the end of the line. She noticed a rifle hanging on a rack at the rear window of the one Shaun parked beside.
Oh boy.
“Let’s eat,” said Ted, flinging the safety harness away. The door thumped open and he hopped out before the engine had stopped rumbling.
The door slammed in Heather’s face as she was about to squeeze her way out. She sighed.
Steph turned around. “I’ll let you out. Ted’s got bacon on the brain.”
Heather laughed. “Thanks.”
After Steph climbed out, she reached back in and pulled the seat release. The seatback shot up. Heather waddled forward. Steph held Heather’s hand to help her climb out.
Must be what it’s like to be pregnant. Someone has to help you do every-damn-thing.
The thought caused a tight squeeze in her chest. She wouldn’t have to worry about that happening to her. No babies for Heather. The doctor had told her with grim certainty she would never be a mother. All thanks to the…
“You okay?”
Heather blinked. Steph’s voice seemed to be coming through a funnel. “What?” She turned to Steph, who was looking at her with a mixture of confusion and concern.
“We lose you for a minute?”
Heather thought, You did, but said, “Sorry. I just sort of spaced out, didn’t I?”
“It happens to the best of us. I do the same thing all the ti—” Her eyes went glazy and blank. Her mouth slacked. Staring dumbly, her words seemed to have broken away like a chunk of sand being pulled into the ocean.
Heather felt awkward standing with the suddenly zombie-like Steph. “Um…”
Steph looked back at Heather; the impassive mask was gone. She smiled. “See what I mean?”
Heather laughed. She felt better and liked Steph a little more for taking Heather’s discomfiture and putting it all on her. It was a noble gesture that Heather found to be sweet.
“If you’re going to start making out,” Ted began, “get it over with. I want to see it, but it has to be quick so we can go eat.”
Steph rolled her eyes. “Man of my dreams.”
Smiling, Heather nodded. “I see why you love him so much.”
Steph made a face, then feigned gagging herself with a finger. “What’s wrong with me if I like him?”
Heather laughed and threw her arm around Steph’s shoulder. “It’s a good thing you’re going to be at the center, we can figure it all out together.”
On their way to the entrance, Heather began to smell fried pork. Her stomach trembled from growling so hard. She tried to recall ever smelling something so wonderful.
Shaun pulled the screen door as they reached him, using his back to hold it open. The tubular spring attached to a clasp in the paneling creaked as the coils were stretched. “After you, my dear,” he told Debbie.
“Thank—”
Ted cut in front of her, said, “Thank you, sweetie pie,” and vanished on the other side.
Debbie turned to Shaun, shaking her head like a parent watching her daft child try to stuff a triangle block into a square space.
Though Shaun looked peeved, he only shrugged.
Debbie entered, and Shaun stayed where he was until everyone had passed through. Heather heard the door groan before banging shut.
Heads at the counter turned to see who’d entered. After staring at them for several awkward seconds, one by one each customer went back to their plate
s of food and creamy-white mugs of coffee, disinterested. Sizzling sounds like a mob of hissing snakes filled the room. A heavy, hairy man who was not unlike a grizzly bear operated the grill behind the counter. He had a damp hairnet over the bushel of hair but nothing to protect the shrubbery on his face. His white apron hung in front of him, even filthier than his stained clothes.
Heather had to look away before it killed her appetite.
The interior was designed like a roadside diner from the ’50s. Heather supposed it actually was from that era and the décor had never updated. Booths lined the windows on the left. The cushions were worn and cracking, foam poking out each rent like strange growths.
The register was operated by a plump woman whose excessive weight strained the checkered fabric of her uniform. The doughy skin of her arms oozed out from her short sleeves. She was probably in her sixties but looked older from too much stress and exhaustion. Her hair was fluffed and dyed to hide its thinning. The gray of her scalp shone through the poof under the harsh fluorescent lights. “You can seat yourselves,” she said, then held out a pot of coffee and refilled the cup of a rotund man in a flannel coat and a trucker’s cap.
Ted turned around, walking backward. “Where should we sit? Might get cramped in the booths.”
Hearing him, their pudgy hostess pointed to the back wall. “There’s a table back there. Should be big enough.”
“Thank you,” said Debbie.
The woman waved her hand as if a bug was flying around her face. For all Heather knew, there might be. This place looked like the kind of establishment with roach motels stashed in every corner. The tile on the floor was cracked and the lines between each blocked piece were black. The walls had probably once been white but were now yellowish from years of cigarette smoke. As they headed to the back corner, Heather searched the walls for a framed sanitation grade but couldn’t find one.
I hope everybody has iron stomachs.
They reached a thin table that looked as if it might have come from an old basement. Chunks were missing from its surface with what looked like mold growing in one of the jagged crevices. Chairs surrounded the table, left pulled out by the previous occupants. The fabric cushions were old and flat, the vinyl skin dry and splitting. Heather chose the seat on the end, and sat down. The pad felt hard and uncomfortable under her rump, like sitting on wood. The chair’s feet screeched across the floor when Heather scooted up.
The Lurking Season Page 4