by Edward Lee
Adam chuckled, and retrieved the plastic bag. He held it out. “Again, pardon my French, but this sure as hell isn’t some fella’s ball. Jesus, it’s as big as a fuckin’ mango. I told you, the rednecks come out here to poach fish from Lake Stephanie. It’s probably a carp belly or just a handful of fish guts. That crystal meth crap’ll make you think anything.” More chuckling, more shaking his head. “I’d like to meet the man with a pair of nuts this big.” He dropped the laden bag into the garbage.
Crude as he was, the explanation seemed reasonable.
“And the boat you found, back when you went for your little swim in the quicksand?”
Clare gave him the finger.
“It’s obviously been there a long time. Poachers don’t drive over here ’cos they know they can’t get past the main security gate—so they come over here on a motor boat but they’ll bring a smaller rowboat along with them, for the lake. They probably stashed it there under the brush so they don’t have to bother bringing it back and forth each time they come out.”
Again, another solid explanation. No mysteries after all.
“I’m off duty now so I’m gonna scoot,” Adam said. Then he smiled. “Unless you want me to stick around, help you dragnet the woods for monsters. You know, I’ll bet that monster’s still out there looking for his nut!”
Clare’s glare couldn’t have been harsher. “Hey, Adam? Do me a favor and get the fuck out of here.”
He paused at the door. “Come on, I said I was sorry about the quicksand. You’ll cool off, women always do.”
“Get out!”
He shuffled off, leaving Clare to stew. What a jerk.
It was nine-thirty now; her official shift still wouldn’t begin for another two and a half hours. She spent some time writing the entire incident up; Dellin would want a full report in the morning. Over the radio, she instructed Rick to resume normal rounds. As much as she now detested Adam Corey, he was correct about what had happened. Given the girl’s drug history? No, there’re no rapists in the woods.
At least Clare had been able to assess her own flaws as a result. Kari Ann Wells’ hysterical claim of being raped had instantly triggered Clare’s worst conceptions, having been raped herself not that long ago. Her outrage had been instantaneous; she hadn’t even paused to consider other more reasonable possibilities.
“Well, everything’s okay now,” she muttered to herself. She took some time to flip through the file cabinet in the corner, dig up some old operating logs. She wanted to get an idea how Grace Fletcher had run things, and after a half hour of perusing the log sheets, she was happy to see that her own protocols were similar. On one sheet, however, there was a yellow Post-It sticker, on which Grace had scribbled a note to herself:
ASK DELLIN IN A.M.: STEAM FROM B-WING VENT?
Steam? From B-Wing? Clare scanned the log sheet to more detail. Just below the Post-It was an entry.
0357 hrs: Returned from vehicular punch station rounds. No incidents, but I did notice what appeared to be steam venting from a roof duct on the B-Wing side of the clinic.
Hmm, Clare thought. B-Wing’s just a storage area. Why would steam be venting there?
It was a good question. But then another one popped up a few moments later; Clare noticed another Post-It on a more recent log sheet.
FIND OUT WHAT A “MAGNA-FERRIC CARBON ELEMENT” IS, DO WEB SEARCH ON HODDER-TECH INDUSTRIES.
Grace Fletcher was an inquisitive woman; she was asking herself questions about the site, via reminder notes. Clare searched the logsheet, and sure enough:
2315 hrs.: Opened main gate for delivery from H.R. Trucking, Florida commercial tag 041601. Signed for one large box marked “Magna-ferric-carbon element assembly,” Hodder-Tech Ind. Secured the delivery in the loading dock hold.
Clare had never heard of magna-ferric carbon element assembly, but her curiosity just kept ticking. Some sort of medical or diagnostic equipment? she guessed. It must be, but that and the report of steam from B-Wing?
Very interesting.
So interesting that she found herself leaving the building, walking around with her flashlight and inspecting the part of the structure that comprised B-Wing.
Her flashlight beam edged along the roof. A small metal out-flow vent poured forth steam to the extent that she was surprised she hadn’t noticed it before. The steady gaseous plume unwound up into tree tops and twilight.
Why is steam coming out of B-Wing? The building’s empty. Something’s running in there.
She was so curious she went right back inside and, moments later, was pressing her ear against the wing’s main security door.
But heard nothing.
Forget about it. It’s probably a dehumidifier or something…
Back at the office, though, she turned on the computer but was instantly disappointed to discover that there was no modem in it, no way to access a web server. No way to do an internet search and find out about this element gizmo. She supposed she could go into Dellin’s office, see if his computer had any online capabilities, but that didn’t seem justifiable. Forget it, she thought again.
Then the radio squawked. It was Rick.
“Hey, Clare, I just wanted to let you know, I’m opening the main gate for a delivery.”
“Okay,” Clare answered into the mike. On the surveillance screen, she could see Rick getting out of his security vehicle, approaching the fortress-like main gate. A large truck idled on the other side. “I’ll meet them at the loading dock. Who’s the delivery from?”
“Hodder-Tech Industries.”
— | — | —
Chapter Six
(I)
“I don’t like this place, Harley Mack,” Cinny complained. “It’s creepy.”
“Shut your hole. You want ’em to hear ya?”
Don’t you tell me to shut my hole! Cinny Bock thought. Of course she would never actually say that; she didn’t have the guts. Harley Mack had a bad enough disposition, and it was only that much worse when he hadn’t gotten high for a couple of days. Cinny knew that if she sassed him he’d just punch her up again.
But it was no exaggeration. This end of the park was creepy.
“Where’s the bottle? Jesus Christ, Cin, if you chugged that whole bottle, you’ll be seein’ stars for a week.”
Cinny didn’t doubt it; frowning, she passed him the Wild Turkey. When they were stringing out, it took the edge off a little. Problem was Cinny never held her liquor very well. She was getting fidgety, woozy; her vision was getting fuzzy. Oh, well. At least I have a buzz. It was better than nothing, she supposed, and if Harley Mack starting smacking on her later, she wouldn’t have to feel it all.
Cinny Bock was thirty but the cruel Florida sun and half a lifetime of “tweaking” had worn her out to at least a look of forty-five. The reed-thin physique and hair the color of a sink full of dishwater didn’t help. If it were any consolation, permanent tan lines seemed to make the pancake-flat breasts look not quite that flat, and she’d never had any kids so her stomach was still pretty tight. And Harley Mack was essentially on his way to becoming a male version of the same social species. Together, they were pretty much the status quo of their heritage, two peas in an interminable pod, and what they were doing here was merely fulfilling a post-Darwinian providence. Their existence essentially revolved around two things: robbery and drugs—plus a third thing in between: sex. Harley Mack had already done two stints for burglary and he definitely didn’t want to get a third strike. That’s why he’d been staking out the clinic out, to get a close look at the place before he knocked it over. Harley Mack was no dumb redneck. He was going to do this job right.
This, in fact, was the third time he’d come out to the park at night. From what he could tell, the guards were only on duty during the week, no security coverage on the weekends, and this meant that the clinic must have a pretty good alarm system. Harley Mack was a damn good lock-pick but with doors that were wired? He could forget it. But he’d already decided he wa
sn’t going to go through any doors.
He was going to go up—through the floor.
And he knew there was a whole bunch of dope inside, waiting for him to snatch. The money he got for a haul like that would keep him and Cinny in ice for a long time. “Looks like that damn park ranger’s not coming back,” he said. They were hiding behind a hillock of shoal grass, looking at the clinic. Now two security guards seemed to be signing in a shipment of some sort; lights blazed down over the loading dock, and a long box was being wheeled off of a rumbling delivery truck.
“Hope I don’t have to take care of those guards.”
Cinny immediately complained: “You said you weren’t doing the actual job till this weekend ’cos the guards aren’t on duty then!”
“Shut your hole. I said I think the guards aren’t on duty then, can’t be sure.”
“Harley Mack! You promised you weren’t gonna hurt no one!”
Harley Mack sputtered, gave the bottle back to her. They’d only been out here an hour and she was already being a pain in the ass. “Just have another slug and pipe down. I ain’t gonna hurt no one.”
“You promise?”
“I promise, baby.”
No, I won’t hurt no one, he amended, but I’ll sure as shit KILL them if I get seen. No witnesses this time. Can’t go back to the joint.
No, the state pen was no fun, and with his slim, wiry frame and long hair, he drove most of those long-timers nuts. Harley Mack doubted that anyone had even called him by his real name during the entirety of his last stint; he was “Baby,” he was “Honey,” he was “White Bitch.” Harley Mack was about as tough a street redneck as you’d find, but in the pen? He found out fast—like in one day—that he didn’t know what tough was. First time a con had patted his crotch, Harley Mack fought, all right—and was promptly beaten to within an inch of his life and sodomized right there on the floor while the detention officers pretended not to see. It didn’t matter how tough you were on the outside. On the inside guys like Harley were property. His “Boy Cherry” had gone fast, and just as fast he’d become an integral part of a world that most people couldn’t really conceive of, a world where men were traded to other men for a mere pack or cigarettes, and where “tossing salad” had nothing to do with lettuce. In stir, Harley Mack had done things that he could never tell Cinny about. One night, just after he’d gotten out, she’d asked him: “Did they, you know, did they ever like, hold you down, and try to-to—”
“Oh, yeah, they tried,” Harley lied to her face, “but I just beat the shit out of all of ’em. I got to be the cellblock hero on account of I’d beat the shit out of any’a them fellas who tried any of that queer stuff.”
Cellblock hero, indeed. In truth, Harley Mack had been the Cellblock Bitch. But his little white lie had sufficiently allayed Cinny. He would always be a hero to her…even when he was smacking her in the face.
Now she was looking over the hillock herself. “That one guard there, Harley Mack—he looks pretty tough.”
Harley gaped. “Sheee-it, girl. That big pussy? I’ll have him hollerin’ for his mommy with one hand behind my back.” His squint narrowed; he noticed the other guard now, the woman. “Wouldn’t mind a roll in the hay with the chick, though. That little thing? Bet she squeaks when she’s gettin’ it.”
“You better not!” Cinny exclaimed, enraged. “You better not even be thinkin’ stuff like that!”
Cinny was easy to rile up, especially when she was drunk—and Harley Mack’s cruel streak never passed up an opportunity. “Yeah, I’ll pull her little security pants down and give her the ballin’ of her life. I’ll fuck her from one end of this park to the other, then I’ll flip her over and start again. Yes, sir, that blond bitch’ll be walkin’ like a cowboy for the rest of her life.”
This time Cinny hit him in the back so hard her hand hurt. “Oh, yeah, you big prick! Well, you go right ahead! Why don’t I just call her over here right now and—”
The rest of Cinny’s inebriated objections were reduced to a smothered mewling sound when her boyfriend grabbed her lips and pinched them shut. Her arms and legs flailed in the pain.
“I done told you, keep your voice down, ya drunk ninny! I was just jokin’ fer Christ’s sake.”
When he released her, she sidled back, hands to her mouth. “Damn you, Harley Mack,” she whispered through her fingers. “That hurt!”
“Was supposed ta. Done told ya to keep your hole shut. See what happens when you don’t do what I tell ya?”
She sure did. Damn him. Treat me like that. She sat behind him now, glaring as he continued to peer over the hillock at the clinic. I just won’t talk to him, see how he likes that, and later on when we’re in bed and he wants some lovin’, he ain’t gettin’ none. Yes, she’d show him, all right. Actually, by the time that instance occurred, Cinny would be totally passed out from the sheer volume of alcohol and would have no say in the matter whatsoever. When Harley Mack wanted “lovin’,” he took it; Cinny’s state of consciousness hardly mattered.
Something hopped beside her.
What’s that?
It hopped again, something about the size of a bar of soap.
Oh, look! A toad!
Cinny had always been an animal lover, and toads had always been her favorite. Most women dismissed them as bumpy, disgusting things but not Cinny. To her they were cute. She remembered back when she was little (back before her father had introduced her to the act of sexual intercourse at the age of thirteen, and before she’d started smoking crystal meth in her tenth-grade locker room), she’d kept pet toads in an aquarium with dirt on the bottom. She fed them worms and crickets and put in jar lids with water. She loved the way they chirped and looked at her with those big black marble-like eyes. They were adorable and fun and she loved them more than any other pets she’d ever had. One day her brothers had used them to play baseball with but that was another story.
Here, though, behind the hillock, the sight of the toad overjoyed her. She picked it right up. “Hi, there, Mr. Toad,” she whispered. “Harley Mack, look what I found. He’s cute, ain’t he?”
Harley Mack did not share her enthusiasm. “Ya got tits for brains? It’ll pee in your hand and give ya warts, ya dumb ass.”
Cinny just smirked. He was the dumb ass; everybody knew that toads didn’t really give you warts. It did, however, pee in her hand, quite liberally, but Cinny didn’t mind. It couldn’t help it, it was just a harmless little animal.
Then the harmless little animal bit her right on the thumb.
It all happened so fast. Harley Mack had silenced her shriek in a half second, pinching her lips together again. “What the hail is wrong with you!” came his own enraged whisper.
Mewling, Cinny tried to fling the toad away…but couldn’t. In the light filtering over from the loading dock, she could see the amphibian’s jaw closed over her thumb.
And she could even see two thin, half-inch-long fangs puncturing her skin.
The pain was intense enough to occlude her memory to the fact that toads didn’t have fangs. Harley Mack twisted the toad off and threw it away, then let go of his shuddering girlfriend’s lips.
“It bit me, it had fangs!” she whispered.
“A toad?” He was tempted to bust her one in the mouth right there. “Toads don’t bite people, you little jizz-head! And they don’t have fangs!”
“Yeah? Look!” She held up her bleeding thumb, the two puncture marks obvious.
“You just scraped it against some saw-grass, a-hole. And it’s a damn good thing that truck motor’s running, otherwise them security guards would’a heard you. I’m trying to stake this place out so’s we can make a good haul and you’re back there playin’ grab-ass with a toad. Now go back and wait in the boat.”
Wait in the boat? Like, alone? “Screw that. I ain’t walkin’ around this creepy place by myself. There might be more’a them fanged toads out there.”
Harley Mack just shook his head. “All right, then you keep qu
iet if you’re gonna stay. One more peep out’a you and I’ll crow bar your head.”
The whiskey toned the pain down some, but there were still tears in Cinny’s eyes when she looked at the wound. That toad had bitten her. It did have fangs. She could see the blood still dribbling from the pair of toothmarks. Now she was getting depressed. I wanna go back to the trailer… At least the trailer park was safe (save for the drive-bys and the bath-tub meth labs blowing up). There ain’t no toads with fangs! she rationalized. Yes, this part of the park was creepy, it simply wasn’t right. And as the alcohol dulled her senses further she became convinced that it was even more than that.
This damn park is evil…
She tugged on her man’s MOTORHEAD shirt and in the quietest voice possible, she pleaded, “Harley Mack, let’s just go. This place is scarin’ me. Forget about that stupid clinic.”
“We need the dope that’s in there—”
“I’ll-I’ll get a job. We can buy all the ice we want with my paycheck.”
“Don’t make me laugh. You ain’t kept a job more than a day in your whole life; ya can’t even add two and two. I’m bustin’ into this place and takin’ their stash.”
Cinny remembered the one-second glimpse of the toad: jaws clamped over her thumb, fangs digging in. The big black eyes were looking right at her, and she could swear she could feel its sticky tongue licking up her blood. She began to cry like a child. “Please, please, I wanna go home—”
Then:
Two spears of pain lanced into her lower leg; it felt like she was being knifed. In the split moment before she screamed, she looked down and saw that it wasn’t a toad this time, it was a long coiling snake, drilling her with its fangs.
“A snake’s bitin’ me—”
WHACK!