by Chris Rogers
Betty Boop tried to pry Patricia’s hand open, while the redhead gripped her other wrist.
“You don’t really want it across the back of your hand, do you, sweetie?” Betty Boop screeched in the reedy falsetto. “It would hurt more, much much more.” Her strong fingers ground Patricia’s knuckles together until the fingers curled back in pain. Then the egg turner slapped down, stinging.
Tears sprang to Patricia’s eyes. She blinked them away. She must keep her wits about her, figure out what was happening, how to get out of here.
“You’ve been a very naughty girl today, haven’t you, Trisha?” Raggedy Ann crooned.
Patricia clamped her lips together. The blonde tightened her grip on Patricia’s wrist. The egg turner swooped down again.
“Damn you!” Her palm was on fire.
“Have you been a naughty girl today, Trisha?”
“No!”
The egg turner smacked her palm, sending slivers of pain into her arm. Despite her resolve, tears slid from her eyes.
“Stop this!” she demanded. “This is crazy!”
“You shouldn’t lie to us, sweetie,” Betty Boop screeched. “Patricia was naughty today, weren’t you? Naughty, naughty.”
“NO!” She flinched even before the metal stung her skin. “Goddamn you! Stop this!”
“Then tell us the truth, dear,” Raggedy Ann whispered softly, sincerely, in her syrupy voice. “You were naughty today.”
“N—all right, all right, YES!”
But the egg turner slapped down harder than ever. She screamed a string of curses, tears streaming down her face, calling them every filthy name she could think of.
“My goodness, would you listen to that mouth.” The blonde shook her head. “My mother would wash out my mouth with soap if I talked like that. And Mommy always knew best. Always.” Reaching into a deep pocket in her print dress, she extracted a small vegetable brush.
“I’ll find some soap,” the redhead said, and crossed the tiny room to disappear through a door.
Patricia twisted out of the blonde’s grip and sprang for the door they had entered. Yanked it open. Dashed through. This room was dark, except for a red EXIT sign at the far end. Footsteps pounded after her, but she didn’t look back. Heedless of the cardboard boxes and steel drums that crowded her passage, she ran full out toward the sign … and made it.
She prayed the door would not be locked.
Her hands, slick with sweat, slid uselessly around the doorknob. It refused to turn. Panting, hearing the footsteps clamoring closer, Patricia stopped fumbling and breathed deeply to calm her panic. She wiped her hands down the sides of her dress. Lifting the hem of her skirt, she wiped the doorknob. The footsteps were close behind her, and she had no idea what to do when she got outside, except run.
But the knob had to turn. It had to.
Wrapping it with her skirt, she turned the knob easily. But when she pushed, the door refused to open.
She shoved harder. Just as she felt hands grab her sleeve, the door gave. She pushed on through, slamming the door shut behind her. Maybe she could block it with—
“Sur-prise!”
A flashlight blinded her and Raggedy Ann’s horrible painted smile pushed close. Beyond it loomed another mask, this one framed with black hair, blunt-cut and tangled.
“NO!” Patricia lunged past them, but one grabbed her collar, the other her arms, pinning them helplessly behind her again.
“Don’t run, Trisha. Only bad little girls run away before the party’s over.”
Patricia fought, twisting, kicking, to free herself, screaming desperately into the night. But she knew with a chilling certainty there was no one to hear her screams. She was alone with these crazies, and she didn’t believe they had gone to so much trouble just to poke fun at her and slap her hands.
They dragged her back inside the building. A silken cloth—a scarf?—encircled her neck, choking off her screams.
“No one can hear you, dear,” Raggedy Ann crooned. “But that screeching gives me a headache.” She tightened the scarf with a vicious twist.
Patricia choked and coughed.
“You see, dear, there’s no one around for miles. When that five o’clock whistle blows, the workers in the area clear out fast.” Tugging the scarf, the redhead forced her to walk. The brunette led the way, shining the flashlight ahead of them. “Anyway, this old plant hasn’t been used for years.”
Where were they taking her? This wasn’t the direction she had escaped from.
“The rendering company moved, but they can’t tear the building down because of the asbestos, so it sits here empty, except for the drums of old grease and fat and God knows what else they left behind. We found one whole storeroom full of bones, boiled clean, but smelly.”
Something squeaked and scurried amongst the litter. The flashlight swung in that direction, freezing tiny pairs of eyes in its beam. Their own footsteps halted, and the silence stretched.
“Just rats,” the brunette said finally. “For a moment I thought we might get a glimpse of something more interesting.”
They pushed forward.
“Don’t let her scare you, dear,” Raggedy Ann murmured. “Rumor has it that the company used to buy more than just bones and grease for rendering, that they actually slaughtered animals here. Workers claim the ghosts of dead horses haunt this building, but I don’t believe in ghosts. Do you believe in ghosts, Trisha?”
What nonsense. Of course, she didn’t believe in ghosts.
The redhead twisted the scarf. Patricia choked and stumbled.
“You must learn to answer quickly, dear.” She eased the pressure. “Don’t worry, though, we aren’t going to kill you. We only want you to sign some documents. Then you’ll be free.”
“What documents?” Patricia squeaked the words out. It had never occurred to her that these lunatics might intend to kill her. She didn’t want to die.
“Papers to put right the wrong you’ve done. You do believe in atoning for your sins, don’t you, dear?”
The syrupy voice, so self-assured and mocking, made Patricia want to slap the redhead until her ears rang. Impossible now, but if they just let her go for one moment—
“Trisha, you do believe in atonement, don’t you?”
“What sins?”
The scarf twisted tighter. Patricia gasped.
“The answer, Trisha, is YES or NO. Do you believe in atonement?”
“Yes, but—” The words were so distorted by her burning throat they were barely recognizable. Then the scarf loosened, and she sucked a raw breath.
“I knew your answer would be yes, dear.”
The brunette, juggling the flashlight, turned a key in a padlock and opened a heavy door. The room beyond was totally dark. The stench pouring through the opening made Patricia gag. Raggedy Ann pushed her forward.
“NO.” Patricia veered sideways, wedging herself in the doorway. “I won’t go in there.”
“You wont?” the redhead said, the word thick with sarcasm. “My friends and I think you will, Trisha. Between the three of us, we can easily force you to go in.” She twisted the scarf brutally. “Did little Paulie ever say no, Trisha? Did he ever beg you not to lock him in the dark for hours?”
Please Mommy don’t make me please Mommy please. Paulie’s whine grated in her memory. But kids had to learn their lessons.
“Maybe she’d rather sign the papers out here,” Betty Boop screeched, appearing out of nowhere. The flashlight illuminated her plastic face, carving her eyes into hollow sockets.
“Would you like that, Trisha, dear? Would you like to sign the papers out here?”
“Let me see them,” Patricia rasped, stalling. She had no intention of signing anything for these loons.
Raggedy Ann released the knot binding her hands, and the brunette shoved three pages at her, all very legal and important-looking. The first page was a letter to Steve’s parents.
YOU CAN KEEP PAULIE. NOW THAT I’VE WON THE BATTLE,
I’M LEAVING TOWN. YOU WON’T SEE OR HEAR FROM ME AGAIN. PATRICIA
The second was a letter to her lawyer.
FOR REASONS I’D RATHER NOT DISCLOSE, I MUST LEAVE TOWN IMMEDIATELY AND SHALL NOT RETURN. I HAVE ATTACHED A POWER OF ATTORNEY AUTHORIZING YOU TO SELL MY HOUSE, FURNISHINGS, AND CAR, AND ASSIGN THE PROCEEDS TO MY PERSONAL BANK ACCOUNT. PATRICIA CARRERA
The third page was a power of attorney, ready for Patricia’s signature.
Already notarized.
“I’m not signing any of these.” She thrust them away from her. The nerve of them, thinking they could force her to give up Paulie and leave town.
Betty Boop laughed. “Oh, yes you will, sweetie. You’ll sign them.” A loud, raucous cackle. “The only question is when? When?”
Before Patricia could brace herself again, the redhead shoved her into the darkness. Here the floors were wet and slick. Patricia fell against a wall slimy with dampness. The stink choked her. She retched as bile rose in her throat. Clutching her stomach, she vomited.
“Sonofabitch!” the brunette said in her deep whisper. “I think she got that mess on my shoes.”
Patricia’s hands were caught behind her and taped while she continued to retch helplessly.
“Here, snap this on,” the redhead said.
The scarf was whipped from around Patricia’s neck, and a wide strap that felt like leather took its place. Patricia heard the clink of chain as the strap tightened, snug but not choking.
And then she was alone in the room, dry heaving now, with nothing left in her stomach to throw up. She spit, trying to clear the foul taste from her mouth.
“You can’t leave me in here!”
She charged toward the open door but was stopped short. Her head yanked back brutally. The collar around her neck was chained to the wall.
“Whew!” Betty Boop stood in the doorway. “Sweetie, I don’t know what died in that room before we got here, but your tossing your cookies didn’t help. Didn’t help at all.”
“Let me out of here! You can’t chain me here like an animal!”
“All you have to do,” the brunette whispered, “is sign those papers, and we’ll have you on first-class passage to anywhere you want to go outside the state.”
“NO!” The word erupted like an explosion. They could not do this to her. She was not a child, “NO! NO! NO!”
“YES! YES! YES!” the echoing voices mocked her.
It was not the mockery, though, but the note of insanity in the voices that raised the hair on the back of Patricia’s neck.
“We’ll be back, dear,” Raggedy Ann crooned. “After you have ample time to consider our offer. While you’re thinking, Trisha, think about Paulie spending all those hours alone in the dark, locked in that horrible little cabinet.”
The door clicked shut. Patricia heard the rattle of the hasp, the snap of the padlock.
She trembled as their footsteps faded into the distance.
“Please Mommy please,” she said quietly.
Chapter Twenty-four
Wednesday, February 12
On the drive to the Richards, Blackmon & Drake office next morning, Sarina attempted to explain her reason for terrorizing her mother, but Dixie refused to listen. She wanted to hear the story for the first time with Belle in the room. Otherwise, she might strangle the kid. Maybe between Dixie and Belle, they could sort out truth from fiction.
“This better be important,” Belle said when they arrived. “There’s a judge who’ll want to gavel my head if I’m late. I have ten minutes.”
“It’s important.” Dixie dropped the valentine, red pen, and white paper bag on the desk pad, then slid a hip onto a corner of the mahogany desk. “Sit down,” she told Sarina. “And talk.”
The teenager perched on the edge of Belle’s white leather guest chair, looking as miserable as a wet cat.
“I can’t see why everyone’s making such a big deal out of this-”
“Out of what?” Belle said, but Dixie motioned her to let the kid talk.
“Okay, I’m right in the middle of a kick-ass project, a ten-minute Frankenstein spoof—I’m not expecting an Oscar for it, but, hey—nine zillion hours and we’re down to the last hundred frames before edit. Only Mother gets weirded by this anonymous fan and drags me to Houston.”
She sprang from the chair.
“‘I can’t leave’ I tell her. Does she listen? Does my mother ever listen? Her head is soundproof. To top it, I can’t even tell her why I can’t go. She goes bonkers when I mention a career in f/x. Arguing with her is like trying to blow out a lightbulb. So I’m stuck.”
Crossing her arms tight across her chest, Sarina strode behind the chair and paced.
“Make the best of it, I decide. I swing a meeting with Alroy Duncan, only to make it work I need my mother distracted. We’re at the airport, I see the valentines and remember she gets distracted every time one of those cards shows up.”
She turned to Belle and dramatically threw her arms wide.
“Only the whole thing backfired. You hired Sherlock here, and now you’re going to tell Mother what a jerk I am. When Dad hears about it, even he won’t back me up on taking an apprenticeship.”
During Sarina’s explanation, Belle had dropped quietly into her chair. “You mean this whole stalker thing was a … a … hoax, so you could sneak around town—”
“I wasn’t sneaking around, I was—”
“Sit down,” Dixie said. “And go back to the beginning. Tell us about the cards you sent while you and Joanna were still in L.A.”
“What cards?”
“The cards that frightened your mother enough to stop dating,” Belle said. “Frightened her enough to want you watched every minute you weren’t in school.”
“I don’t know any more about that than you do.”
“You didn’t send them?” Dixie persisted.
“No. I … NO! I’m not the creep who’s coming on to her. I just picked up on his idea and used it.”
Belle glanced at her watch and punched a button on the desk phone.
“Ms. Grimm, page Blackmon at the courthouse, will you? Tell him to take over. I’ll be there as soon as I get free.” She looked at Sarina. “Stalking is a felony offense, which means you could have more crap coming down on your head than either of your parents can shovel off. If you’re telling the truth about not sending the cards in LA, then maybe I can keep this from turning into a worse mess than it already is. Sarina, give me a reason to believe you.”
Head down, the girl tapped rapidly at the sides of her jeans, thinking about it.
“I can’t prove I didn’t send the other cards. But I didn’t.”
Belle heaved an exasperated sigh and buzzed the receptionist again.
“Ms. Grimm, would you bring two cups of coffee and—” She looked the question at Sarina. “Juice? Coffee?”
“Just water.”
Belle relayed the order, then released the intercom.
“Sarina, you know where our law library is located.” She pointed to a door. “I’d like you to sit in there for a few minutes while Dixie and I talk.”
The girl slouched out of the office.
“I hope there’s no back door to that room,” Dixie said.
“There is, but I keep it locked.” When the receptionist arrived with the drinks, Belle sent her into the library with Sarina’s water, then opened a drawer and extracted a packet of sweetener. “What made you suspicious of her?”
“Mostly a hunch.” And peanut butter.
“You think she’s telling the truth about not sending the LA cards?”
“I don’t know. I want to believe her. But she grew up in a world where the line between reality and make-believe is damned hard to see.”
“If she’s telling the truth, then we still have a stalker out there.”
“No reason to think the stalker’s in Houston.”
“And no guarantee he isn’t.”
Dixie wouldn’t argue, since the odds could go
either way. “What did you find out about Alan Kemp?”
Belle retrieved a fax from her in-box and read from it. “Alan and Joanna are distant blood cousins. Their great-great-grandmothers were sisters, and the family evidently stayed pretty tight. Most of them live right in East Texas. Alan and Joanna went to the same schools and both were active in drama. After college, they drifted apart. Kemp’s syndicated radio show has a substantial audience.”
“Were you able to find out how recently he left Brussels?”
“We’re still digging. I’ll have more information later today.”
Belle sipped her coffee, magically preserving her lipstick. Dixie was always amazed at women who could eat, drink, and smoke without so much as a smudge.
“So where do we go from here?” Dixie asked.
Belle looked thoughtful. Instead of answering, she said, “What did Sarina mean about an apprenticeship?”
Dixie explained their visit to Stoned Toad Productions. She tried to tell it objectively.
“You sound like you approve of what she did,” Belle said.
“Of course I don’t approve. But I’ll admit I admire the kid’s spunk. If she hadn’t pulled the valentine stunt, the deal with Alroy Duncan might’ve gone without a hitch.”
“But she did pull the valentine stunt, and she must have known how upset Joanna’s been these last two months. Somewhere deep inside, that girl wanted to hurt her mother.”
“Maybe Joanna should be spending her money on a shrink instead of a bodyguard.”
“Ouch! I’ll let you tell her that.” Belle set aside her coffee and rose decisively. “I want you to stay on the case, Flannigan. It can’t do any harm. We’re not a hundred percent certain the stalker’s not in Houston.”
Dixie couldn’t argue, since Belle’s philosophy mirrored her own.
“You’re calling the shots, Ric.” Only the job would feel a lot like training camp now, where there’s no real danger, but you act as if there were.
“Speaking of caution, get the battery checked in that mobile phone and keep the damn thing with you. I want to be able to locate Sarina in a heartbeat—at all times.”
“Done.” Dixie showed her the phone attached to her belt. With Belle Richards, you could screw up once and get off with a warning. If you screwed up twice, you might as well fold your tent and move to South America.