You Are What You Eat. Alex’s unwritten book.
Did this nightmare have a title?
Zinc searched for the card.
There it was.
Morlocks, he read.
And the artist?
The painting was signed “The Goth.”
The monsters of the Cthulhu Mythos were waiting for the Mountie when he emerged from the claustrophobic labyrinth of dark art on the far side of the maze. Wonders can be done these days with cold-cast porcelain and acrylic resin, as evidenced by the detailed models displayed on the tables in the sculptors’ area. The exhibit was laid out beneath a banner blaring “LOVECRAFT’S REALM.”
Wandering over, Zinc read the quote from horror writer H. P. Lovecraft on its poster:
All of my stories, unconnected as they may be, are based on the fundamental lore or legend that this world was inhabited at one time by another race who, in practicing black magic, lost their foothold and were expelled, yet live on outside ever ready to take possession of this earth again.
The models on the table brought Lovecraft’s realm to life, for each was rendered in exquisite detail. Zinc recognized the Nightgaunts—shocking black things with oily skin, horns and wings, and a suggestive blankness where their faces ought to be—posed so they clutched and flew and lashed their barbed tails. And Azathoth, the blind idiot god, that amorphous blight of confusion that bubbles and blasphemes at the core of infinity. And Yog-Sothoth, the all-in-one and one-in-all that isn’t yoked to laws of time and space, but instead dwells in the interstices between the planes of the universe, a wormhole that waits as a conglomeration of iridescent globes, shifting and hovering like flying saucers. In the center of the table—befitting his place in the Mythos—crouched Great Cthulhu in all his glory—the dominating claws on his hind and fore feet; the long devilish wings on back of his scaly, gelatinous green, bloated and corpulent torso; the squid-like head. The sculptor left no doubt about the subconscious inspiration for this grasping creature. With its mass of tangled tentacles writhing around a labial-lipped maw, the face of Great Cthulhu was a carnivorous cosmic cunt trying to suck every man born of woman back into its ravenous black hole.
“Don’t even think about it.”
The threat emanated from behind the Mountie’s shoulder.
“I’m buying that.”
Zinc turned to face the voice.
“Hello, Bret.”
“You slumming, Chandler? It seems they’ll allow anyone into this convention.”
The last time the inspector had seen the lawyer was during his final outburst in court. His wild, unruly hair prematurely white, his face ruddy from too much drinking after work, the fingers of the fist he shook at the judge nicotine orange from chainsmoking, Bret was screaming, “You fucking Nazi!” in the public gallery as sheriff’s deputies waded through his circle of die-hard disciples to snap handcuffs onto the firebrand and wrestle him off to jail. Now in his late forties, and having switched careers from law to thriller-writing, Bret Lister, despite the passage of time, had not lost his intense demeanor. Pugnaciously, his face challenged Zinc with its thrusting chin. His phrases were delivered at a staccato clip, and his long and lanky body was strung tight with ropy muscles. His torso-hugging T-shirt, tucked into blue jeans, bore a stenciling of Petra Zydecker’s The Antichrist. The same image was on the jacket of the book in Bret’s hand, and emblazoned across both Hanged Men were the words “Crown of Thorns.”
“I have an alibi,” Lister said.
“For what?”
“Friday night.”
“Do you need one?”
“That’s why you’re here.”
“Is it?” Zinc asked.
“I’m way ahead of you.”
“Are you?”
“Always. Here, as well as in court. I can read your mind.”
“Can you?”
“You’re Ted Bundy’s favorite cartoon.”
“How so?”
“Dudley Do-Right.”
“Never seen it.”
“It’s about a bumbling Mountie and his true love, Sweet Nell, who is forever being tied to the railroad tracks by the cartoon’s mustachioed villain, Snidely Whiplash. Ted Bundy could mimic the voices of all three characters.”
“Is that a fact?”
“Look it up.”
“Were you on the ghost tour?”
“I was. Along with a busload of other conventioneers.”
“Did you stop outside Ted Bundy’s house?”
“We did.”
“And heard about the severed heads on the mantel?”
“That’s bullshit, by the way.”
“How do you know?”
“I’ve read several books about the Bundy case.”
“An interest of yours?”
“Come on. I write psycho-thrillers. My plot ideas come by my delving into real-life murders.”
“So I hear.”
“Okay, I’ll read your mind. We both know I spent time in a psych ward. A year and a half ago, an exec from L.A. was found dead in North Vancouver. Hanging upside down like the Hanged Man. A ring of nails around his head like a crown of thorns. I just published a psycho-thriller—Crown of Thorns—about that case, and while I’m in Seattle as guest of honor at a horror con, a similar crime occurs. A severed head ringed with nails is staked outside Ted Bundy’s house after I am on a bus tour that drives by. The headless body—strung up like the Hanged Man—is found miles away in a long-forgotten graveyard, and directions on how to locate the Thirteen Steps are in the con’s program.”
“Well?”
“Coincidence.”
“That’s improbable.”
“Why? Because I wrote a book? So did your murdered girlfriend. Deadman’s Island. Which I read.”
“Did you meet the Ripper on Colony Farm?”
“I did.”
“And referred him to Wes Grimmer?”
“That fucking asshole.”
“Is that a yes?”
Lister nodded. “And look what that self-centered, grandstanding prick is out to do to me. It boils my blood to think I made that egotistical backstabber.”
“You were partners?”
“Not anymore. If you’re looking for a killer, take a look at him.”
“Why?”
“One, he’s the Ripper’s lawyer. Two, he also wrote a novel about the Hanged Man case. Three, he’s in Seattle at this convention too. And four, I have an alibi for Friday night.”
“Doing what?”
“Fucking.”
“From dusk till dawn?”
“Isn’t that how you do it?”
“What’s her name?”
“A gentleman doesn’t tell.”
“Then where’s the problem, Bret?”
The lawyer-turned-novelist held up his book and tapped it against his chest.
“Petra Zydecker?”
“Wow, what a detective! You’d think that answer was staring you in the face.”
“Backup proof?”
“Sorry, no voyeurs. But we did call room service twice.”
“To your room?”
“Hers.”
“Remember what times?”
“Two. Four. Around there. Check with the hotel. I’m a big tipper. The waiters will remember.”
“Where’s Petra now?”
“Out front. At the tarot table. She was just sitting down as I came in.”
With a Reuben sandwich in one hand and a Pepsi in the other, the Cthulhu Mythos sculptor returned to his monsters. A thin, sleek, reptilian man with the fragile fingers necessary to create such exquisite details, he wore black slacks and a blood-red shirt with a hand-painted illustration of the tentacle face.
“How much?” Bret asked, touching Cthulhu.
“A thousand bucks.”
“U.S.?”
“Is there any other currency?”
“I’m Canadian,” Bret said.
“Life sucks, my friend.”
“I’ll t
ake it.”
“Catch you later,” said Zinc.
“You wish, Dudley.”
And as the Mountie walked away, Bret called after him, “Want to bet Wes doesn’t have an alibi?”
“Want to know the future?”
“I’m afraid of what you’ll see.”
“The Magick is in the cards. The Tarot doesn’t lie.”
“If your cards are an indication, the future’s a bloody mess.”
“So’s the past. And the present. What’s your point?”
“The refuge of an optimist is to remain willfully blind.”
“Are you an optimist?”
“No.”
“Then pick a card.”
“Will this do?” Zinc asked, flashing his badge.
The goth queen was seated on her throne at the gateway to the Morbid Maze. Earlier, while Zinc’s attention was focused on The Antichrist, her image for the Hanged Man card in her personal tarot deck, she had slipped away into the labyrinth of paintings behind this display, and the Mountie had followed her through the maze without catching up. Only now did he grasp why Yvette had said, “I wondered how long it would take you to notice Petra.” Having gathered up the tarot cards from the stool in front of her throne, the goth queen shuffled them from hand to hand as Zinc got an eyeful of what it would be like to live life beyond the pale.
“Vamp” was the catchword for this creature. Vamp as in vampire, and seductress. Her eyes smoldered in a pale-skinned face that could use the blush of a blood transfusion. Her black hair was parted down the middle and curved around her cheekbones like pincer claws. A black bustier laced down the middle flaunted her cleavage in its scoop-necked top and the one-inch-wide bare strip that plunged to her navel. The black miniskirt clinging to her curvy hips was about as short as a skirt can get. Her ankle-high boots were those of a punk, and tattoos littered her arms. Her lips were black, her nails were black, and the only detail that seemed out of whack was the choker of dainty pearls around her neck—until the Mountie realized the “pearls” were a string of baby’s teeth.
Bret Lister, he thought, you’re one brave man.
“Am I under suspicion?”
“Should you be?”
Petra flicked a wayward hand toward The Antichrist.
“That’s a powerful image.”
“It’s my Hanged Man. It captures all the conventions necessary for that card.”
“Why so gruesome?”
“That’s fitting, don’t you think? The Hanged Man is card twelve in the Tarot. Death follows. As card thirteen.”
“When did you paint it?”
“A year or so ago.”
“Under what inspiration?”
“You ought to know, Inspector. You were the main investigator in the case.”
Petra crossed her legs and sat back on her throne. She was playing with him like a cat plays with a mouse.
“You’re being watched.”
“I am?” said Zinc.
The vamp peered over his shoulder.
Zinc turned, and there was Yvette, sitting at her table out in the hall, elbow on its surface and chin in the palm of her hand, gazing in through the doors of the gallery.
“She seems your type.”
“What’s that?”
“Missionary position.”
“That’s catty.”
“No, that’s a fact. Yvette and I met at Bible camp when we were little girls. I doubt she remembers, but I do. It seems Miss Yvette has a crush on you.”
“What about Bret Lister?”
“What about him?”
The vamp uncrossed her legs. Zinc concentrated on her words, not her body language.
“You know Bret?”
“Sure. He was my lawyer.”
“For what?”
“An obscenity beef.”
“A rare charge these days.”
“It was a private prosecution. Some religious kooks didn’t like my art.”
“Where was that?”
“Chilliwack.”
“Do you live in B.C.?”
“Up the Fraser Valley. In the Bible Belt.”
“What riled them?”
“I wasn’t the instigator. A local minister was.”
“Why?”
“He thought I was the Devil’s spawn.”
“Why?”
“The minister was my dad.”
A portrait of Petra’s psychology came into focus in the Mountie’s mind. Christian fundamentalists embrace an uncompromising doctrine of the perfect nuclear family in a caring, nonviolent society with a puritan’s repugnance of sex. Created in God’s image, the human body is a temple to Him that must not be defiled. The Gothic rebellion is the antithesis of that. Just as the Goths—barbarian invaders from Scandinavia and eastern Europe—sacked Christian Rome in AD 410 to usher in the Dark Ages, so current goths seek to undermine the stranglehold of enlightenment on the here and now.
In art, accessories, atmosphere, books, music, movies, and clothes, theirs is a realm of darkness where anything goes. Humankind needs fear and passion to feel alive, so goths turn anguish into delight. Their love of plunder, thirst for revenge, and lust for domination puts the scare of hell into the meek, who shan’t inherit the earth. Paranoia, goths believe, is the sane response to a chaotic world, where there is constant risk and nothing is protected. Decay is an obsession, graffiti an art. Immorality defies and subverts authority. To be trapped inside unchanging flesh is to live life in chains. Through piercings, tattoos, and scarification, goths set themselves free. Self-reinvention, that’s the key to the Gothic realm, and the way to post your declaration of independence is to flip your finger at God’s design for humankind. Provoke reactions. Express who you are. Stand on the giddy edge of eternal damnation and stare defiantly down into the fire and brimstone that dances and bubbles in the volcanic crater of hell.
Petra Zydecker.
The minister’s rebellious daughter.
Dressed in black, with pagan tattoos and a stud of a skull through her nose. Sitting wantonly on a throne carved with biblical horrors from the Old Testament. Backed by profane art that made her dad cry foul. A deck of hellish tarot cards in her hand.
“Did Bret win your case?”
“Easily.”
“When was that?”
“Just before his breakdown and stint in the asylum.”
“When’d you next see him?”
“Not until last year. By then he was writing novels and had retired from the law. For Crown of Thorns, he desired a striking cover. He’d seen my previous card for the Hanged Man, and he told me about the murder in North Vancouver. I designed this one”—another flick of the hand—“and it became the jacket on his new book.”
“Did you come to the convention with Bret?”
“No, we met on the tour.”
“The ghost tour?”
“Yes.”
“The one that passed Ted Bundy’s house?”
“Do you suspect me?”
“Not yet,” said Zinc.
“Ahhhhh …” Petra drew out the sound like a succubus stealing the breath of a sleeping man. “You want to know if I spent last night fucking Bret?”
“Did you?”
“Yes.”
“All night?”
“With breaks. Bret’s a driven man.”
“Can anyone corroborate?”
“Sure, room service. Ask the skinny kid to describe my tattoos. He stared long enough.”
“What room?”
“Mine. Main floor. 104. Off the pool.”
“You see the problem?”
“No.”
“The facts defy the odds. The North Vancouver death. Crown of Thorns. Your Hanged Man card. Ted Bundy’s house. Thirteen Steps to Hell. The horror convention. You and Bret.”
“So?”
“That’s beyond coincidence.”
“What you call coincidence, I call fate. Life is preordained. That’s the Tarot.” Petra set the deck face d
own on the stool and fanned the cards for Zinc. “When doubters question fate—coincidence, if you like—I ask them to consider this: Lincoln was elected president in 1860, Kennedy in 1960. Each was concerned about civil rights, and each had a child die while he was in the White House. Each was assassinated on a Friday, in the presence of his wife. Each was shot in the head, and from behind. Lincoln’s secretary, Kennedy by name, advised that the president not go to the theater. Kennedy’s secretary, Lincoln by name, advised that the president not land in Dallas. John Wilkes Booth was born in 1839, Lee Harvey Oswald in 1939. Booth gunned down Lincoln in a theater and ran to a warehouse. Oswald gunned down Kennedy from a warehouse and ran to a theater. Both men were killed before standing trial. The successors of both Lincoln and Kennedy were named Johnson. Andrew Johnson was born in 1808, Lyndon Johnson in 1908. Both were Democrats from the South who served in the Senate. The names Lincoln and Kennedy both contain seven letters. The names Andrew Johnson and Lyndon Johnson thirteen letters. The names John Wilkes Booth and Lee Harvey Oswald fifteen letters.
“Well?” asked Petra. “Fate? Coincidence?”
“Touché,” Zinc acknowledged.
The goth queen smirked.
“The locks on the corners of The Antichrist? What’s hidden under that painting?”
“Another card.”
“Which one?”
“For that, you’ll need a warrant. I’m giving the secret away at the end of the con.”
Bed of Nails Page 16