Bed of Nails

by Michael Slade

  Wes stared at his watch. “My time’s up, folks,” he said. “I see that many of you have Halo of Flies in your hands, so what I’m going to do is leave this hothead to rant, and if you want your books signed or have a question arising out of my advice, come on out and join me in the hall. If you don’t have the novel and you want to invest in my stock, Halo of Flies is on sale in the dealers’ room.”

  A mass exodus followed Wes out of the room.

  Bret looked apoplectic.

  “A blood feud,” Ralph said.

  “A blood feud,” Zinc agreed.

  ELDER GODS

  After round two of the punch-up between Lister and Grimmer, Zinc and Ralph separated. The Seattle detective left the hotel to attend the autopsy on both parts of the Texas businessman, which he hoped would provide Homicide with helpful forensic clues. In addition to the Canadian suspects Zinc had identified, there were—to guard against tunnel vision, the curse of several well-known botched cases—other avenues to pursue. Numerous ghost tours had driven past Ted Bundy’s house, and the WHC pamphlet with the X–Y coordinates for Maltby Cemetery had been openly distributed in print and on the Internet to draw attendees to the horror convention. As for the Tarot motive, not only was Deadman’s Island, Alex’s book on the Ripper case, still in print, but detailed coverage of the North Vancouver Hanged Man killing a year and a half ago was also out there in cyberspace. Consequently, there was no need for the Seattle Tarot killer or killers to be conventioneers at this hotel. In fact, if the matching nails recovered from both victims’ skulls was one of those quirky Lincoln/Kennedy coincidences that defy all odds, it could be that the two Hanged Man killings weren’t connected at all.

  And then there were the murders of the three young men who were hacked apart on the Thirteen Steps to Hell. True, they probably interrupted the Hanged Man killers at work and had to be snuffed because they could identify them from the horror convention. But what if four young men had set out to commit the Hanged Man crime—spiking the head outside Ted Bundy’s house because of the ghost tour and hanging the body in the cemetery because of the WHC pamphlet found in their car—and then one of the four had freaked out on drugs and butchered the other three? A bag of powerful pot was found on the remains of Charles Yu, who had a past conviction for possession of LSD.

  So while Ralph departed for the autopsy and to put a task force together, soon to return with a squad to interview those at the hotel, the Mountie remained at the horror convention to investigate the Canadian connection. To that end, but also for personal reasons, Zinc returned to the registration table to speak to Yvette. The new man on duty informed the inspector that her shift was over and she had gone for a swim in the pool, so Zinc booked a room for the night, went up to change into trunks he purchased in a hotel shop, and rode the elevator down to the central aquatic court.

  The pool and its satellite hot tubs were encircled by a green belt of potted vegetation. A path of Astroturf wound through the artificial jungle from the elevator to the steamy oasis in the middle of the quadrangle. Zinc was close to emerging from the faux foliage when an Amazon stepped onto the path. Decked out in a wet bikini that barely kept her in, her body glistening with moisture from a dip in the pool, her upper arms tattooed with enigmatic designs, it was the Tarot’s goth queen who blocked his way.

  “Stripped for action, Inspector?”

  “Hello, Ms. Zydecker.”

  “Petra, please. May I call you Zinc?”

  “Inspector is better.”

  “As you wish. What brings you to the garden of Eden?”

  “Surely your cards know the answer?”

  When Zinc’s eyes flicked past her shoulder, Petra craned to follow his momentary glance.

  “Adam and Yvette in Eden? The missionary position? Take my advice: don’t eat the apples,” she teased.

  The goth queen’s breast brushed Zinc’s arm as they crossed paths.

  “Hisssss!” Petra sibilated, flicking her tongue like a sexy serpent before she walked away.

  With so much going on at the convention, few swimmers splashed in the pool. Sunlight slanting in through the skylight gave the man-made lagoon a tacky tropical glaze. Only one of the hot tubs was in use. Yvette sat soaking in a roiling boil of bubbles.

  “What’s cooking?” Zinc asked.

  “Me,” Yvette replied.

  “May I join you?”

  “Petra went thataway.”

  “I know. She brushed by me.”

  “How exciting.”

  “Not really.”

  Yvette beckoned. “Join the stew.”

  Zinc stepped into the hot tub and slowly submerged up to his chin. The fizzing water spat in his eyes. Yvette was sweating, and her hair was plastered to her brow. He imagined that’s what she would look like after making love.

  “Welcome to the cannibal pot.”

  “Please,” said Zinc. “I’ve heard enough about cannibals to last me the rest of my life.”

  “Bret and Wes?”

  “Uh-huh. I sat in on the rematch.”

  “I missed it. Had to work. Who won?” asked Yvette.

  “Wes, hands down. What gives with those two?”

  “Have you spent much time around writers?”

  “A past girlfriend wrote true crime.”

  “That’s not the same as fiction. With fiction, it’s you being judged for what goes on in your mind. You don’t have the defense of saying the subject let you down. Fiction writers are a fractious mix. There have been some great spats. Best-seller lists establish a hierarchy. The ones lower down resent those higher up. The ones higher up believe they’re smarter than those beneath them. Things get written. Things get said. That’s why the questionnaire we sent around to organize the panels at this con asks if there’s anyone you don’t want paired with you.”

  “Fragile egos.”

  “They’re writers, Inspector.”

  “Do you speak from experience?”

  “I’m a wannabe.”

  “A writer in training?”

  “On a long apprenticeship.”

  “How long?”

  “Do you really want to know?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ever since I can remember. I wrote a lot of juvenilia in my teens. Derivative stuff, copying favorite writers. Then I got serious and went to UBC. I have an undergrad degree in creative writing and fine arts. Like Clive Barker, I want to both write and illustrate my books. College taught me the basics of how to do it, then I set out to experience things for me to write about.”

  “Such as?”

  “I worked as a morgue assistant.”

  Zinc raised an eyebrow.

  “What? You think I’m a wimp? It worked for Patricia Cornwell. I learned about death and forensics.”

  “That’s commitment.”

  “Readers these days aren’t stupid. A book is a waste of time if you don’t come out the far end knowing more about the subject at hand than you did going in. Too many writers are lazy.”

  “And after that?”

  “I went to Cap College and qualified as a paralegal. With so many lawyers writing successful thrillers, I figured that was a must. As a fly on the wall of the legal profession, I took it all in. The cops. The killers. The victims. The witnesses. The scientists. The lawyers. The judges. They’re all in my notes, just waiting for the right plot to let them step onto the page.”

  “Do you have it?”

  “I think so.”

  “Give me a hint?”

  “Can you keep a secret?”

  “Try me.”

  “It’s about a brutal murder and a pair of lawyers-cum-writers who have a falling-out.”

  Running her fingers through her hair to slick it back from her face, Yvette rose out of the swirl. So suddenly did her near-naked figure appear in front of Zinc’s eyes that the Mountie caught his breath and sucked in a couple of bubbles. As she legged up out of the hot tub for a dip in the pool, Yvette’s bikini clung to her buttocks like a fresh
coat of paint.

  Her jackknife dive radiated a wake of concentric ripples. Close on her heels, Zinc plunged into the cool depths. The shock to his nerves was bracing. Surfacing, he found Yvette hanging on to the side of the pool.

  “Is that why you’re at the convention? To study Bret and Wes for a roman à clef?”

  “I didn’t know they were at odds until today. I heard about the tiff they had at the earlier panel shortly before you arrived at the registration table. That got me thinking about the possibilities, and the plot came out of that.”

  “So what brought you here?”

  “This is my group.”

  “The WHC?”

  “You sound surprised. Writing’s a lonely chore. You sit in a room and tell yourself a story, then you send it out into the ether and wonder if strangers will like it. The best way to tell is to go to a con. And this con is by far the most fun-loving lot.”

  “But you’re not published.”

  “Hey, I’m preparing. And I know a good party when I see one. This is my third World Horror Convention.”

  “Why horror?”

  “This group is the loosest. Anything goes: pranks, practical jokes, the Gross-out Contest.”

  “Gross-out Contest?”

  “The heart of this convention. Stick around—it takes place tonight. There’s an open mike, and you get four minutes to revolt everyone with your imagination.”

  “Sounds weird.”

  “It’s a hoot. And then there’s the tale of the wandering hat.”

  “What hat?”

  “I’m glad you asked. One of the con regulars had this old baseball cap. It was labeled for some defunct team from his distant past. He wore it as a lucky charm or something like that. Anyway, the hat went missing at a con a few years ago. Some months later, he received an anonymous photo in the mail. There was his hat on the head of a camel in front of the Egyptian pyramids. Time went by, and he got another photo. Now his hat was on the head of one of the hookers in the red-light district of Amsterdam. Photo after photo, he still gets them. His hat shows up in the most bizarre places.”

  “Who’s the culprit?”

  “No one knows. But it’s probably someone he’s rubbing shoulders with at this con.”

  Zinc grinned. “That’s a good prank.”

  They were interrupted by the sounds of a commotion approaching the pool. Two boys, nine or ten, came barreling in. The chubbier one leaped off the deck and clasped his knees to his chest, then—whoosh!—cannonballed into the deep end.

  “Time to get out,” Zinc said.

  “You first,” Yvette replied.

  His forty-year-old butt was less alluring than hers, but gentleman that he was, Zinc preceded Yvette out of the pool. Standing on the deck, he gallantly offered her a hand up, enjoying the sight as water cascaded off her emerging torso.

  “Is this where you met Petra?” Zinc asked.

  “Actually, we first met years ago at Bible camp. I doubt Petra remembers me, but I remember her. Even as a little girl, she was a hellion. I’m not surprised that Petra became a goth. She’s a regular in the goth contingent at horror cons.”

  “What do you think of her art?”

  “It captures attention. If my fine arts professors saw it, they’d need smelling salts.”

  “Have you read ‘Pickman’s Model’?”

  “Yikes! A cop acquainted with Lovecraft? I thought you Mounties were straight arrows.”

  “It’s a long story.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “Pickman is an artist whose work upsets viewers, right? The monsters in his paintings appear to incorporate the actual anatomy and physiology of our primal fears in such a way that they conjure up our survival instincts and hereditary memories of frights too fearful to face. Because it rings so true, one painting, Ghoul Feeding, gets him thrown out of art circles. In the end, we learn that Pickman has discovered a way to unlock the forbidden gate to the occult realm. The reason his paintings upset us profoundly is that his models are monsters drawn from real life.”

  “The elder gods,” said Yvette.

  “The ones that scare the hell into us.”

  “Petra’s not that good.”

  “Someone is. In the Morbid Maze of the gallery, an artwork titled Morlocks had that effect on me. The painting is signed ‘The Goth.’ Whoever he or she is, the Goth sees Pickman’s models.”

  “That’s a spooky picture.”

  “Who’s the Goth?” asked Zinc.

  “No one knows. Except Bret. He brought the painting. And set up its exhibit.”

  Goose bumps pimpled their skin from standing out in the open air, so they eased into the hot tub farthest away from the deep end, where the two young boys kept up their cannonball barrage.

  “How do you know Bret? Is he a regular at cons?”

  “As far as I know, this is his debut. Bret was no longer in practice when I was a paralegal. I met him at a Vancouver signing for his first two thrillers. When the guest of honor originally slated for this con suddenly died, I put Bret forward as his replacement. The final step in my apprenticeship as a writer was supposed to be my picking his brain at this convention. But then I heard about the Odyssey.”

  “What’s that?” Zinc asked, remembering that the Odyssey was the detonator that caused Bret to explode during his most recent bout with Wes.

  “Bret has put together a trek to the South Pacific for an in-depth writers’ workshop for lawyers on how to create a marketable thriller. A lot of lawyers, as you must know, burn out from stress.”

  “Bret included,” Zinc said.

  “Which got him writing. Bret disgraced himself in the eyes of the profession with his outburst in court, then went on to build a fresh career as a novelist. Stressed lawyers see thriller-writing as a ticket out of law. I suspect that Bret came up with the idea of the Odyssey as a means to redeem himself with his legal colleagues.”

  “Why the Odyssey?”

  “It ventures into the realm of the cannibals.”

  “You’ve lost me.”

  “The Odyssey is an allusion to Homer. The Iliad and The Odyssey? You with me that far?”

  “Yes, dumb cop that I am.”

  “Odysseus sails into danger from two tribes of cannibals: first, the Laistrygonians, these giant, ugly man-eaters who hurl rocks down at the Greek ships so they can devour castaways from the sinking wrecks; and next, the Sirens, seductive sea-nymphs who lure the Greeks ashore with their irresistible singing so they can feast off the men who fall prey to their charms.”

  “Okay,” said the Mountie.

  “Ulysses is the Latin name for Odysseus.”

  “Double okay.”

  “So imagine you’re a burnt-out lawyer who wants out of the law. The Odyssey offers you a chance to get away from it all: a trip to the idyllic South Seas, an opportunity to learn to write a thriller that could be your ticket to freedom. And also immersion in inspiring stuff to write about, for you’re at the heart of where Captain Cook encountered the cannibals with elder gods.”

  “Sounds expensive.”

  “It is. But I have a trust fund.”

  “You’re going? I thought you said it was for lawyers?”

  “The Odyssey isn’t exclusive. The remaining spaces are open to anyone.”

  “Did you know Wes Grimmer is going?”

  “I saw his name on the list.”

  “Wes just invited those at the con to join him on the South Seas trek. That’s sure to make for explosive fireworks with Bret.”

  “And inspire my plot.”

  “How do you view what’s going on between Bret and Wes?” Zinc asked.

  “There’s ten years between them. It’s an ego clash. Bret isn’t up to the challenge posed by Wes. He’s like an older chess player who’s afraid he’ll lose the game to a younger player. Instead of playing it out to the end he dreads, he upsets the chessboard in mid-game.”

  “Good analogy.”

  “Poor Bret. Here’s a crippled law
yer whose practice is usurped by an up-and-comer. To stay in the game, he assumes the role of mentor to the neophyte. Wes comes into his own as a lawyer by feeding off Bret’s clients. That doesn’t scare the mentor, because he has gone on to become a successful novelist. With two books under his belt, Bret writes a roman à clef about a horrific murder. The publication date coincides with his being the guest of honor at the World Horror Convention. But when he goes down to Seattle to have the spotlight focus on him, who muscles in from out of nowhere with a bigger book from a major publisher on the same horrific murder? His usurping student.”

  “Dog eat dog.”

  “Survival of the fittest.”

  “Too bad you missed the action. Both bouts.”

  “Unfortunately, we drew lots for who works when. And there was no warning that Bret and Wes would clash. I’ll get to watch them duke it out in the Cook Islands—the Odyssey flies to the South Seas this coming Tuesday—and meanwhile, I have you to fill me in on everything you saw and heard at the second bout.”

  The killers of the hanged men—the victim in North Vancouver and the victim in Seattle—stood at the window of the hotel room on the third floor and gazed down at those bubbling in the aquatic center of the quadrangle. One of them focused binoculars on the hot tub farthest away from the two boys splashing into the pool’s deep end.

  “What’s Chandler doing?”

  “Conversing with Yvette. Her lips aren’t moving. The Horseman’s doing the talking.”

  “You ready for tonight?”

  “Sure. The nails are extra long.”

  “If the Mountie knew what’s coming, he’d piss in the pool.”

  “First things first. We stick to the plan.”

  GROSS-OUT CONTEST

  Be it the chest-bursting horror in Alien, or the girl throwing up green bile in The Exorcist, or the movie mogul waking up to find himself in bed with the severed head of his prize thoroughbred in The Godfather, or the shower scene in Psycho that changed movies forever—if the image makes us recoil from shock, it goes into our long-term memory banks. That’s the gross-out factor.