by Del Howison
Tim closed his eyes and lowered his face into his hands.
“Of course, the DNA they find will match yours. We’re identical twins, after all. Even our scratches match.”
Dennis rolled up his sleeve to show identical scars to those he’d given Tim.
The sirens screamed as two patrol cars pulled up in front of the house.
“Open up!”
“Not yet, brother.” Dennis kept Tim a prisoner in his seat.
After a moment, the police broke down the door and found Tim alone in his living room, staring with guilt into his hands.
FOOD OF THE GODS
SIMON R. GREEN
WE ARE WHAT we eat. No. Wait. That’s not quite right.
I wake up, and I don’t know where I am. Red room, red room, dark shadows all around and a single bare red bulb, swinging back and forth, coating the room with bloody light. I’m sitting on the floor with my back pressed against the wall, and I can’t seem to remember how I got here. And set on the floor before me, like a gift or an offering, on a plain white china plate, is a severed human head.
I’m sure I know the face, but I can’t put a name to it.
I can’t think clearly. Something’s wrong. Something has happened, something important, but I can’t think what. And the severed head stares at me accusingly, as though this is all my fault. I can’t seem to look away from the head, but there isn’t much else to look at. Bare walls, bare floorboards, a single closed door just to my left. And the blood-red light rising and falling as the bulb swings slowly back and forth. I don’t want to be here. This is a bad place. How did I end up in a place like this?
* * *
The name’s James Eddow. Reporter. Investigative reporter, for one of the dailies. Feeding the public appetite for all the things it’s not supposed to know. I went looking for a story—and I think I found one. Yes, I remember. There were rumors of a man who ate only the finest food, prepared in the finest ways. A man who wouldn’t lower himself to eat the kinds of things other people eat. The Epicure. He lived in the shadows, avoiding all publicity, but everyone who mattered had heard of him, and it was said … that if you could find him, and if you could convince him you were worthy, he would make you the greatest meal of your life. Food to die for.
It had been a long time since I’d handed in a really good story. My editor was getting impatient. I needed something new, something now, something really tasty. So I went looking for the Epicure.
I went walking through the night side of the city, buying drinks for familiar faces in bars and clubs and members-only establishments, talking casually with people in the know, dropping a little folding money here and there, and finally found myself a native guide. Mister Fetch. There’s always someone like him, in every scene. The facilitator, always happy to put like-minded souls together, at entirely reasonable rates. He can lay his hands on anything, or knows someone who can, and he knew the Epicure, oh yes, though he gave me the strangest look when I said I just had to meet him. Actually had the nerve to turn up his nose and tell me to run along home. That I didn’t know what I was getting into. But money talks, in a loud and persuasive voice, and Mister Fetch put aside his scruples, just for me.
* * *
Why can’t I move? I don’t feel drugged, or paralyzed. But I just sit here with my hands folded neatly in my lap while the face on the severed head stares sadly back at me. I know that face. I’m sure I do. Why am I not shocked, or horrified? Why can’t I look away? I know that face. The name’s on the tip of my tongue.
* * *
Mister Fetch took me to a faded hole-in-the-wall restaurant in the shabbier end of the city. No one looked at us as we marched through the dining area. The diners concentrated on their meals while the waiters stared into space. A door at the back led through into an entirely ordinary kitchen, and there, sitting at an empty table, was the Epicure. Not much to look at. Average size, average face. Fever-bright eyes. His presence seemed to fill the whole kitchen. He smiled at me and gestured for me to sit down opposite him. Mister Fetch couldn’t wait to get his money and depart at speed. He wouldn’t even look at the Epicure.
The great man looked me over, nodded slowly, and immediately identified me as a journalist. I just nodded. This wasn’t the kind of man you could lie to. He laughed, briefly, and then started talking before I’d even got my tape recorder set up. As though he’d been waiting for someone he could tell his story to. Someone who’d appreciate it.
“I can smell the hunger on you,” he said in his soft, rich voice.
“Tell me,” I said. “Tell me everything.”
“I eat only the finest food,” said the Epicure, “made from the finest ingredients. The food of the gods. I have a meal waiting, already prepared. Would you care to join me?”
“Of course,” I said. “I’d be honored.”
It was excellent. Delicious. Good beyond words. I asked him what was in it, and he smiled a slow, satisfied smile.
“The last journalist who came looking for me.”
I was too angry, too disappointed, to be shocked. I laughed right in his face.
“That’s it? That’s your great secret? You claim you’re a cannibal?”
“Oh no,” he said. “There’s far more to it than that.”
* * *
Still sitting in the red room. Still staring at the neatly severed head. There’s a sense of threat in the room now, a feeling of menace and imminent danger. I’ve got to get out of here before something bad happens. But still I don’t move, or rather, it’s more that somehow I don’t want to move. Something bad, something really bad, has already happened. Have I … done something bad?
* * *
Memories surge through me, jumbled, flaring up in bright splashes of good times and bad—a rushing kaleidoscope of my past, my life.
I remember being young, and small, and rolling down endless grassy slopes, with the smell of grass and earth and trees almost unbearably rich in my head. The sun was so bright, the air so warm on my bare arms and legs, comforting as my mother’s arms. I remember walking along a sandy beach with Emily’s arm thrust possessively through mine, both of us smiling and laughing and telling each other things we’d never told anyone before. To be young and in love, happiness building and building inside me till I thought I’d explode through sheer joy. And then …
I remembered Emily walking away from me, her shoulders hunched against the cold night air, and the pleas I was yelling after her. I’d tried to talk to her, but she wouldn’t listen, her reasons just excuses to justify a decision she’d already made. I remembered standing at my parents’ grave after the car accident, feeling a cold, empty numbness that was worse than tears.
And the worst memory of all: realizing long before my editor told me that I just wasn’t good enough to be the kind of reporter I wanted to be.
Memories, memories, good and bad and everything in between, things I hadn’t let myself think of in years, rushing by me faster and faster, sharp and vivid and yet somehow strangely distant.
* * *
The Epicure continued eating as he lectured me on traditional cannibal beliefs. How certain ancient peoples believed that eating a brave man’s heart would give you courage, or eating a big man’s muscles would make you strong. How recent medical science had both proved and extended these beliefs. Take a planarian worm and teach it to run a maze. Then chop up the worm and feed it to other planarian worms. And they will run the maze perfectly, even though they’ve never seen it before. Meat is memory. Eat a man’s mind, and you can gain access to all his most precious memories. For a while.
He laughed then, as the drug he’d put in my food finally took effect, and I lost consciousness.
* * *
I finally recognize the face on the severed head. Of course I know that face. It’s mine. Because I’m not who I think I am. I’m somebody else, remembering me. The Epicure doesn’t care about the meat; he eats minds so he can savour the memories. All my most precious moments, all my
triumphs and despairs, all the things that have made me who I am … reduced to a meal, to satisfying another man’s appetite. I want to cry about what I’ve lost, at what has been taken from me, but they aren’t my eyes. Already my memories are fading, my thoughts are fading, as he comes rising up inside me like a great shark in some bloody sea, eating up what’s left of me so he can be himself again.
There’s a rich, happy, satisfied smile on my lips.
You are who you eat. But not for long.
DO SUNFLOWERS HAVE A FRAGRANCE?
DEL JAMES
WHEN THE DOORBELL rang, Chloe’s pulse immediately accelerated into a higher gear. The thumping in her chest reverberated up to her ears. A light surge of sweat seeped out from her pores.
Her posture turning rigid, she sensed she might be overreacting, but after everything she’d been through, defensiveness shaped her outlook. It wasn’t who she wanted to be. In fact the exact opposite held true, but in order to regain control of her life she needed to make certain changes. For starters, she couldn’t be so anxious and jumpy every time someone knocked on the door.
Buzz. Buzz.
This wouldn’t be the first time Dieter showed up unannounced. No matter how many times she asked him not to “just stop by,” her requests fell upon deaf ears. Even after changing the locks, nothing she said or did mattered. Threats of a restraining order brought laughter. He laughed at her. Condescending, empowered laughter that bellowed with entitlement. Laughter worse than any of the cruel words he hurled at her.
Really now, what could she do to stop him from doing whatever the hell he damn well pleased?
Didn’t she understand that he loved her?
He loved her.
Dieter seemed hell-bent on making sure Chloe knew he was still in love with her. Over and over and over. So many times, in fact, that he often filled up the voice mail on her cell phone. Deleting them only freed up more space for his next tirade.
When Dieter wanted to induce sympathy by trying to make her feel guilty for no longer wanting him, he uttered in soft tones. Sometimes he used a jovial timbre, hoping to break her down with playful humor and not-so-subtle innuendo. If he got frustrated, he unleashed unmistakable harshness and then later called back to apologize for losing his cool. Chloe knew all these voices. She heard them in her sleep.
A voice from the past.
Dieter presented an explanation for everything, a visionary plan to make things better between them. Answers for their endless array of problems. He tried and tried and tried to scramble together oral pieces of an emotional puzzle in hopes that something came together. What he failed to acknowledge was that Chloe didn’t care to hear his perspective anymore. Rust corroded the solution like cancer upon her soul.
Looking out through a window with steel security bars protecting her from burglars, she saw thousands of tiny lights illuminating the city. Even more magnificent, the soft moonlight beaming down reminded her that a world of possibility existed beyond Dieter’s reach. Then something flew past the living room window. A crow, a bat, it didn’t matter. That movement snapped her out of the momentary trance.
Someone was at her door.
It could be anyone. Wasn’t very late, just after sundown. Maybe a friend dropped by? Maybe it was someone she actually wanted to see? She made friends easily and constantly received invitations to go out. Maybe the person ringing her bell could take her thoughts off Dieter? That would be a great way of spending the evening.
Chloe wasn’t much for makeup. She didn’t need it. Face angular, cheekbones pronounced, her alabaster tone was something other women strived for. Without giving it any thought, she shaped her silky raven mane with long fingernails. The dull points glided through as well as any expensive brush.
As she cautiously approached the door, each step became a minor victory. She was not afraid. Well, not so afraid that she felt paralyzed. Apprehensive, yes. The unease filling her stomach signaled a warning she knew not to ignore. Tension infiltrated tight muscles. Without realizing it, she balled her fingers into fists.
“Who is it?”
“Delivery … flowers.”
Sent by a man who wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Just leave them by the door.”
“You have to sign for them.”
Her breathing went from reflexive to strained as she slowly opened the door. This was yet another thing Dieter forced her to do against her will. Chloe didn’t want to open the door. She didn’t want to sign for anything. Didn’t want the fucking flowers, but here they were inside her apartment, invading her personal space.
Did sunflowers have a scent? People had debated this point for many years without ever reaching a definitive conclusion. Of course they had some sort of plant smell, but was that a true flower fragrance? And if they didn’t have a scent, then how ironic was it that one of the brightest of all flowers could be so bland?
The phone rang.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
No need to answer. She knew who was calling.
“Hi, this is Chloe and I can’t answer the phone right now. Please leave a message after the tone.”
Beeeep.
“Hey hi, this is Dieter. I was just thinking about you. About us. Uh, I called your cell phone but you didn’t pick up…. Um, uh, I hope you like the flowers…. You know what today is, right? Today is the anniversary of that time we drank together up in the mountains, and even though sunflowers really aren’t regional to the mountains, I know they’re your favorites. Anyway, gimme a call when you get a chance. I look forward to hearing your voice.”
The apartment fell silent, but Dieter’s presence loomed like lecherous eyes peering in through her window. No matter how politely she asked, no matter how firmly she insisted, no matter how much distance she put between them, he never stopped his relentless pursuit. Regardless of where she went or who she was with, Chloe always felt the need to look over her shoulder. It didn’t matter how much time had passed since they’d split up; Dieter could not comprehend that she was no longer interested.
Barring a leap year, if there were 365 days per year, and since he dialed at least eight times a night, he averaged over 2,900 phone messages. Probably typed in as many texts. When she thought about it—and well, when didn’t she—the math was astonishing. The invading volume of his overwhelming obsession probably would have crushed a weaker woman into submission.
No amount of imported vodka or painkillers made the tension disappear. Sometimes she felt close to free, but those moments proved fleeting. Chloe knew better than to get too caught up in her own escape because Dieter would eventually show up and ruin the moment. In one form or another, he always appeared.
Just like tonight.
Eyes alight with contempt, she stared at the bouquet resting on the counter. Coming from anyone else, flowers would have been a sweet gesture, but Chloe understood that he wanted her to let down her guard so that he could pounce. Any gesture of appreciation or gratitude inevitably got used against her.
Examining the yellow heads with spiraling disc florets that mature into seeds, she saw that each sunflower was actually many flowers sitting on a common receptacle. Each one was a completely separate flower with a separate reproductive system. Growers could yield thousands of flowers and thousands of seeds from one crop of these big-headed sunflowers.
Who could have imagined that something as pretty as flowers would be used as a weapon? Harmless, innocuous sunflowers. But there was never anything innocent about Dieter’s intentions. Everything he said or did served a purpose.
Trapped in the definition, following the brushstrokes from retinas to reality, stood the motive. In the center of the yellow visitors, a plastic stick held a small card. Did she really think he was going to send flowers without a card?
Might as well get it over with. That became her approach to most things involving Dieter. Answering the phone, replying to an e-mail or i
nstant message. She could only avoid and avoid and avoid for so long—weeks and months—but eventually he wore her down to the point where she felt compelled to reply. To ask him to go away again. To tell him she did not want him calling or harassing her or “accidentally” showing up at the same restaurants she frequented. She did not need his help with anything, and no, she didn’t miss his face.
Chloe opened the tiny envelope.
No one will ever love you the way I do.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
The answering machine made its outgoing announcement and then beeped.
“Hey babe, it’s me again. I just called the florist and they said they delivered the sunflowers. I hope you like them. Uh, um, what are you doing later? Are you hungry? How would you feel about letting me take you to your favorite restaurant? Or any restaurant that serves food and drinks. I could really use a glass of wine and some conversation. Or if you’re not hungry now, how about tomorrow? I know you love eggs Benedict, and there’s this quaint little place that’s open all night and they make the absolute best eggs Benedict around, and you’re the best so the best should only have the best and uh … I hope you liked the flowers. Call me, okay?”
Her focus shifted from the answering machine back to the bouquet.
As she absorbed every intricate detail, the sunflowers seemed to be mocking her. After stepping closer, she removed one of the flowers from the vase. Healthy, damp, and recently cut, the center felt sticky. Her slender thumb and forefinger grabbing the soft yellow head, she snapped it off in a botanic decapitation.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring.
Ring. “Hi, this is Chloe and I can’t answer the phone right now. Please leave a message after the tone.”
Beeeep.
“Okay Chloe look, I’m about to give up for the evening but not quite yet because I am going to do everything in my power to win you over and be your lover and have the relationship I know that you can only have with me and I can only have with you. Believe me, in light of everything, I am more nervous about seeing you than you could ever be, but I miss your touch, your labored breathing, and falling asleep next to you. I yearn to feel your lips pressed against mine. Mostly, I would love to feel some of that resistance escape your beautiful body with that first much-needed nibble. I would love to see you, and while I don’t mean only tonight, we can take it one day at a time if you want. You are the only one I have ever truly wanted to be with or give myself to so completely. What do you want, blood? Let me prove to you how much I can do to make you happy and make you fall back in love with me.”