Bloodthirst in Babylon

by Searls, David

  She did no such thing. Her dagger stare never left Judd. “What do you mean, you got one?” she repeated, even slower, even harder this time.

  “Well, I thought I did, but…”

  “Apparently, it got away,” D.B. finished softly. “But Judd did get in a few licks, judging by this fresh yellow shit smeared on the wall back here. Pus, I guess. Or something.”

  “You wanna see?” Judd asked, and of course everyone did. Even the women who looked revolted and held their kids back.

  Todd melted from the surging crowd, but his ears picked up murmurs of “Gross,” and “Ooh, what is it?” He’d have gone for a quick peak himself, but Melanie’s grip held him in place. Besides, his attention was drawn elsewhere.

  As set adrift from the crowd as Todd and Melanie, the motel owner seemed unaware of anyone around her as she stared vacantly into the distance.

  Paul watched her lips move.

  “I’m not responsible for this,” Mona Dexter mumbled to herself. “I didn’t even want ’em here.”

  Chapter Eight

  Paul sighed at the sight of the sky-blue Escalade in his driveway. What reason could Savannah Easton possibly have for paying them an unannounced visit tonight? She’d already put in her requisite housewarming appearance, presenting Darby and him with a bottle of moderately priced champagne and an oversize basked of fruit when they’d moved in. Paul had seen so much of the real estate agent over the past several months that, unless she was here to pay off their next month’s mortgage out of gratitude for the commission, he really wasn’t interested.

  “Paul, come in, come in,” Savannah commanded as exuberantly as though it was the real estate agent’s home he’d accidentally entered. “Darby’s brewing coffee. I’ll make sure she’s making enough for three. I certainly know my way around the kitchen by now.”

  The interior of their new home was a spacious expanse of glass and white stone with a balcony overlooking the two-story foyer. Less than five years old, it was no accident that it looked absolutely nothing like the 1930s Tudor in which Paul and his former wife had raised three kids. A month after moving in, it was still stacked with half-empty boxes and neatly folded piles of clothing. Darby’s potted plants were everywhere, including weirdly flowering cacti he couldn’t even identify and would never know how to water. There were bamboo and granite floors, walls of windows and high, swooping ceilings. Some, like the one in the family room, had hidden tract lighting aimed at blank walls in need of expensive artwork yet unpacked or un-envisioned.

  Savannah Easton returned from her kitchen errand and tucked herself, one shapely leg under her, in a wicker love seat in what had been christened the sunroom by Darby. Not that it contained any greater glass exposure than just about any other room in the massive house.

  “No thanks,” Paul said, belatedly turning down the offer for coffee.

  Savannah languidly held out her arm to him and he forced a smile as he took her hand in a loose embrace. He was never quite sure how to shake a woman’s hand and always suspected that he was somehow insulting female executives with a too-weak or too-firm grip.

  “So how are you finding your new neighbors?” she asked him when he’d returned her hand to her. “Have you met anyone yet?”

  The real estate agent’s expressive eyes were violet today. Paul suspected tinted contact lenses. He glanced toward the doorway, hoping to see Darby approaching. No such luck. He eased into a fabric easy chair across from her.

  “We really haven’t had a chance to get out,” he said. “As busy as we’ve been around here.”

  The truth was, they’d met literally no one. Not a single neighbor had dropped by, unless Darby had struck up a stray conversation without telling him, and he doubted it.

  “It’s the times we’re living in,” he said, more or less thinking out loud. “It’s been that way in the cities for a long time, people keeping to themselves, avoiding their neighbors. It’s just that television and the Internet let small town residents see how it’s supposed to be everywhere, and they’ve become as isolated as everyone else.”

  Where that came from he wasn’t sure, but it rang true.

  “I’m sure you’re right, Paul. But even beyond that, the residents of Babylon have something of a reputation for maintaining their distance. That’s why you don’t hear of outsiders moving in here.”

  That included Savannah herself, who lived closer to the lake. She’d tried talking the Highsmiths into lakefront living, which suited Paul fine. In fact, he had a fantasy of moving to one of the Lake Erie islands and living the life of a beach bum. It had been his younger but far more practical wife who’d reminded him of the need for good schools and easy access to the mainland in case of emergency.

  Savannah shared very little about the odd town the Highsmiths had stumbled into by accident during the course of an aimless drive, but she’d helped them find their property and close the sale. Of course, there hadn’t been any frank discussions about the reclusive nature of the locals when they’d been considering the house and the area. Or the lack of cell phone coverage and spotty Internet access, for that matter.

  Darby floated into the room with two steaming mugs.

  “Hi, honey,” she said as she planted a kiss on his cheek and set down a stone mug on a stand in front of their visitor.

  Darby Kinston-Highsmith always rushed her entrance as though it was part of her latest workout routine. It appeared to be such a routine that had been interrupted by the unannounced arrival of their real estate agent, for Darby’s face was still flushed with cardiovascular strain, her ash-blond hair tangled with sweat and hanging in her crystal-blue eyes. She was a black, skintight body stocking under a baggy number 23 LeBron James jersey.

  “What’s this about the neighbors?” she asked. “Oh, shit. I forgot the cream.”

  “Doesn’t she look wonderful,” Savannah murmured as Darby dashed from the room.

  Paul looked for signs of sly bitchiness in the other woman’s face, voice or body language, but found nothing. He was chronically beset with imagined scenarios spinning in small minds: married boss with three grown children lays eyes on the sexy new girl in the office. Things start innocently enough with meetings after work, and escalate quickly into overnight business trips, quick promotions and suspicious cell phone records and credit card charges. Eventually comes the discovery, tears, lawyers, painful talks with the kids, and divorce of a middle-aged wife who’d let herself gain a few pounds over the years. Then, an engagement announcement, a ring with a rock twice the size of the ex-wife’s, and remarriage with baby shower suspiciously soon to follow.

  Although that had pretty much been the sequence of actual events, it gave no one the right to air their nasty little thoughts. There’d been so much more to it that couldn’t be reduced to mere facts. For instance, his and Meredith’s marriage had, in reality, died at least six years before Darby Kinston had ever walked into the firm. And it really had been her sharp mind that had drawn him to the much younger woman—though he didn’t expect even his closest friends to believe that one.

  “Much better,” said Darby, returning just as swiftly with spoons and cream in a silver pitcher she must have frantically dug through an unpacked box to find. “I’ve been trying to use skim milk lately, but it makes the coffee look like mud. So cream remains my one vice, or at least the only one I’m admitting to right now. But I apologize for it.”

  It was impossible that Darby carried more than 110 pounds on her five-four frame, but she carefully monitored her fat grams.

  Savannah was a beautiful woman in her own right, but at about fifty, she’d started to use tricks of makeup and wardrobe and coloration to gain the effect that the Darbys of the world got without yet thinking about it. Savannah’s raven hair came from a salon, not a bottle. And of course there were those eyes, large and almond-shaped and violet today.

  “Honey, how about you? Have you met anyone yet?”

  Paul forced himself back into the conversation. He’d
missed the last minute or two of it, but managed to catch up quickly enough. “No. That’s what I was just telling Savannah. But I also told her we’ve been busy around here. Unpacking and putting the house together. And then there’s Tuck, of course. We really haven’t had time to get out.”

  Why did he sound so defensive? It was as though he found it important to convince Savannah that their shunned state was their own doing. Yes, that was it. After he’d lost the respect and companionship of so many friends and neighbors and business associates following the dramatic breakup of his marriage and career, it seemed important to show that he wasn’t still experiencing rejection.

  Maybe that’s why they’d moved to this hidden, reclusive little town in the first place: to escape further shame.

  Savannah sipped delicately, then carefully set her mug down on the table. “Well, I hate telling the both of you this because of the unfortunate timing, but Paul, do you remember that darling renovated Victorian you commented on in North Shores?”

  Paul shrugged. “Yeah, I guess so.” Wondering where this was going.

  “Well, as I told you both at the time, it positively wasn’t for sale. Even in the declining real estate market, you authorized me to make an offer that was incredibly generous—but they never batted an eye.”

  “Yeah, now I remember,” said Paul.

  “Well, the unfortunate thing is—or fortunate, depending on how coldly you want to look at it—the husband lost his job a couple weeks ago. He feels he’s priced out of the job market here, and the Michigan economy being what it is, they’re thinking about cashing out and moving.”

  “We’re so sorry,” said Darby, as though it were somehow their fault.

  “Yes,” said Savannah. “But the reason I bring it up is that they remembered how you’d shown interest and they called me out of the blue. I took the liberty of quoting a price that was just a few thousand dollars higher than what we’d offered before, and they sounded very interested. Now, obviously that wasn’t a firm offer since I hadn’t first approached the two of you. But with what I think I can get for your place here…”

  Paul watched the woman. Studied her lips for the smile that must eventually break through. Glancing away momentarily, he saw that Darby was studying their guest with equal intensity. Savannah gave no hint of noticing their disbelief as she prattled on about interest rates, declining market values, tax bases and financing options. No, she didn’t seem to be joking.

  “Hold it, hold it, Savannah,” Paul said, finally stemming the flow of words with an arm extended like a traffic cop. “If I’m hearing you right, you’re suggesting…”

  He looked at his wife for help, but she seemed to be waiting for Paul to make some sense of the matter.

  The real estate agent laughed, a gracious tinkle of a sound. “I know how it sounds,” she said, “and I’m not trying to get you to sign anything this very moment. But you’ll recall that I was pulling for North Shores right from the beginning. Darling little community, much friendlier than Babylon. But then, what town isn’t?” Savannah tittered merrily. “We have a sort of unwritten rule at our office to ignore Babylon altogether. And you’ve got to admit, I never encouraged you two to take your search here. But once you did, I could hardly dissuade you. There are housing laws, you know. But I did my best.”

  As her voice rose higher, she sounded desperate to avoid blame—but for what?

  Paul and Darby exchanged quick glances before Darby said, “Tell me, Savannah, is there anything wrong with the town? I mean, beyond it being a bit aloof.”

  “Absolutely not, dear,” came the reply, too quick, too loud, too emphatic.

  The Highsmiths had not only discovered Babylon without their real estate agent’s help—but also without her support, as Paul now thought about it. The town, as Darby said, “looked like home.” It wasn’t “picturesque,” “quaint” or “postcard-perfect,” and it wouldn’t ever be referred to as a “village.” But it was authentic and, with few of the national chains seen in every other town large and small in America, it didn’t look like any other place. That was a selling point.

  And don’t forget the town’s obscurity.

  “It’s home,” Darby had said during that first drive-through as they passed clean, tree-lined neighborhoods and new schools.

  In one particular pocket to the north of the business district could be found scores of comfortable-looking homes on large lots. None had for-sale signs in front, but Paul figured there must simply be local ordinances against signage and he’d found what he wanted on the Internet. A home privately listed.

  “If you recall,” Savannah was saying, “I only showed you this place as a last resort. It was less expensive than many of the homes along the coastline though I warned you it might not hold its value nearly as well.”

  Darby held up a hand. “Savannah, we’re not blaming you for putting us out here. We love our home.”

  Paul watched the other woman’s face as she worked over whatever was really on her mind. After a long, uncomfortable silence, Savannah said, “Okay, here’s the thing. I have a very interested buyer.”

  Paul noticed that both he and Darby had leaned forward as their visitor’s volume dropped. Like all three were in on the conspiracy.

  “I know, I know,” Savannah said, her voice rising as if to ward off objections both of her listeners had apparently raised with their stiffened body language. “You just moved in and the last thing you want to do is even think of leaving. I quite understand.”

  “I don’t think you do,” Darby said softly. “Or you wouldn’t even suggest such a thing.”

  Paul watched his wife with new respect. She rarely showed annoyance, but when she did, people listened.

  “Darby, dear, I wish you’d just hear me out. My buyer is quite prepared to pay for your relocation costs. And the opening offer he quoted me was forty thousand dollars more than you paid. But I don’t think I’d have any problem getting him to boost it another ten thousand. How about that? A fifty-thousand dollar profit for a few weeks of aggravation.”

  Paul stared at the woman. Her makeup seemed to glisten over a thin sheen of sweat. Her smile was still in place, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

  He cleared his throat. “Savannah, we all know what the housing market’s like. My Detroit area home is still on the market. So I’m, well, surprised at the very least, that we’d get such an offer.”

  “Yes, it’s quite amazing,” she said.

  Her hand went for her coffee mug. She brought it to her lips before seeming to discover it was empty. Just something for her hand and eyes to do.

  “Who’s your buyer?” Paul asked quietly.

  Her hand returned the mug to the table. She revolved it a quarter-rotation. “I don’t know if I can divulge that information.”

  “Paul, what are you doing?” Darby asked. “What difference does it make who the buyer is? We just moved here. This is crazy.”

  “There’s a possibility I could get more,” Savannah blurted. “I said another ten thousand, but it’s entirely possible—”

  “No,” Darby said.

  Paul stared into those violet eyes, now holding his gaze as though she were afraid to let go. He thought about his car payment on the Lexus and Darby’s on the Jeep. He thought of their unsold home in St. Clair Shores and Meredith’s new condo in Grosse Pointe Woods and seven-figure lawsuits. He thought about his thirteen-month-old son and two daughters still in college and potentially three weddings to be paid for at some point in the not-too-distant future. He thought about alimony payments and about being fifty-two years old and potentially unemployable.

  “Paul, tell her,” Darby said, obviously aware of the faraway look that had crept into his eyes.

  He shook his mind clear and said, “Thank you, Savannah, for continuing to work on our behalf, but we really have no problems with the house or the town. Even if we did, we’d be unlikely to move after such a short time. You can check with us again in a few years, but—”


  “What if I could get seventy-five?”

  “What?” Paul asked. Almost dreading the answer.

  “A seventy-five-thousand dollar profit.”

  “Why?” he asked, sounding every bit as befuddled as he felt.

  “It doesn’t matter,” Darby warned.

  But the real estate agent’s violet eyes were only on him now. He was the weak link here, not Darby.

  “The house,” the woman said, “is worth much more than you paid for it. The sellers were highly motivated, and there were no local buyers. I now have a buyer who’s extremely anxious to own your home, and he’s willing to pay a much higher price.

  Anxious to own it. A curious choice of words, Paul thought.

  “Think what you could do, Paul,” she went on. “You really wanted the lake and now you can afford it.”

  “Crazy, just crazy,” Darby mumbled.

  Paul looked hard into those desperate violet eyes. “Once more, Savannah, who’s the buyer?”

  He thought at first that she was returning eye contact, but her intense gaze was actually focused miles through and beyond him. “I should have followed my instincts,” she said dully. “Sometimes you get greedy in this business.”

  Now there was a concept Paul could buy into. He waited for more, but she continued to stare, glassy-eyed, at something or nothing.

  “It’s not a person,” Savannah finally replied, her focus now reined in to the sunroom.

  Paul became suddenly aware that his fingers could no longer feel the chair armrests he’d apparently been clenching. “What could you possibly mean by that?” he asked as he pried his fingers free.

  “It’s not a person who wants you two out,” she repeated. “It’s the entire town.”

  Chapter Nine

  He’d done this many times in the past. Park in a gravel lot and walk more confidently than he ever felt toward a tumbledown building that either looked like it had been there forever or got prefabbed and plopped down there yesterday and would be carried away with the next strong wind.