by Jack Kilborn
A ridiculous notion, of course. But the idea of it pleased him, and he clutched it to his being like a life line.
“Here’s your room.”
Belgium snapped out of his reverie and saw one of the men in suits had opened a door for him.
“You’re the next door over,” the man told Sara. She smiled shyly at Frank, and followed him a few meters down the hall.
“See you in a bit, Frank,” Sara said.
Frank nodded, and watched her disappear through the door. Frank went inside his, closed the door behind him, and took a look around.
A bed, some old furniture, and some drapes replete with cobwebs, none of which would have been out of place in Dracula’s castle. No bathroom.
Belgium found his suitcase next to the dresser. He considered changing into a fresh shirt, but figured it would be wrinkled, and he hadn’t packed a travel iron.
Maybe he could ask Sara if she had one. Maybe that would be a good excuse to go to her room, because even though they’d only been apart for less than a minute, he missed her already.
Frank went back to the door and opened it—
—Sara was already standing there.
“I wanted to do this in case we don’t have a chance later,” she said.
And then Sara’s arms were around Frank’s neck and her lips were against his.
Belgium was so surprised he couldn’t move. He just stood there, not knowing where to put his hands, or how to move his mouth. He hadn’t kissed a woman in so long he’d forgotten how.
Would she figure out how bad he was at this?
Did his breath stink?
What if he used too much saliva? Or if they bumped their teeth together?
What was he supposed to say when the kiss ended?
But Frank’s doubts quickly began to vanish as he lost himself in the sensation. Sara was tender, persistent, and she pressed her body closer to his, and when he touched her waist she sighed, and when his tongue touched hers it felt like an electric shock, making Frank moan in his throat.
She finally broke the kiss and looked at him, her pupils so big, a slight blush in her cheeks, and Belgium had to reach out and run a finger along her neck, just to prove she was real.
“I like you, Frank.”
“I like you, too.”
She gave him another kiss—just a peck on the cheek—and walked off, back to her room, leaving Frank to wonder that maybe his ridiculous little daydream wasn’t that ridiculous after all.
Sara
Sara chewed her lower lip as she pulled a sweater on over her head.
She could still taste Frank.
In the past, Sara never would have been so brazen. Kissing was an intimate act, and all she had been intimate with lately was a bottle of booze. But she’d never felt such an immediate chemistry before. Part of it was the obvious fact that he was such a nice guy. But it went deeper. Something about being with Frank gave her hope.
And she needed some hope in her life.
Living without Jack was a constant reminder what a failure she was. As a mother. As a human being. The alcohol amplified this feeling, but without the liquor the horrors of Rock Island kept haunting her.
While it would be amazing to take a pill and not have nightmares, or panic attacks, Sara was a lot more skeptical about it than the others seemed to be. She didn’t like Dr. Forenzi. His constant mentions of babies and children seemed less like reassurances, and more like attacks. Sara didn’t like this house, either. Even though the location was vastly different, it gave off the same vibe as Rock Island. There was something bad happening here, and she couldn’t wait to leave.
That was another reason she went to Frank’s room. Yes, she found him attractive, and yes, he gave her hope. But the most important thing of all was how she felt when she was with him. When Sara was around Frank, she no longer felt afraid.
So she threw herself at him, the desire for him to kiss her back stronger than her fear of rejection.
And he had kissed her back.
And he was pretty good at it.
She shivered, thinking about his hands on the small of her back, and then turned to the dresser mirror to fuss with her hair again.
That’s when she noticed something in the mirror. Something behind her.
The rocking chair in the corner of the room.
A brittle-looking thing, made of old wood, so dark it was almost black.
Had it just moved?
Sara stared at its reflection.
The chair remained still.
I’m seeing things.
Sara went back to finger-combing her bangs, wishing she’d packed some gel. Hindsight being 20/20, she should have also packed some make-up. A little lip gloss, and a little eyeliner would—
The rocking chair moved.
Sara watched, her breath caught in her throat, as it rocked all the way forward, held it there for a moment, and then rocked back.
Just as if someone was sitting in it.
Sara knew she needed to turn around, to look directly at it. But every muscle in her body had locked.
What was the monster that didn’t cast a reflection? A vampire? Were there others that didn’t show up in mirrors?
If I turn around and check, will I see some hideous creature in the chair, grinning at me?
A ghost?
A poltergeist?
A demon?
The chair rocked again, creaking as it did.
Turn around and look.
Just do it.
Sara closed her eyes, and through brute force of will turned on her heels to face the chair.
Now open your eyes.
But she was too afraid.
Do it!
Open your eyes!
Sara peeked.
The chair was empty.
Tom
One of the suited guards showed Tom to his room after dinner, and it was both as opulent and as creepy as Tom expected.
The bed was a large four-poster, with a crushed velvet bedcover. The dresser was heavy, Renaissance Revival, with a matching bureau. There was an iron, woodburning stove, an Oriental carpet on the wood floors, a rolltop desk, and portraits on the walls Tom recognized as Colton and Jebediah Butler. The light was dim, due to an antique lamp with a low wattage bulb and a very large tasseled shade. There were candles throughout the room, all unlit.
The room’s sole window faced west, and Tom looked out into the waving fields of cattails. The sky had gotten darker, and had taken on a reddish tinge. He checked the window clasp, but it, like the sash, had been thickly painted over.
Tom put his suitcase onto the bed and opened it up. First he checked his gun, a Sig Saur 9mm, and put in a fresh magazine. He holstered it, put on his holster, and then checked his fanny pack. Inside were three more mags, fifteen rounds each, twenty glow sticks, a tactical flashlight, a Zippo lighter, a Swiss Army Champion Plus knife, some handcuffs, and a Benchmade Mangus butterfly knife with sheath.
He strapped the Mangus sheath to his ankle, and was inventorying the first aid kit he’d packed when someone knocked at the door.
“Come in,” Tom said, facing the doorway.
It was Moni Draper. “Got a minute?”
“Sure.”
She strutted in, and Tom admired her moxie. Especially after what she’d gone through. Tom knew Moni from her association with a serial killer named Luther Kite. He’d tied her up and tortured her using an antique medical device called an artificial leech. It was used by doctors in the 1800s for bloodletting, back when it was thought that bad blood caused ailments and bleeding cured people.
Tom had encountered Kite in the past, and had done a lot of research on him. Moni has over two hundred scars on her body, where Kite had used the device on her. She’d been found nearly dead, but somehow had rebounded. And, judging by her general attitude, she’d moved on with her life.
Tom had his share of nightmares, mostly due to what had happened at Senator Stang’s mansion in Springfield. But he’d nev
er been at the total mercy of a maniac who was excited by causing pain. He didn’t know if he’d be able to adjust like Moni seemed to. And he hoped he’d never have to find out.
“You smell bullshit,” Moni said.
“If something seems too good to be true, it usually is.”
“Stay with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“They’re going to try to scare us. Maybe the threat won’t be real. Maybe it will. Either way, I want to be with the strongest guy in the room, and that’s you.”
Tom nodded.
“We can…” Moni smiled slyly, “seal the deal if you like. I’ve done lots of cops.”
Back when Kite had done that to her, Moni was a prostitute. Apparently the attack hadn’t scared her out of the profession.
“Kind of you to offer, but I’m okay.”
“Is it because of the scars?”
“It’s because I’m in a committed relationship.”
Moni pulled her shirt down, revealing her pock-marked cleavage. “So this doesn’t disgust you?”
She jiggled a bit. Tom didn’t reply. Moni continued to pose for another five seconds before saying, “So are you disgusted or not?”
“I’m still deciding,” Tom said. “Give me a minute.”
Moni giggled, walked over, and gave Tom a friendly punch on the shoulder. “You’re okay for a pig, you know that?”
Tom wasn’t offended by her use of the word pig. If anything, it amused him. “Thanks. And I promise I’ll do my best to protect you if things get crazy.”
“I believe you. Who’s the special lady?”
“Her name is Joan. She’s a Hollywood producer.”
“She have any interest in the story of a plucky whore who survived multiple attacks by maniacs and then went on to become a millionaire?”
“I’ll ask her.”
“What’s that?” Moni pointed at a wrapped plastic disk in Tom’s kit.
“A Bolin chest seal. For sucking chest wounds.”
“Like getting stabbed in the lungs?”
“Or shot.”
She continued to point. “I know that’s a tourniquet, and that’s one of those airway breathers. What’s in that package? Celox?”
“Clotting powder. Stops bleeding quickly.”
“You came prepared. But I bet you don’t have one of these.”
Moni reached for her purse, then stopped. “Where are you from?”
“Chicago.”
“A Chicago pig has no jurisdiction in South Carolina.”
“True.”
Moni pulled out a large syringe and held it up, triumphantly.
“What is that?” Tom asked, feeling like he already knew.
“Heroin. Enough to make a charging bull OD. I didn’t think I could get a gun through TSA because I’d get into trouble, so I brought this to protect myself.”
“Instead of a gun you brought a lethal dose of heroin,” Tom said. “You don’t think if you got caught with that, you’d be in more trouble?”
Moni’s eyebrows crinkled and her lips pursed. “When you say it like that, it sounds like a bad idea.”
“Am I interrupting?”
They looked at the open door and saw Mal, the sports reporter missing a hand.
“The more the merrier,” Moni said, waving him in.
“Forenzi wants us to line up for our physicals, but I just wanted a moment of your time, Detective. Are you both… busy?”
“I’m just showing the pig my heroin,” Moni said.
Mal frowned. “I could come back…”
“How can I help you, Mr. Deiter?” Tom asked.
“At dinner. You didn’t seem excited about Forenzi’s experiment. You seemed like you knew something no one else did.”
Both Mal and Moni stared at Tom. He wondered what to do, but strangely he felt comfortable around them, in the same way he felt comfortable around Frank and Sara.
In that moment, he decided the benefits of telling them outweighed keeping it a secret.
“My partner, Roy Lewis, came to this house last week, supposedly doing the same thing we’re doing tonight. He never came back.”
Tom watched Mal’s frown deepen. “Shit.”
“You look so sad,” Moni told him. She offered the syringe. “Need a little pick me up?”
“Moni,” Tom kept his voice even, “can you please put away the heroin? And Mal, I don’t know what happened to Roy, so I can’t cry foul play yet. Maybe Forenzi is legit, and this will all be smooth sailing.”
“But you don’t believe that.”
“No. I don’t.” Tom felt like he was telling a child there was no Santa Claus.
Moni put her hand on Mal’s neck. “Buck up, little soldier. Would a little three-way action with me and your wife make you feel better?”
Mal choked out a laugh. “You know, it probably would.”
“Is she into chicks?”
He lost his mirth again. “No.”
“Too bad. Well, maybe some figging will take your mind off things.”
“What’s figging?” Mal asked.
“It’s when you take a—”
“Mal?” His wife, Deb, stuck her head into the room. “Everything okay?”
“He’s moody,” Moni explained, “so I offered him smack and a three way.”
Tom decided it was time to take some control of the situation. “I don’t know how this is all going to play out tonight, but I think we all need to stick together, and watch out for each other. Did anyone bring weapons?” He looked pointedly at Moni, who was waving her hand. “Weapons other than narcotics?”
“I packed a .38 in our suitcase,” Mal said.
“Extra rounds?”
Mal shook his head. “Just the five in the cylinder.”
“Are you a good shot?”
“I’m so-so. Deb is better.”
Tom took out his Sig, removed the magazine, and pulled back the slide to make sure the barrel was clear. Then he did a quick explanation of how to load, how to use the decocker, and what double action meant. As he was passing his gun around, one of the suited guards knocked on the door frame.
“We’re ready for you.”
Tom took his Sig back, tucked it into the holster, and followed the others into the hallway. They’d been given rooms on the second floor, all in a row, and there was an ornate wooden railing that overlooked the great room. As they headed for the stairs, they passed a marble statue of a cupid on a pedestal. Tom did a double-take, then went back for a closer look.
In the baby’s mouth were sharp fangs.
Moni, who was behind him, said, “Wouldn’t want to breastfeed that little bastard. And look at the wings.”
At first glance, they seemed like typical, feathered cherub wings. But the individual feathers weren’t feathers—they were tiny daggers.
“Dr. Madison is waiting.”
Tom turned, startled, and was surprised to see yet another guard in a gray suit standing next to him. That made five he’d seen so far. Why did Forenzi need so many guards? To protect him from ghosts? And how had he managed to sneak up on Tom? Like the others, this guard was tall, muscular, and wearing military boots. But he hadn’t made a sound during his approach.
“What branch of the military were you in?” Tom asked.
The man’s face remained blank, and he didn’t answer.
“Do you work for the government, or for Forenzi directly?”
“Please move along,” the guard said.
Tom shrugged, and he followed Moni and the others down the stairs, across the great room, and to a hallway lined with drab paintings depicting plantation life. They looked old, paint peeling and a decade’s worth of grime on them. Slaves in the field, picking tobacco. Blackjack Reedy astride a horse, whip in hand. An endless field of cattails, stretching off into the horizon. Everyone had stopped next to a closed door, and Tom assumed it was the queue for the examination room. But he quickly figured out the group had huddled around another painting, this one
of Butler House.
It was massive, perhaps a meter tall and twice as wide, in an ornate frame and protected behind some non-reflective glass. The picture depicted the house in the 1800s, when it was still new, and the fields were filled with cotton. Tom didn’t understand the interest until Frank pointed to a figure in one of the windows.
It was a woman, her hair tied back, a pensive look on her face. Tom squinted at it, then turned to Sara, who had gone ashen.
The woman in the painting was a dead-ringer for her.
Tom moved in closer, checking the figures in the other windows.
He saw Frank’s face peering out between half-closed shutters on the second floor.
Deb, opening the front door to the house. Mal in the shadows behind her.
Moni’s face, complete with her pock marks.
Wellington, in the cotton field with a scythe.
Two people in a horse-drawn buggy, approaching the house. Pang and Aabir.
Tom looked for himself, dreading the search, holding his breath.
“You’re here,” Belgium said, pointing to the side of the house.
Tom didn’t understand what he was seeing. It was definitely his face, lying sideways on the ground, but his body was obscured by scrub brush.
“And over here,” Belgium continued, moving his finger.
Then Tom understood.
His body wasn’t in the bushes. His body was sitting against the house, holding a knife, his shirt drenched with blood.
Tom had apparently cut off his own head, and it had rolled away.
Deb
Mal was in much better spirits since Dr. Forenzi’s talk at supper, which was just in time for Deb’s mood to take a nose dive.
They passed co-dependency back and forth like two hobos sharing a cigar. So it was Deb’s turn to feel awful, and Mal’s to buoy her up.
But he’d gone out to ask the cop some questions, leaving Deb alone in her room.
Which was when a painting in the bedroom fell off the wall.
It scared the shit out of her, and when she went to look for him she found a convention of sorts in Tom’s room.
Now, first in line to be examined, she still hadn’t had the chance to tell Mal what had happened. The painting—a ghastly picture of a brooding southern gentlemen standing calmly in the middle of a storm—had dropped off the wall just as she was wiping the sweat off her stumps.