“Smile for the nice man.”
“Get off me.”
“Remember what's at stake here, babe. Smile at him. A real pretty one.”
Her jaw felt as if it would never unlock.
The bartender set the sweating glass of water in front of her. The lemon wedge did nothing to mask the tangy, unwashed smell of the glass. She took a sip, made a face, and Vance scoffed. “Tap water.”
Val stared down at her drink without saying anything. This was going all wrong, and fast.
After a few more minutes, Vance set his empty glass aside. “Here's an idea. Wanna go see your friend? Maybe say hello?”
“I'd rather stay here.”
The Last Chance might not have been a police station but Val had the sinking sensation that if she went with Vance she wouldn't come back. Not alive.
“Yeah, because even I can see that you're completely enjoying my company.”
Val bit her lip. Should she risk it? Scream?
His face hardened, like setting plastic. “Come on. Don't make me ask you twice.”
She rose stiffly from the stool as he led her out by the wrist like a dog on a leash. If only she hadn't had her cell phone out. She could have texted—
Who? Who would she have texted? She had no friends. Not anymore.
The police, maybe .
Too late now.
Vance's “truck” turned out to be one of those gasguzzling Hummers she detested. There was even a topless hula dancer on the dash.
First the smoking bar. Now this.
There was a jangling sound as Vance struggled with his keys. “Just sit pretty right there. I need to pop the trunk…”
“Mary?” Val edged around the massive tires the way one would a sleeping predator. “Mary?”
She froze, blinking. The trunk was empty. “What—”
“Sorry, Val.” He grabbed her from behind. This time she did struggle, but the cloth covering her mouth and nose pressed firm. “It's curtains.”
Sickly sweetness. A stabbing pain. Fireworks. Then nothing.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
My head hurts.
Mirrors of light swirled before her squinting eyes, blurring slowly into luminescent halos. The vertiginous effect they caused was worsened by the imminent dizziness that followed, pouring into her head like cold, dark cement. She shivered, violently.
She was freezing. She was wet.
Where am I?
The air smelled strange, like birthday cake and summer. Pictures flickered through her head with Kodak clarity and she blinked them away impatiently. Starbursts erupted in her periphery as she sat up.
Pain speared through her temples like a lancet. Val reeled back and screamed as her head knocked back against something hard and unyielding, with sharp, jagged edges. Pain made her vision go black as the sound of her cry echoed back at her from the darkness. She froze, breathing hard, and thought she must be having some sort of nightmare.
But no, one did not feel pain in dreams. That must mean…it's real.
She leaned forward, as much in an attempt to see as to help curb her nausea. The floor was a carpet of dark water. A salty tang lingered in the back of her throat, inspiring a vague but desperate thirst.
The walls and ceilings were rock. Jagged, porous rock the reddish-brown color of damp clay, darker still at the water line denoting high tide. A line, she couldn't help noticing, that extended well above her head.
He doesn't know I can't swim. Her arms, bound tightly behind her back with hemp rope, ached in protest. He's not taking any chances.
Vance had brought her here to drown.
Then she noticed the candles. They were everywhere, balanced on the outcroppings of rock. Short, squat candles that looked ugly and malformed in the shadows. All of them were either black or white, surrounding her like an army of chess pieces awaiting orders from an unseen commander.
Chess again. It's always about chess.
She turned her head—slowly, this time, so as not to hit her head against those sharp protrusions of rock —and saw a blazing wreath of orange and emerald. Lilies, silky and speckled like leopard's fur, and basil with its spicy, rain-fresh scent.
Orange lilies for hatred, she thought with alarm. Basil, also for hatred.
Gavin himself had given her such a bouquet. Vance hadn't just brought her here to drown; for whatever reason, he was copycatting Gavin. “Help!” she cried. “Somebody—help me!”
In the darkness, she heard a laugh. “That's a cool effect. Candlelight is very flattering, from an aesthetic perspective, although there's only so much it can do.”
Val sat upright, not sure whether she ought to be relieved or afraid. Relieved that he hadn't left her, or afraid for the very same reason. She settled for a caustic mix of both. “Where are you?”
“I'm glad you're awake. I was afraid I'd gone overboard with the chloroform. It can be lethal in the wrong dosage, you know. I had to steal it from one of the chemistry labs. But you seem feisty enough.”
Her shoulders tensed. His blue eyes were bright and eager, almost electric with excitement.
She couldn't believe that she had ever thought him handsome. There was something of the demonic surrounding him—a dark, vile energy. She shivered accordingly when he touched her face.
“What is this?”
“Your grave.”
His calm, matter-of-fact, almost cheerful tone scared her far more than angry threats could have. Anger was irrational, mercurial, erratic.
This—this was different. Worse.
She wet her lips. “Why are you doing this?” (You know very well why.)
But she didn't know.
This must have been how those girls felt. All those girls that Gavin killed. Because of me.
Poetic justice.
“You mean you haven't figured it out yet?” Vance asked, in mock-surprise. “And here I thought you were supposed to be quite the little puzzle-master. Should I tell you? Or should I let you wonder about it for the rest of your life? No—no, that won't be very long at all, and really, I do want you to know. You should know.”
He walked closer, displacing water with each step. The tribal tattoo, she noticed suddenly, was gone. Must have been temporary.
“A year ago, you played a game. Remember, Val? Remember the big spooky house?”
“I remember,” she said. “I never forgot.”
“Try to recall the players for me. Can you do that?” He pressed both his hands to the sides of her face. As if he were trying to do a Vulcan mind meld. “There was that big lug, Brent. There was the little weasel. I forget his name—he's not important. And then there was a girl named Charlene.”
“Charlie,” Val said automatically. “She tried to kill me. Oh my God—was she your girlfriend?” His hands tightened painfully. “She was my little sister, you twisted bitch.”
Immediately, she saw the resemblance. It was as if the dead girl's face were superimposed over his. The dark hair, the blue eyes, the pale skin.
“I had to track Brent down to get the story since you went into hiding and GM just, well. Disappeared. He told me that GM killed Charlie. Brent did. He told me that GM killed her as if she weren't even human, because she tried to kill you. Do you have any idea what that did to my family? Yes,” he answered his own question. “Yes, I suppose you would know.”
“She was crazy.”
His eyes flashed in the wavering light. “And you aren't? I know all about you, Val. You and your little eccentricities. You were so easy to find it was almost pathetic. We're all hunters in my family, you know. Deer, ducks…damsels. I was expecting a challenge. This was a farce. I mean, come on. Valerie Klein? That was the best you could do? Pathetic,” he repeated.
Val couldn't feel her hands anymore. They had no sensation. “What are you going to do to me?”
“Ah, self-preservation rears its ugly head.” He reached towards her. Val pulled away and hit her head against the rock ledge behind her again, and through the veil of pain she was aw
are of his angling her towards the gaping mouth of the cave. “You hear that roaring off in the distance?”
She nodded, trying to shake him off. “What is it? A freeway?”
“Oh no. Not even close. That, Val, is the sound of the tide coming in. In about half an hour, forty-five minutes tops, this little grotto will be completely underwater—and so will you.”
Val made an involuntary sound of panic.
“Watery graves are so romantic, aren't they?” Only if you're a psychopath.
“I originally planned to fuck you, you know. Not now,” he said, when she recoiled, “now that he's had you. But in the beginning. I liked the idea, of me having you before GM did. Wouldn't that be ironic?”
“You're disgusting.”
“Too bad, Val. After what you did, I want you to hear every single word. Besides, I'd have thought that you'd be used to it by now what with all the rumors about you. That was why you left town, wasn't it? Because people were speculating that you liked bad boys maybe a little too much, right?”
He thumbed the mark on her neck.
“I guess it was true.”
“Stop it,” said Val. “That's enough.”
“Even the children were in on it. I heard the cutest little nursery rhyme in your hometown, where
a bunch of little brats were playing skip-rope. Wanna hear how it goes?”
“No.”
“I'll tell you anyway.” He cleared his throat. “Valerian Kimble means bad luck—”
“Please.”
“—how many psychos did she fuck? One, two, three, four…”
He stepped back.
In spite of his words from earlier, Val was afraid that it was to remove his pants. She squeezed her eyes shut and her thighs together, bracing herself. He didn't touch her, though there was a bright flash.
He was taking pictures.
“I really don't think he'll be able to resist coming after me when I send him the rest of my little scrapbook.”
The rest? Good Lord. He was just as sick as Gavin. “He'll kill you,” she said. “Just like your sister.”
Bringing up Charlie was a mistake. “I'm counting on that,” he said nastily. “Him thinking he can, anyway. I can make this look like a murder-suicide. I've been watching him. I like to think I've picked up a little of his style.” Vance gestured at the candles and flowers, then recited, “'From forth the fatal loins of these two foes, a pair of star-crossed lovers take their life.' The press will eat that shit up.”
“You're just as sick as he is.”
“Considering your relationship, I'll have to take that as a compliment.”
Val turned away from the flash so he couldn't see her face. Why did this keep happening? Why her? Perhaps there was some pheromone certain people emitted, perceivable only on a wavelength unique to those individuals who preyed on them.
“You won't get away with this.”
“Ooh, that's a good pose. Are you going to cry, too? Tell me you are. That might even get the bastard off.” Vance stepped around the rock to get a picture from her other side.
Fear and terror exploded, creating a raging holocaust of cathartic release. She lashed out with her foot and kicked as hard as she could. The angle, and the timing, were, for once, perfect. Her foot connected with something soft with a muffled thwack.
Vance stumbled, and his shoe caught on some of the loose rocks. He fell with a loud splash, followed by several smaller splashes. “Oh, you little bitch.” He was gasping. “You bitch. You ruined my fucking camera.”
He lurched back to his feet unsteadily with a violence that wiped all traces of savagery from her face. She flinched but all he did was extinguish one of the candles near her body with his wet fingers. The flame died out with an angry hiss and more shadows appeared out of the gloom to engulf the cave walls in darkness. He flicked his damp hand at her face.
“I hope, for your sake, that the cops find you before the worms do. Otherwise, no open casket for you.”
His heavy footfalls receded. When she was certain he had gone, and that she was completely alone, Val bowed her head and began to cry.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Hemlock
Vance leaned back against the rocks, shivering a little with cold, though the adrenaline coursing through his veins mitigated the effect, rendering it a mild annoyance rather than an actual discomfort.
Above the molten shades of violet and indigo, the sky's zenith was spangled with stars. Vance was too wet and keyed-up to appreciate the view. He cursed as he wrung water out of his jeans, his shirt, his socks. No way could he drive home like this.
If Val hadn't kicked him, he would literally be high and dry by now. But it was beginning to look as if he might be stuck in this festering cesspool of yokels for another day or two.
Things weren't entirely hopeless, at least. He could sleep in his car after letting the heaters run for a bit. There was a half-full can of beer in the cup holder, a couple high-protein energy bars in back. At least he'd had the foresight to wear swim trunks.
She'll be dead soon , he thought. Little bitch. He wondered if she'd started screaming.
He almost missed the quiet crunch of gravel. Even as he registered it, he was in the process of writing it off as the movement of some small scuttling creature.
He started when he realized that he was being watched, and that his observer was neither small nor scuttling, but the larger prey of which he sought.
Frightening, that such a large man could make almost no sound on such rough terrain. His clothing was so dark, he blended right into the shadows. His coat fluttered soundlessly in the ocean breeze; it was the only perceptible movement.
The man said nothing. That was the fucking creepiest part. Just stared at him while the wind ruffled his hair. His posture reminded Vance of a leopard about to pounce, and for the first time he began to wonder if those rumors about GM thinking he was more animal than human were true.
I wish I could see his face, he thought, but it was unreadable beneath the stars.
“Tell me where she is.”
His voice was deep, harsh. Vance almost flinched and hated him all the more for it. “I could tell you.” He weighed his words carefully, “Or, I could let you drown yourself looking for her.”
GM lunged.
Vance was bracing himself for such a charge. He had been counting on it, in fact, because he knew that he was the more muscular of the two of them, and in a grappling match he rarely lost. So when GM came to an abrupt standstill mere feet away and delivered a kick to Vance's already sore stomach, he was completely taken off guard.
He hit the ground with a heavy, meaty thud. Stones gouged into his skin. Sprays of sand and surf shot up into the air. Tide's coming in, he thought, with something akin to hysteria. Val, you bitch. This is all your fault.
“Fucking bitch.” He groped for his knife but it wasn't in his pocket. It must have fallen out when the bitch kicked him. “Goddamn it—”
GM crouched down beside him, one arm hanging off his knee. “Tell me where he is,” he repeated, in the same tone as before. This close, though, Vance could see that the other man's eyes gleamed with dark impulse.
Vance took a swing. GM leaned back, evading the brunt of the attack, but the gemstone in his class ring opened up a small circular gash on the grandmaster's cheek. It didn't look like it hurt particularly—certainly not the way he was hurting—but it prompted GM to kick Vance again, harder. His groan filled the night sky. A few more of those love-taps and I'll be pissing cherry Kool-Aid, he thought.
“You're too late, you fuck. By now, she's dead.”
“I don't believe you.” GM's voice was still calm; it belied the steel in his hand. He had a knife. The knife that killed Charlie?
“If you kill me, you'll never find her.”
“I'm not going to kill you.”
GM yanked Vance's swim trunks down. Vance stared at the other man's grim face in disbelief as his hand closed around his shriveled penis. Was
he some kind of queer? Then he felt the first cut and understood, he understood all too well. GM was only on the second pass when he started screaming.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Until last year, Val had never thought too long or too hard about death. It seemed so far away, almost a fantasy land. One decade, after all, was more than half her life, and death was, by those measurements, at least five spans away. If not more.
But now…she wondered. Now she knew living was just a brief hiatus, a blip really, in the infinite line of nothingness that composed that shadowy realm of the unknown. It could stop at any time.
Her skin was starting to go numb from the cold. Weren't one's memories supposed to flash before one's eyes at a moment like this? The water was up to her breasts now and climbing steadily. Time for reflection was running out. Post-mortem, she thought. That's what the analysis of a chess game is called after its close. Post-mortem. After death.
Most of the candles had fizzled out, leaving the cave darker than before. The brackish smell of the rising tide made her eyes water and her nose sting. She tried struggling but the salt water had made her rope bonds even firmer than before.
Maybe my life has been leading up to this moment.
Something splashed further down. Falling rocks? A shark? Her whole body was prickling now, as if she were being stabbed all over by thousands of tiny needles. The Pacific was ice-cold, winter-chilled.
Val began to feel sleepy, dreamy.
I am dying . The thought should have alarmed her, but now, as she was cradled into Eternal Sleep, she found she did not really care.
She thought she was dreaming when she felt the warm body brush against hers. Hallucinating. The brain did that, sometimes, as brain cells died.
“Hold your breath.”
The water was nearly level with her chin now. She inhaled—and the waves rushed up against her face.
▪▫▪▫▪▫▪
Val opened her eyes.
It was dark, still, which meant only a couple hours must have passed. The sky was navy velvet studded with diamond stars. The smell of the salt seasoned the air with its telltale pungency, paired with the musk of naked skin.
She was leaning against a man's bare chest; it was covered by damp, curling hair. A brown nipple loomed in her periphery, leering out like a blind eye.
Terrorscape Page 22