by J. R. Rain
“I’ll get some pillows and blankets,” I said, opening the hall closet rather than risking one of the bedrooms. Besides, I was embarrassed by the marital bed I’d once shared with a woman who was turning out to be a cruel, vindictive bitch.
I pulled out some spares and dragged them downstairs to the living room, Tabby following. I tossed the bed gear on the couch and said, “Be right back.”
“Where are you going? To get a snack?” She sounded hopeful.
“Sure.” Except the thing gnawing at me was something else—thankfully not a mouse—and despite my physical exhaustion, I might lay there thinking too much. Such was my addiction that I was willing to risk mice to go into the kitchen and open the cabinet.
Real alcoholics don’t have liquor cabinets. They can never keep enough of the stuff in stock and tend to drink it faster than they can carry it into the house. I didn’t know if I was an alcoholic, but I did keep a bottle on hand at all times. For emergencies, of course.
And this seemed like an emergency.
I didn’t want to wake up with a hangover, though, so I only took three good swallows. Well, maybe four.
Okay, five.
Then I was back in the living room with some Cheez-Its. “All clear,” I said.
She snacked on a handful or two while bundled up on the couch. Still dressed except for my shoes, I tucked myself in as best I could while sitting with the chair leaned back, tightening the blankets so there were no cracks, except a little hole for breathing.
The lamp was on, and if you could fall asleep with one eye open, I did.
The booze definitely helped.
Chapter Twenty-one
Tabby was already up and composed, the blankets neatly folded on the couch, when I jerked awake.
She was holding a recent photograph of Gerda, after my ex-wife’s makeover, when she’d said she was trying to create a new “her” on the advice of her therapist. The red hair and clotting mascara, along with a few collagen injections in her lips, had combined with a flamboyant wardrobe to mask the old Gerda. The change had been startling at first, though you could still see the old serial-killer ghosts lurking in her eyes if you knew her. And I did.
And, I’m almost ashamed to admit now, after the shock wore off I’d enjoyed sleeping with the new Gerda, fantasizing she was a stranger. We’d even played a few games with it, but in light of recent revelations, I suppose they hadn’t been games to her. They had been dress rehearsal.
“Who is this?” Tabby said.
“My wife,” I said, groggy and feeling like a polecat had slept on my tongue.
“This doesn’t look like the woman in the Richter case files.”
“She...well, people change.”
“I know this woman, and it isn’t Gerda. Why are you lying to me?”
That brought me the rest of the way awake. “Why would I lie about something like that?”
“You lie like you breathe. You lie you like drink. Just because.”
I unwrapped my blankets so I could defend myself. “I know my own wife, Officer Mead.”
“This is Louise Sanderson. Amanda’s friend.”
“Friend?”
“Yeah, they met at Lamaze class. Louise is a volunteer there.”
“I swear—”
“Don’t tell me you were boning yet another woman while all this was going on. Does she have a box of love letters in the attic, too?”
“Do I look like that kind of guy? I mean, look at her eyes.” Self-righteous indignation never works well with drunks or weasels, but I gave it my best.
Tabby peered more closely at the photo and gave up her rage with reluctance. “Hmm.”
“What’s this ‘Louise Sanderson’?”
“She chummed it up with Amanda, almost like she was sharing the excitement of the pregnancy. Said she couldn’t have kids of her own so volunteering was her way of playing mother. And, of course, she couldn’t help but notice that Amanda was in class without a partner on the days I couldn’t come because of work.”
“My God. The bitch is even more conniving that I thought.”
“Yeah. Like I said, she’s smarter than she looks. I’m going to have to upgrade her from ‘psychopath’ to ‘sociopath.’ She’s up in the big leagues, with Bundy, Ed Gein, and Jeffrey Dahmer.”
“And Max Richter,” I added. “Jesus, what if she took Petey for some sort of cannibalism thing?”
“That’s why we need to act fast. But there’s one more thing. Louise had met Nana, too. We all met for coffee a couple of times, and I know Louise—I mean, Gerda—seemed especially drawn to Nana, as if they knew each other from way back.”
“Maybe they went to the same craft workshops. You know, ‘How to Extract Owl Pellets,’ ‘Broomsticks on a Budget,’ that sort of thing.”
Tabby didn’t appreciate my weak attempt at humor. “Don’t disrespect the craft, Al. I would think you’d appreciate it by now.”
“Yeah.” I glanced around. The new revelation had stunned me so much that I’d forgotten all about the mice. I noticed a weak gleam of dawn in the crack of the curtains. “So what do we do now?”
“We should go to the police.”
I didn’t want to point out that she was the police. “And tell them what? That your grandmother put a curse on my ex-wife, so that means she obviously was the killer? And we have all these dead mice as evidence? And, by the way, there are aliens in the White House?”
“No, we have more. Louise—or Gerda—came around a lot, became a family friend. Not realizing Gerda was your sick ex-wife, Amanda trusted her, told her everything, even about you and how she became pregnant.”
“But Amanda never told me.”
“Why would she? I tried too many times to have her get back into contact with you, said you had a right to know, but she absolutely refused. That’s how deeply she felt your betrayal.”
My gut ached. Some whiskey in my Wheaties would have helped about then, but it looked like the breakfast of champions would have to wait. I had to eat a little more crow first.
“The Mead family sure does know how to carry a grudge,” I said, tugging on my boots.
“Anyway, Gerda used a different name around us, Al. That has to mean something to the police, and maybe give them some new leads.”
“But why would she befriend you and your sister?”
“Maybe to get the full story. Maybe to plan her revenge to the T. Maybe she really did want to be close to that baby of yours that she could never conceive. Who knows? But we’re not doing such a bang-up job of rescuing Petey on our own, are we?”
“She could be long gone. She’s probably left the country by now. After all, there’s no APB out on ‘Louise Sanderson.’ It’s not hard to get fake ID’s in California. Hell, her dad had a dozen aliases. If he hadn’t been into killing, he could have made a fortune drawing multiple unemployment benefits.”
A soft purring momentarily caused my heart to stop dead, only to start again with pounding energy. A horde of murmuring mice?
Tabitha had been equally startled, but then she gave me a sheepish grin. She reached into her jacket, which apparently hid all the gizmos even if it couldn’t fully hide her figure, and pulled free her cell phone. She flipped it open and said hello, sounding very much like an old man. She hadn’t gotten much sleep, either.
She listened for about ten seconds, nodded once, and said, “Can you get Ramirez? I’m not exactly up to it.” She waited a beat, then added. “Yes, of course I know I’m the sister and it makes a great photo op. Well, the mayor can go to hell. Goodbye.”
“What’s wrong?” I asked, after she hung up.
“They want me to come in,” she said. “Looks like the mayor is making this the crime of the century and the symbol of all that is wrong with society, and wants to use me to proselytize in front of the cameras.”
“And convince the public why he should get re-elected so he can boost police funding.”
“That’s the drill. Unfortunately, they’re
looking for Gerda when they should be looking for Louise.”
“You didn’t tell them,” I pointed out.
“Because we’re not doing it that way. If this is blowing up and the media types are watching, I picture an ugly standoff, a lot of backstory on the Surgeon, and, if my nephew is lucky to make it out of this alive—which I seriously doubt given the level of cop-jock hormones raging at the moment—then he’ll never have a normal life. He’ll always be the ‘Serial Killer Baby’ and get his own YouTube channel.”
Every time she mentioned the baby, a baseball bat of guilt and awe whacked me in the stomach. The thought of Gerda’s reptilian smile as she held my baby boy sobered me up better than black coffee and any twelve-step program. “We’re back to Square One, then.”
“No.” Tabby flipped open the phone. “Square Two.”
Chapter Twenty-two
“Hey, this is Officer Tabitha Mead with Fullerton PD,” she said into the phone, using her most professional tone. “I have to serve a court summons on a Louise Sanderson and she apparently moved recently. I know that’s a common name but maybe if you searched your database of recent property transfers, she might turn up.”
Tabby smiled as if she were there in person, carrying out her con with charm. This woman had a lot of guile, but I was beginning to realize it was an attribute of her gender, since I’d never met a woman who was merely all that she seemed and nothing more.
“Okay, I’ll hold,” she said.
But I didn’t hold, even though she wasn’t talking to me. I jumped two feet without using my legs.
A mouse had come into the hallway, darting like a kamikaze bomber straight at me.
I didn’t run, though. I neatly stepped on it. Blood spurted from under my boot in five different directions, and the bones crunched like potato chips.
I was relatively proud of myself. In any other circumstance, I would have fled the room, waving my arms, screaming bloody murder at the top of my lungs.
Okay, maybe I wouldn’t have acted that dramatically, but I sure as hell wouldn’t have calmly lifted my foot and squashed the shit out of the mouse at any other time in my life. The truth is, I had pretended it was Gerda. Or Louise.
I twisted my boot once more for good luck.
I wasn’t planning on staying around for that much-anticipated sequel: The Return of the Becursed Mice: Watch as They Try and Eat Al, One Nibble at a Time.
Sure to be a summer hit.
More mice were coming into the living room, as if somebody had rung the breakfast bell at hell camp. There’s a point where fear turns into blind, scared rage, and I must have hit that point. I went into action like a faded celeb on Dancing with the Stars, kicking, flailing, pirouetting and stomping. I ignored the ones now swarming over my legs.
“Call you back!” Tabby shouted into the phone as she dashed for the door.
I dashed, too. The cream shag carpeting now boiled with the little buggers, and even without a deep-seated phobia, any sane person would have been in a state of panic.
One mouse made it up my leg despite my best efforts, and when it reached my neck, I felt the tips of its teeth rub across my skin like a vampire bat without the wings. I plucked it free and hurled it against the wall, where it hit with a satisfying smack. If my life ever did get back to normal, I’d be facing some serious interior renovation.
With mice crunching and squishing underfoot, I turned to see Tabby at the door, wrestling with the handle. She actually screeched, and the feminine, high-pitched tone made me feel a little better about being a coward. A couple of mice were tangled in her hair, and I grabbed them and smashed their tiny little heads together.
God, I was starting to enjoy it a little.
And that spooked me almost as much as being eaten alive by mice.
Tabitha seemed to have an easier time of it, for she probably sported no more than half the mice I did, but it was still an evil sight seeing all those mice crawling all over this beautiful woman who was my link to the woman I’d loved and the child I needed to save.
She reached into her jacket and I was sure she was going to come out with a pistol, which would have been a little like shooting gnats with a cannon. She thought better of it, and instead flung the door open and shook her shoulders, shedding mice as the pink, welcome dawn poured in.
By the time I reached the opening, my hands and the back of my neck had been bitten repeatedly. Blood gleamed wetly on the black material of my jacket, but was unnoticeable otherwise. Though I still slapped at my hands and neck, it seemed fruitless, for the mice would reappear almost instantly. Where one died, two seemed to take its place. And, considering I was still under a curse, that might have been the prescribed mathematical formula.
They were back in full force now. Perhaps even in greater numbers than before.
As if displaying a sense of humor, one of the little shits bit me on my ring finger, right where a gold band might have protected me. I slammed the back of my hand against the doorjamb, and the mouse gave a tiny squeak of surprise. It died far more suddenly than it deserved.
Tabby and I poured out of my house along with about a hundred mice. If the neighbors hadn’t had their fill of Albert Shipway legends yet, then here was another harvest for the gossip mill.
I reached for my Harley keys in my left front pocket, felt a plump mouse, tossed it aside, and quickly dug back into the pocket.
No keys.
I felt the left front pocket. No luck.
Alarm overcame me. Did I leave the keys in the house? Did I have to go back in there? Or else try to outrun the Critter Patrol on foot?
I patted my back jeans pockets. Nope. Still nothing.
My hands swept over all the pockets again, sure that I had missed the big wad of keys somehow. I hadn’t.
Shit.
“I don’t have my keys!” I shouted at Tabby, who was already mounting the bike.
“Hop on,” she said. And then Tabitha produced the most glorious, glimmering bundle I had ever seen. My keys.
“What—” I didn’t have time to finish the question before she’d filled the ignition and gunned the bike to life.
The bike was already in motion by the time I mounted it like an Apache brave hopping a pony in a John Wayne Western, legs spread and straddling, hoping none of my special areas were damaged during touchdown.
Once we hit the street, Tabby leaning into the turn with experience and confidence, I settled behind her and held on as she broke half a dozen traffic laws. I couldn’t help but recall Tattoo Boy’s taunts of the night before, but my manhood was the least of my worries at the moment, because we still had mice clinging to us.
I beat them off as best I could while hanging on for dear life. You should try it sometime. It’s not all that easy.
Chapter Twenty-three
It took about fifteen minutes of high-speed, life-or-death action before we’d shucked all the mice. Tabby only hit one pothole and somehow managed to avoid police detection. When we hit the hills above Fullerton, she finally pulled over.
The road we were on was not a major road, for it meandered through the back hills of Fullerton. To the right of us, just off the road, were big houses nestled behind gated fences. Spruces and pines were abundant here, and I figured that Fullerton was the rare city where a short drive could go from flat, mundane streets at ocean level to hills thick with trees and winding roads.
As I dismounted with trembling legs and tingling fingers, I noticed one remaining hitchhiker clinging to my jeans. He’d found the one place I couldn’t see while on the bike, and it was an area that, despite my fondness for it, had led to most of the troubles in my life. Its pointy little fangs seemed to be caught on the zipper tug.
“Uh, want me to remove that for you?” Tabby said.
I kept my cool because, though traffic was light, it was still Fullerton and people had business. And even in California, a guy on the side of the road frantically beating at his crotch still drew attention and aroused suspicion. A
red BMW with tinted windows blew by going about twenty miles over the speed limit.
Tabby triggered the kickstand and came over. “Look at its ribs,” she said. “The poor thing’s starving.”
“Well, this poor thing, along with his buddies, tried to eat me alive—and you, too, I might add. And that’s no place to end a hunger strike.”
Tabby reached down and set a finger on its furry back, and I tried to think of a joke but just couldn’t. The mouse did not acknowledge the contact. Its stomach moved in and out quickly with each little breath.
“I think I know the nature of the curse,” said Tabby. “These mice weren’t conjured out of thin air by my grandmother. They were summoned, using some of her most powerful magic. This guy could have lived miles from here, but it was summoned nonetheless. In fact, there’s probably more on their way now, great floods of mice making their way to either you or your house, though I think it’s your house, since that seems to be the stipulation of the curse.”
“And so this mouse, along with the others, has not eaten since being, uh, summoned?” I asked, still acting calm as drivers passed who were oblivious to the demonic forces just a layer of denim away from my naughty bits.
“It’s in bad shape, as are many of the others.”
“Why doesn’t it eat, then, and leave me the fuck alone?”
“It can’t. Animals, with strong enough magic, can be taken control of. In fact, the smaller the animal, the easier to control, for their life-force, their vital energy, their soul is weaker, a mere glimmering compared to humans. A stronger soul, using magic, can always overcome a weaker one, and, as we have seen, command the weaker to do its bidding, as my grandmother has done here.”
As we spoke, the exhausted mouse barely moved, dangling there limply like a hunter’s pelt. “My greatest fear,” I said.