Berenger understood how the man felt and could appreciate the doctor’s regret. But in the world of private investigation, secrets had to be unearthed and exposed by any means possible. In Berenger’s mind, Levine had done nothing wrong. The man helped shed some light on one of the players in a complex and mystifying case.
“Thank you, doctor.” He stood and shook the man’s hand. “Take care of yourself.”
“I hope you solve your case.”
“Me, too.”
Berenger left the doctor on the sofa and headed for the front door. He said goodbye to the receptionist and went outside, where daylight was ebbing. The sun was low in the sky, blocked by the tall buildings.
From his pocket burst the strains of “21st Century Schizoid Man.” He pulled out the mobile and noted that it was Remix calling.
“Berenger.”
“Spike, there’s something you got to see, man, like pronto, on the double!”
“What is it?”
“I got hold of those record albums—you know, Joe Nance’s and Stuart Clayton’s solo disks. I uploaded the music and the covers, just like you asked.”
“Great.”
“You need to take a look at the back cover of Clayton’s solo album, the one called Trrrrans with four Rs.”
“I’m out and about and don’t have Suzanne’s laptop with me.”
“Then go to a Kinko’s and get online. Really, you need to see it.”
“What is it, Remix?”
“It’s best if you have a look yourself. I can’t begin to describe it.”
Berenger turned around and went back inside the building. Meadowmere’s receptionist had a computer. “Okay, Remix. I’ll take a look. I’ll call you back if I have to.” He hung up, approached the middle-aged woman, and asked, “Ma’am, pardon me, but is your computer connected to the Internet?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Would you mind terribly if I just looked up something real quick?”
The woman frowned. “I don’t know…”
“Pretty please?”
“Well, all right. But hurry. I don’t want my supervisor seeing.”
“I’ll just be a few seconds.” Berenger swung behind her desk, opened the browser, typed in the URL of Rockin’ Security’s server, entered his user name and password, and navigated to Remix’s folders. The Trrrrans front cover consisted of nothing unusual—just a picture of Clayton, his back to the camera and looking into a blurred mirror. The reflection wasn’t visible, but the words “Stuart Clayton” and the album’s title were written across the top. Berenger then clicked on the link to view the back cover.
“Oh, my God,” Berenger whispered.
“Is something wrong?” the receptionist asked.
Berenger quickly closed the browser and moved from behind the desk. “No. Thanks very much.”
He ran outside, pulled out his cell phone, and dialed Prescott’s number. It rang twice but then went to her voice mail.
“Damn it, Suzanne!” He ended the call and then noticed that there was still a voice message he hadn’t heard—from Prescott. He quickly connected to his mailbox and listened to what she had left him a couple of hours earlier.
A wave of dread surged through his gut.
He ran to the corner, whistled loudly, and hailed a cab. Once the taxi was on the way, Berenger phoned Mike Case and got voice mail—didn’t anyone answer the phone anymore?—so he dialed 9-1-1. Not knowing exactly what he should tell the dispatcher, he merely said that there was a break-in at Clayton’s address and to send a patrol car immediately. In a few minutes, the cab arrived at the decrepit house on Mango Avenue. The PI paid the driver, got out, started to run for the front door… and stopped.
Where’s the rental car?
Prescott had driven it to Clayton’s house, but it wasn’t parked in front or anywhere on the street that Berenger could see. There was only a Chevy Malibu parked against the curb a couple of doors down. He pulled out his mobile and dialed Prescott’s number again. Voice mail.
“Damn it, Suzanne!”
He went to the front door, and just as she had, found it ajar. Berenger knocked loudly and called inside, “Hello? Stuart? Suzanne?” There was no answer, but Berenger heard music coming from somewhere deep within the house. He wasn’t sure exactly what it was, but it sounded familiar. He stepped inside and shouted louder, “Anyone home? Stuart? Suzanne?”
Berenger drew his Kahr and slowly walked to the kitchen. No one there—just a bunch of disgusting dirty dishes and the leftover pizza from the other evening still on the table. Yuck.
He searched the living room and found the broken picture frames and defaced photos, which caused his anxiety level to increase dramatically. From there he went back to the hallway, peeked into the first bedroom, then the second bedroom, and finally made his way to the studio.
The music was coming from the storage room. The door was open.
As he moved closer, he recognized the song that was playing. It was one of the tracks that the killer had left for him. Allegedly it was sung by Sylvia Favero, but it was really performed by Julia Faerie.
He saw the open trap door in the floor, something he hadn’t noticed the first time he’d glimpsed the storeroom’s interior. The music was drifting up from the basement. A light flickered down below. He knelt beside the opening and called, “Hello? Someone down there? Stuart?”
Berenger threw caution to the wind and descended the wooden staircase. Not realizing that he had followed in the footsteps of his partner, he found himself in the curtained anteroom with the lit candle illuminating the eerie chamber. He parted the drapes to reveal the subterranean living quarters. The music was coming from a CD player that sat on top of the dresser. No one was in the room, but there were several lit candles placed in various locations. The overall effect was macabre and funereal.
Then he saw her.
Prescott was lying on the bed at the other end of the room. She appeared to be asleep.
“Suzanne!”
Berenger ran across the Persian carpet, reached the bed, holstered his handgun, and leaned over to examine his partner. He touched her cheek—it was warm. He bent down and put his ear to her chest—her heart was beating. He rose and then lightly patted her face. “Suzanne, wake up. Hey. Suzanne!”
Perhaps it was the sixth sense he had developed working as a military investigator in Southeast Asia. Maybe it was the years of experience he held as a private detective. Whatever it was, Berenger’s spine tingled and warned him that he was in danger.
He looked up and saw his reflection in the large oval mirror on the wardrobe. A woman with blonde hair, a floppy hat, and sunglasses was rushing toward him from behind. She had a sap her hand, raised above her head.
Berenger whirled around and deflected a blow with his left arm. It hurt like hell and he yelped. The attacker screamed like a banshee and attempted to hit him again. The PI ducked and rolled out from under the woman’s arm—but his assailant stuck out a leg and tripped him. He pitched forward and slammed onto the floor, face down. Berenger twisted his body to avoid being pummeled but it was too late.
The sap came crashing down on his forehead.
Lights out.
The two patrolmen knocked loudly on the front door. When there was no answer, one of them asked the other, “Should we force it open?”
“Doesn’t look broken into to me. I don’t think anybody’s home.”
“Wait, I hear someone.”
There was the sound of shuffling feet behind the door. It opened to reveal a tall, thin man with a cane.
“Yes?”
“Police officers, sir.”
“I see that.”
“We had a call that there was some trouble here. Is everything all right?”
Stuart Clayton blinked in confusion. “There’s no trouble here.”
The officers could see that something was wrong with the left side of the man’s mouth. A stroke victim, perhaps?
“Is anyone else in
the house with you?”
“No, I live alone.”
“And everything’s all right?”
“Everything is fine, officers.”
The two patrolmen looked at each other and shrugged. “Okay then. Must have been a false alarm. Sorry to bother you sir.”
“No bother. Thanks for checking.”
The two officers walked back to their car. Clayton watched them drive away before he shut the door and locked it.
25
Down With the Sickness
(performed by Disturbed)
Prescott awoke nauseated and disoriented, with a massive headache and dry mouth. She was aware that she was lying horizontal on something comfortable—a bed, perhaps. But when she tried to move, she found that she couldn’t. Her wrists were tied to the wooden headboard, which was made of two solid and decorative oak posts with several straight, vertical slats in between. Her ankles were tied to a matching footboard.
She was aware that someone was lying next to her on the bed. Prescott turned her head, attempted to focus her eyes, and realized it was Berenger. He, too, was restrained in the same manner. More troubling was the appearance of a wound on his forehead. The grey and brown hair on his frontal scalp was matted with dried blood. He was breathing heavily but was unconscious.
Her vision slowly cleared and she remembered where she was. With some effort, she was able to lift her head and scan her surroundings. The basement of Clayton’s house was lit with several candles placed around the room. Strange music was playing from a CD player sitting on the dresser. She didn’t see anyone.
Prescott turned back to her partner. “Spike?” Her voice was a hoarse whisper. She cleared her throat, swallowed, and tried again. “Spike! Spike! Wake up!” She attempted to bump her waist against his. Berenger snorted with an intake of breath and made a throaty gurgling noise. “Spike! Wake up!” She jostled her body on the bed, causing the mattress to bounce on the springs. “Wake up!”
Finally, the big man snorted again and moaned. His eyes opened.
“Spike, it’s me. I’m right here next to you.”
He groaned in pain and confusion. Just as she had done, he tried to move and discovered he was bound. “What… what the…?”
“Spike, we’re tied up. We’re in Clayton’s basement.”
“Su… Suzanne?”
“Yes! How do you feel? Are you all right?”
“Ohhhh, fuck. My… head. Fuck.”
“You have a nasty bump on your forehead. What happened?”
“I don’t know. Wait… I remember. She… attacked me. The bitch… hit me…”
“She got me, too.”
“Where… where is… she now?”
“I don’t know.”
He groaned louder. “Oh, my head.”
“You might have a concussion. You need to stay awake, Spike.”
“I don’t know…” His words were slurring. “I just wanna sleep some more…”
“Spike! No!”
“Wait… wait a minute… I found out… something…”
“What? What did you find out? Spike!”
He mumbled and drifted away.
“Spike! Stay awake!”
“Huh?”
“What did you find out?”
“Trying to… remember…oh… yeah… she’s not… she’s not…”
“What? She’s not what?”
“We’re all… wrong… the… killer isn’t…”
“Spike, what are you saying?”
But before he could answer, Prescott heard steps on the staircase at the other end of the room. She raised her head and saw the woman walking toward them. Their captor wore blue jeans, a baby doll top, and the trademark floppy hat. Her sunglasses shielded most of her face from them.
“You’re awake,” the woman said. The voice was low and soft.
“My friend needs medical attention,” Prescott said. “You hit him on the head. He’s got a concussion.”
The woman came closer, bent over Berenger and touched his head. The PI moaned, but didn’t move. He was still dazed.
“It doesn’t look so bad,” the woman said. “It’s a shame that you decided to work against me. He was going to produce my record. Now I see he was lying.”
“Who are you?”
“You know who I am.”
“You’re not Sylvia Favero. She’s dead.”
The woman ignored her and moved to the wardrobe. She opened it and removed what appeared to be a Turkish hookah, but it was unlike any hookah that Prescott had seen before. There were four hoses protruding from the large water jar at the base of the contraption. An air mask that fit over the mouth and nose was attached to the end of each hose instead of the usual cylindrical mouthpiece. The hookah’s single stem body was tall, nearly four feet, and there was a large dish at the top. There appeared to be a motor underneath the dish.
“What the fuck is that?” Prescott asked.
The woman pushed the hookah across the rug and set it next to the bed. She then took a hose, placed the facemask on Berenger, and slipped the elastic band around his head so that it fit snugly over his mouth and nose. She then took another hose and mask and moved toward Prescott.
“Don’t you touch me with that!”
Prescott rocked her head back and forth, struggling against the woman’s strength. But the nausea returned and suffocated her, so she had to stop. Vomiting would not be a pleasant act, given that she and Berenger were restrained and lying on their backs. The killer got the facemask on her and tightened the elastic strap.
What was she going to do? Poison us?
The woman went back to the wardrobe and removed more items. She came back to the bed holding a large freezer bag full of what appeared to be oregano or marijuana. In her other hand was a butane lighter with a long stem. She carefully emptied some of the leafy material onto the hookah dish. Apparently there were several small bowls fastened to the top of the dish, placed around the inner side of its circumference. She filled each bowl with the substance and then flipped a switch on the motor. The dish slowly began to turn. The woman then attached an odd horseshoe-shaped object onto the stem beneath the dish. This “arm” stuck out beyond and over the dish so that its end pointed down at the moving bowls as they passed beneath it. Finally, the woman ignited the butane lighter and lit what appeared to be wick inside a container of oil that was built into the top of the arm.
She’s going to make us smoke something…!
As Prescott watched with trepidation, she began to understand how the hookah worked. The dish was on a motorized timer. As the dish slowly turned, each bowl would align itself beneath the lit wick for a certain amount of time. As she and Berenger breathed, smoke would be drawn in from the bowl, through the hookah stem, and out of the hoses and facemasks. There was nothing they could do to prevent themselves from breathing the smoke. After a few minutes, the dish continued to turn; the bowl and what was left in it would move away from the flame. But several minutes after that, a fresh bowl would line up with the flame.
One of the bowls was nearing the lit wick. The woman stood by the bed to watch and make sure the hookah was working properly.
Prescott’s eyes grew wide with fear. What could possibly in those bowls? If it was pot or tobacco, fine, she could handle it.
The bowl was almost there. Another few seconds...
Prescott smelled the smoke as it wafted into her facemask. She attempted to hold her breath as the mask filled, but the bowl stayed aligned with the fire for much longer than she could stand. Eventually she had to take a breath. It couldn’t be helped—she inhaled the smoke into her lungs.
The effect was almost immediate. She felt a familiar rumbling sensation through her body and then she recognized the taste.
Salvia divinorum! Oh my God…!
And then she was tripping. Prescott felt her consciousness separate from her physical self and flatten into what seemed to be a membrane-like plane. The room became a vessel filled with turbulence
as she struggled against her binds, but her arms and legs were appendages with minds of their own. There was an impression of falling within herself, as if she was turning inside out. Then her body’s molecules fused with the bed she was lying on and she became a part of the furniture—or she was the bed. She was aware of herself thinking, No! No! No! but at the same time there was a deafening roar in her ears that was the whirlpool of textures, lights, and sounds around her.
This unpleasantness broke away and developed into something new and more terrifying. Her free-floating consciousness was traveling at a great speed on a rollercoaster of nerves, brain stems, blood cells, and veins. She was inside the membrane that was her only existence now—a living, breathing, fleshy layer of tissue that contained everything that was once Suzanne Prescott. The membrane was connected to the universe by stretchy tendrils of skin and hair. It was as if the cells of her body had gone through a blender and come out on the other side as something else.
Time was zero. Thoughts were oceans. She passed through a rip in reality and there was no way back.
And then… it began to wane…
Prescott had a human body again. Slowly, fluidly, gently… she became herself…
She didn’t know how long the hallucinations lasted, but the trip was the most frightening thing she’d ever experienced. She had experimented with all manner of substances when she was younger. The salvia she had tried in the Far East was not as powerful as this. The woman was likely using the highest strength of extract possible. It was totally concentrated, pure, and dangerous.
Prescott was aware of the room once again. She turned her head and saw the hookah, which was now a totem pole of madness and evil. The dish was still turning and she understood that the bowl had cleared the lit wick. It would be some time before the next bowl aligned itself beneath the flame. Time enough to think… think…
Think! she commanded herself. Snap out of it!
She struggled and pulled her arms and legs against the binds.
Have… to… get… out… of… this!
The Rock 'n Roll Detective's Greatest Hits - A Spike Berenger Anthology Page 48