by J. R. Rain
That fateful day.
* * *
Jasmine is working the register. People come and go. Money is exchanged, credit cards are swiped, gift cards are used. The door opens, and Jasmine looks up and greets the customer, as any good Starbucks employee should.
There she is.
“Welcome to Starbucks,” I hear Jasmine say.
Lucy Gleason nods and appears to say something, but Jasmine’s wandering mind fills in the gap with an image of her boyfriend riding a dirt bike, shirtless.
Now, Lucy Gleason is waiting in line behind two other people.
Here, Jasmine’s memory is fuzzy at best. The snatches that she recalls of Lucy waiting in line are brief and chaotic, and that’s to be expected. Still, every now and then, Jasmine’s eyes land on Lucy...and for good reason. Lucy is chewing her nails nervously, and looking around. In particular, she’s looking up.
She’s looking for cameras.
Now, Lucy’s head snaps around quickly, looking behind her, and this also catches Jasmine’s attention.
In a blur, the two people before Lucy come and go, and now it’s her turn to order. Lucy steps up.
“What can we make for you?” asks Jasmine.
Lucy doesn’t look her in the eye. Instead, she cracks her neck a little, then reaches back and rubs it. Nervous, stressed. “Just a water for now.”
“Sure,” says Jasmine cheerily enough. “Can I get you anything else?”
The image in Jasmine’s memory is briefly replaced by another face, another time, another customer. That Jasmine has remembered this much from a brief encounter with thousands of customers is amazing enough. This other customer fades away, to be replaced again by Lucy, who is now walking away.
Jasmine briefly watches her go, before the image fades away. It was, of course, where Lucy was clearly going that got my attention.
She had been headed to the bathrooms.
* * *
I released Jasmine’s hands.
“And that’s all I remember,” she was saying.
“You can open your eyes now,” I said, aware that she was still mostly under the command of my voice, which did little for me, but excited the bitch within me.
Jasmine opened her eyes slowly, and seemed to return to the present. She blinked hard, and then, opened her eyes wide.
“Wow, what happened? I felt like I was asleep—”
“You won’t make a scene,” I said evenly, keeping my voice low. I could have just as easily thought the words, but we were isolated enough, and there was enough ambient noise that I couldn’t have been overheard.
She nodded minutely, blinked slowly, and said, “I really don’t remember much. She ordered a water, and then went to the bathroom.”
“And you never saw her again?”
“No,”
“Never saw her exit?”
Jasmine shook her head. “If she did, I didn’t see it. We don’t monitor the bathrooms here. There are no keys or anything. People just come and go, and the bathrooms are around the corner, sort of out of my sight from the cash register.”
“Did you see her pick up the water?”
She thought hard, and then shook her head. “I don’t remember.”
“That’s okay,” I said. “Thank you.”
“Sorry I wasn’t of much help,” she said. She looked at her cell phone. “I have to get to work. My shift starts soon.”
I thanked her and watched her go, all too aware that controlling her had been very, very exciting.
Too exciting.
Chapter Eighteen
I sipped on my water and considered what I’d learned.
Jasmine Calcutta’s statement lined up perfectly with what she had given the police. After all, like Henry Gleason, I’d witnessed her experience firsthand.
And what had I witnessed?
Lucy had been nervous, that much was certain. She had looked over her shoulder more than once. She had looked for a camera, too. She hadn’t ordered an iced mocha, but I knew that, too. She had told Henry she wanted an iced mocha, and had come in and ordered a water. The iced mochas were, in fact, a ruse. Almost immediately, Lucy had gone straight to the restrooms.
Had she actually made it to the restrooms? Did she meet someone, say, in the short hallway?
There was no way to know, since Jasmine’s memory stopped just as Lucy entered the short hallway to the restrooms.
I drummed my long, pointed nails on the mostly clean table. My drumming was a tad louder than I’d intended it to be, so I stopped. Damned, big-ass nails. Finally, I got up and headed to the bathrooms. Knowing they may have been Lucy’s final destination, I decided to investigate the bathrooms anew, with renewed vigor and interest.
Lucky me.
There was little spirit activity at Starbucks, outside of the occasional grandparent or parent or friend swinging by a loved one to say hi. Murders and suicides tended to result in real hauntings. Although violent acts didn’t result in hauntings, they almost indelibly left their imprint on the environment.
But I saw nothing. No chaotic, staticy energy. Nothing. Normal energy. Peaceful energy. Starbucks energy.
Whatever that meant.
One thing was certain: no violent act had been perpetrated here. No one had been killed or raped or beaten here, as far as I could see.
Although this Starbucks was a little older than others, it still had that hip, industrial, modern vibe that people loved so much. That Starbucks feel, if you will.
The hallway was short, lined with wood paneling and photographs of Huntington Beach Pier. There was a broom closet that had, yes, a broom, a mop and a bucket in it, along with a water heater. No room for a female adult, even a small female adult like Lucy Gleason. I shut the broom closet door and moved on.
To my right was the men’s restroom. Directly ahead was the women’s. I tried the handle to the women’s, unlocked. I stepped inside, feeling more excited than I should have about going into a public bathroom.
* * *
The bathroom light turned on automatically.
I wasn’t sure what I was looking for. The bathroom, of course, looked exactly the same as it had last time. But she had come here last, dammit.
Here, in this bathroom. I was sure of it.
I had seen it!
I noted the shining metal trashcan, the low, sleek toilet, a sink, a mirror and a baby-changing station. I unlatched the baby-changing station, opening and closing the plastic tray. It worked as it should. There was nothing hidden behind it, no secret panel.
With that thought in mind, I checked the mirror carefully; it, too, was sealed to the wall. I could pry it loose and give a look behind it, but what good would that do? The sucker had been on the wall for a long time.
I turned in the small circle. Outside of disappearing down into the toilet, I was at a loss.
Stumped.
Confounded.
I hated that.
I sighed, looked at myself in the mirror, and saw mostly nothing. I had added some quick foundation this evening, eyeliner, just enough so that I would show up in most reflections, most mirrors, most security cameras. However, I could see where I had missed some spots. An empty spot was there on my forehead, as if I had a hole in my head.
I held up my hands...and couldn’t see them. I pressed them against the cold mirror, and neither a smudge nor a fingerprint remained.
This was, of course, nothing new to me, other than another reminder to how far I had slipped from the realm of normal...to that of the paranormal.
I sighed and considered where the devil Lucy had gone, and decided to head for the men’s bathroom next.
Might as well.
Chapter Nineteen
“Someone’s in here,” called a man’s voice when I tried the handle and found it locked.
Feeling awkward, I leaned a shoulder against the wall opposite the door, folded my arms and waited. While I waited, a middle-aged guy stepped into the hallway, whistling to himself. He stopped whistli
ng, looked at me, looked up at the nameplate on the door, and frowned.
“The women’s is broken,” I said.
He nodded and slid into line next to me.
“Is it going to be bad in there?” I asked.
He was a balding guy with a nice build. He wore a Lakers tank top and basketball shorts. He chuckled and said, “It’s hit or miss.”
“Literally,” I said.
He grinned. “Something like that. But it’s Starbucks, so...”
“So, it’s Starbucks clean.”
“I’m not sure what that means.”
“Neither do I.” And since I had nothing better to do, I took a shot in the dark, which might not be any different than what was going on in the men’s bathroom. “Weird about that girl disappearing here.”
“Oh, right. Heard about that.”
“Apparently, she was last seen going into the bathroom.”
He raised an eyebrow. “Okay, now you’re freaking me out.”
I laughed. “Sorry.”
“I’m just trying to take a piss here.”
“Me, too. But girls call it peeing.”
“Yeah, right. Sorry. Didn’t mean to—”
“Just busting your balls, bub. So, what do you think happened to that girl?”
“I would say the husband did her in.”
“Except the husband never came inside, and she was last seen inside.”
“Last seen by who?”
I nodded toward the counter. “One of the girls working the cash register.”
“I dunno, man.”
“Woman.”
“Well, either way, it’s a fu—freakin’ mystery.”
“If you were hired to look into it, where would you begin?”
“Why are you asking?”
I showed him my private investigator’s license, complete with a face doused in makeup. “That’s why I’m asking.”
“Oh, shit. You’re a private cop?”
“Yup.”
“And you’re looking into this?”
“Yup.”
“You really don’t have to use the bathroom, do you?”
“Nope.”
The door opened, and he jumped in front of me and turned back. “Cause I really do gotta go, um, potty. Sorry!”
And he slammed the door in my face.
* * *
He came out five minutes later, drying his hands, thank God.
“Hey, I cleaned up in there a little for you.”
“You are a good man.”
“You have no idea.”
“I have a ten-year-old boy and was married for nearly a dozen years. Guys miss. Often.”
He laughed and motioned for me to follow him. “Come here, I wanna show you something.”
“If I had a nickel for every time a guy at Starbucks told me they wanted to show me something in the bathroom...”
“Just come on, smartass. Check this out.”
He led me inside. It was an exact replica of the women’s restroom, complete with the baby-changing station. There was, however, one noticeable difference: the smell of urine. Also, there were one, two, three instances of graffiti, although minor at that. A pencil drawing of a man’s genitalia here, a pen drawing above the toilet that said “Shit here,” complete with an arrow. Helpful.
“So, I was cleaning the floor a little—”
“Cleaning the floor?”
“I have OCD, what can I say? Anyway, I was using a bunch of paper towels, pushing them around with my foot—”
“Why?”
“You seem like a classy chick, and I don’t want you to think all guys are slobs.”
“That’s sweet,” I said. “I still think all guys are slobs. All guys, except maybe you.”
“Better than nothing,” he said.
“I might have to marry you.”
He held up his left hand. “Someone beat you to it.”
“Oh, damn. Then can I hire you to clean my house?”
“You couldn’t afford me.”
I laughed. He laughed. I said, “So, what did you want to show me?”
“Well, I was mopping under the sink when my toe hit something.”
“Hit what?”
“Watch.”
He used his foot to reach under the sink and tap on the wall vent. Nothing happened at first. He tapped again, and the vent fell away, hanging in place by a single screw.
“Voila,” he said, and pointed.
I saw it, too.
It was an opening behind the wall.
An opening big enough for a very small person.
“Please tell me there’s not a dead body in there,” I said. Of course, the idea of a dead body in there didn’t disturb me at all. If anything, it intrigued me mightily.
“I checked, it’s empty.”
“Big enough to hold a person?”
“You tell me.”
“Give me some room,” I said, and dropped down to my knees. “Is the door locked behind us?”
“Let me check.” He checked. “Yes.”
“Good,” I said from under the sink. I felt my excitement rising. At least the floor was semi-clean, thanks to Mr. OCD.
I used my index finger to pry loose the remaining screw holding the vent in place. My nails might look hideous, but they did occasionally serve a purpose. I set the vent aside and peered into the dark opening. Behind me, Mr. Clean was peering over my shoulder, too.
“Seems small,” he said.
I studied the dimensions, my voice echoing within the dusty, dark opening. “I could fit.”
“I sure as hell couldn’t.”
“You’re also not a missing housewife who is, I think, even smaller than me.”
“Except she’s not in there.”
“Good point,” I said. I stood suddenly and shoved Captain Obvious hard against the bathroom wall, somewhere between the sink and the door. I pinned him to the wall.
“Hey, what the fu—”
I said, “You will forget me, the bathroom, and especially the vent. Oh, and you will forget me feeding from you, as well.”
“I...okay.”
I took his hand, made a slit across the inside of his wrist, and drank deeply from the man, all while he stared down at me in dumbfounded shock. I stared up at him, looking, I’m sure, like the ghoul that I knew I was.
When I had drunk my fill—a bloody latte, if you will—I released his hand.
“Now,” I said, wiping the corners of my mouth and licking my own fingers. “You will forget all of this.” I looked at his wrist, which was already healing nicely. “Now, go.”
And he went, confused, blinking rapidly. At the open door, he looked back at me once, blinked fast, and then was gone.
Now, said a voice in my head, a voice that didn’t belong to me. That wasn’t so hard, was it?
No, I thought. Not hard at all.
Chapter Twenty
I was sitting with Detective Sharp at a Carl’s Jr., a popular fast food chain here in Southern California. At least, it was popular to flesh-eating mortals, of which there were, apparently, many.
Detective Sharp was looking at me curiously as he worked his way through a hamburger that would have fed my entire family. Or would have fed them back in the day. The burger was called the Six-Dollar Burger. The catch being, of course, was that it was only $3.95. Brilliant advertising. You’re getting more than what you’re paying for. It also implied that you were getting a restaurant-quality burger without the restaurant price.
“You’re expecting me to believe that she hid in a vent in the men’s bathroom?” said the detective, after a few minutes of chewing. He had mostly swallowed when he spoke.
“Maybe not the men’s bathroom,” I said. “The women’s has an identical vent under the sink.”
He took another healthy bite from his burger. Admittedly, it looked like a six-dollar burger. It also looked delicious. What I wouldn’t give to—
“Then go buy one,” said Sharp.
&nbs
p; Oops. He’d read my mind. I guess the detective and I were getting a little closer. I immediately placed my internal wall around me.
I said, “I dunno. Six bucks seems too much for a burger...”
“They’re not really six bucks,” said Sharp. “They’re like three ninety-five or something. Four bucks.”
I shook my head. “Says right there on the sign. Six bucks.”
“It’s called a six-dollar burger, but it’s really four bucks.”
“I’m so confused.”
“Look, it’s not really six—oh, you’re fucking with me.”
“Ya think?”
“Screw you, Samantha Moon,” he said, but laughed.
I said, “Looks good, but I’m on a diet.”
“What kind of diet?”
“Liquid diet.”
“Suit yourself, but this is damn good.”
“I’ll remember it for next time. The six-dollar burger that isn’t six dollars.”
He shook his head, reached for some fries. “So, these vents in the bathrooms...you think a woman could fit in them?”
I nodded. “I know I could, but not comfortably, and I wouldn’t want to stay in there long—or at all. But yeah.”
“And, is it safe to assume there was no woman in it now, dead or otherwise?”
“It’s safe to assume it.”
“Any indication that someone had, you know, been in it?”
“Nothing that I could visually confirm. Her fingerprints might be there, though.”
“Yours, too, I assume.”
I didn’t, of course, leave fingerprints behind anymore. To do so implied I had oils on my skin, oils that transferred from my skin to say, metal. No such oils existed in me. No, I hadn’t seen any signs of prints, but that was often hard to tell with the naked eye. Even a supernatural naked eye.
I said, “I was careful not to leave any prints behind. My guess, though, is that she would have cleaned it thoroughly.”