by Jac Simensen
“Wipe,” she said. Hattie exchanged the needle for a sterile, alcohol-infused pad, which Devon used to remove the blood that had gathered on Gordon’s skin.
“The power,” Hattie said, placing a small, plastic, eyedropper-like bottle in Devon’s hand.
Devon tilted the bottle over her needlework and dripped a few ink-black drops onto Gordon’s skin, then blotted the excess liquid with the used wipe.
“Good?” Hattie asked.
“Perfect.” Devon grinned and moved her hands away so that Hattie could admire her handiwork. “Now he’s mine.”
The inky liquid had stemmed the blood flow and the new, half-inch tattoo was precise. At first glance, it appeared to be a capital L, but closer inspection showed that, unlike an L, the bottom leg of the mark was tilted upward.
“Anesthetic,” Hattie said as she handed Devon a fresh wipe and another dropper bottle. “That mark’s likely ta sting for a bit.”
Devon dripped on the clear liquid and then blotted the tattoo with the fresh wipe. “Okay, now you set up the Du-mon on the window ledge outside the children’s room. I need to get outta here before Gordon wakes up.”
Hattie laid a small, black, felt-covered package on the bed. She rolled back the cloth and removed a brightly painted figure. The one-piece icon stood no more than ten inches tall. Its torso was a sphere that was painted to mimic a bloodshot eyeball, with a bright red iris. Two separate heads extended from the eyeball. One head had a leering, cruel smile, and the other was painted in violent colors and twisted with rage, its jagged teeth bared.
Devon grasped the Du-mon and pressed it firmly between her breasts. “That’ll wake it up!” she hissed.
Hattie dropped the bottles and needle into her beaded bag and zipped it tightly. “After all these years, I still don’t like to mess with that slimy thing.”
“The Du-mon is my alternate consciousness—my proxy. When I transfer power to the Du-mon, I get total control over the mind of anyone who bears my mark—the babies and now Gordon. Soon, we’ll mark Nila and add her to our little family. Then the Du-mon can rest until I need it again.”
Hattie shook her head. “You really wanna have them all hangin’ round? I mean, you haven’t never done this family stuff before.”
“You stupid girl! Nila and Gordon are breeders. If something happens to the twins and they die or are disfigured before we can take their bodies, we’ll need other babies. Nila and Gordon are young and healthy. They can make us lots more baby bodies if we need ’em.”
“Brilliant—jus’ brilliant,” Hattie said with a chuckle.
26
It was a small mouse. The mouse had been attracted by the smell of stale, shelled peanuts that had long ago become lodged between the wooden baseboard and the concrete floor in the space that, before the mini-lift was installed, had been the kitchen pantry. Unable to coax out the few tightly wedged peanuts, the mouse turned its attention elsewhere and squeezed through a ventilation opening in the lift’s motor enclosure. It sniffed at the grease on the gears.
Carrie stepped into the lift and pressed the up switch. The electric motor whirred into action and the gears caught hold of the mouse’s tail, quickly pulling its body into their sharp teeth. In an instant, the mouse’s soft body became a clot of blood, fur, and gore, but when the gear teeth encountered and crushed the tiny creature’s skull, the resilient bone fragments logged in the spaces between the gear teeth and caused the electric motor to strain, sputter, overload, and then stop. Carrie peered down. The single-passenger elevator had traveled only five feet above floor level before jerking to a halt, and the light flowing into the kitchen from the conservatory was still clearly visible at the base of the elevator shaft. She pressed the down button. Nothing happened. Then she pressed the up button—still nothing. The small ventilator fan at the top of the wooden car continued to whirl away and the lights on the control buttons glowed brightly; it was clear that a power failure wasn’t the cause of the stop. She pressed the up and down buttons again—there was no response. Carrie was aware that she was beginning to breathe rapidly and forced her lungs to slow down. Months before, just before she’d taken her first ride, Nick had explained the safety features of the single-passenger lift, but in the excitement of that initial brief journey, she hadn’t taken in much of that information. All Carrie could recall was that Nick had said there were rubber friction strips in the shaft that would slow the fall of the car should it become separated from its cable—friction strips that would gradually arrest the fall before the car could crash onto the concrete floor below. She looked at her watch; it was 6:20 in the evening. Fortunately, Margaret, her assistant, would still be at the office and could call for help. Carrie reached to the right-rear pocket of her jeans for her cell phone. It wasn’t there.
“Damn,” she said aloud. In her mind, she could see the phone lying on the kitchen table where she’d left it after talking with Nick. Beads of sweat started to form on the back of Carrie’s neck and she forced herself to sit on the triangular seat that Nick had built into the left corner of the box. The seat was shallow, barely deep enough for both butt cheeks—more a package shelf than a real seat. “Okay, what to do?” she asked herself and reviewed her situation. Nick would be calling between nine and ten to finalize their weekend plans for a Saturday overnight, and Sunday picnic, on his brother’s boat. Nick would be surprised that she wasn’t in. He’d guess she’d probably gone around the corner to Razza’s convenience store to buy milk, or something else she needed for breakfast. She was sure that Nick would realize something was wrong when he called a second time and she failed to answer. Although it would be late by then, she felt confident he’d call Stella, her longtime next-door neighbor, or Margaret. She was equally sure that when Nick spoke to them, either Stella or Margaret would come to the house. Both of them had door keys, and could call 999 and get the fire brigade to rescue her. Carrie looked at her watch once. “Half-ten,” she said aloud—four hours from the present time. She knew that would be the most optimistic timeframe for her release. Carrie felt sure she could survive the claustrophobic imprisonment of the box—her wooden coffin—for four hours. But what if it took longer? What if Nick decided it was too late to call? He was always considerate of her work schedule and knew she would be rising at six for work. She kicked off her high heels, knelt, and tried to find a reasonably comfortable position on the carpeted floor. The floor was nearly square, but she discovered that, with her feet under the corner seat and her body curled toward the open front, she’d be able to rest, if not actually sleep.
Carrie stood, stretched her arms to either side of the car, and tried to force herself to relax. Nick would call—she knew he would call. “Don’t quit yet,” she said aloud. “Maybe I can get this thing unstuck.” She stood shoeless in the middle of the car and jumped up as high as she was able. As her feet impacted the floor when she came back down, the car seemed to descend a fraction. She jumped again but nothing happened. Carrie tried three more jumps and then gave up. The intercom! She’d forgotten about the intercom that connected to a small speaker that was set into the wooden trim next to the front door of the house. She pressed the call button, and the light lit; it was working.
“Help!” Carrie called. “Help me! I’m stuck in the lift.” She called again and again until her face was damp with perspiration and her throat was raspy. She looked at her watch and decided it would make sense to wait until she heard noise from a passing pedestrian near the front door before calling out again. The sciatica in her lower back and left leg was beginning to throb. Carrie realized that she wasn’t too far from panicking and started to sob.
~*~
Nila was bored. The clothes and the models were all beginning to look the same and the dresses and gowns displayed on the catwalk were styles she had never worn and knew she never would. After the experience with DiDi, Nila wasn’t about to leave the twins with a hotel-supplied sitter. The girls had both been very quiet but were losing patience and beginning to fu
ss. Nila had hoped that they would fall asleep, but the pulsing music, and constantly changing lighting, along with the steady applause from the enthusiastic, well-dressed, mainly female audience, prevented the girls’ boredom from turning into sleep. Nila had strategically placed herself and the twins in the back of the room, next to the main exit, and now she stood and quietly pushed the new double stroller toward the door. Mary had placed Della in a prime-viewing seat in the first row along the catwalk. Della was clearly caught up in the uniqueness of the event and was obviously enjoying herself. She turned her head toward the departing Nila and frowned. Nila smiled and waved her hand in a gesture she hoped Della would read as, “Stay and have a good time.” Della seemed to understand and returned Nila’s smile. A tuxedo-clad hotel-staff member held the door open for Nila as she guided the stroller into the hallway.
“Drink,” Janna called loudly. Nila stooped in front of the stroller, and Julie echoed Janna’s request.
“How about some ice cream? You two have been so patient that you deserve a reward.”
“Icekeem,” Julie enthused.
Nila stood and wheeled the stroller toward the lobby snack bar.
“Icekeem, icekeem,” the twins repeated in unison.
Two young women having coffee at a table by the window overlooking the street were the only other people in the snack bar. Nila arranged the chairs at a small table to accommodate the stroller, placed her bag on the table, and turned toward the service counter.
“Sit down, honey,” the frizzy-haired Hispanic woman behind the counter said to Nila. “I’ll come to you.”
“Icekeem, icekeem,” the twins called.
“Same as yesterday?” the waitress asked Nila.
Nila grinned. “I guess you’ll have to ask them—it seems like they’re doing the ordering.”
The waitress stroked Julie’s dark hair. “Two ice-cream cups comin’ up. Coffee for you, honey?”
“How about some iced tea—unsweetened, with lemon?”
“You got it,” the waitress replied and returned behind the counter. “These-here ice-cream cups are frozen pretty solid. You want me to soften ’em up in the microwave?”
Nila nodded. “Good idea. I’m gonna let them feed themselves, so get the ice cream rather soft, if you would. Oh—and better bring some extra serviettes.”
“Serviettes?” the waitress asked.
“Sorry—paper napkins.”
Nila’s left hand was resting on the table when her ring suddenly pulsed, the gold band gently contracting around her finger. She looked down at the ring and spread her fingers wide. It happened again, and this time the orange diamond flashed in unison with the ring’s contraction. Nila twisted the ring with her right hand—the ring swiveled but wouldn’t come off. It pulsed again—this time, the contraction was stronger.
The waitress arrived with the ice cream. “It’s nice and soft,” she said. “Do you want me to give the cups to the girls? I brought plastic spoons and paper napkins. Napkins are servilletas in Spanish—I should have known what you wanted.”
“In England, we say serviette. Sure, let’s let ’em have some fun; they’ve been angels all morning.” Nila flipped up the plastic tray on the front of the stroller and the waitress placed an ice-cream cup in front of each twin while Nila stuck in the plastic spoons.
“Ouch!” Nila called out, and pulled her left hand away from the tray.
“You pinch yourself on that tray, honey?” the waitress asked.
Nila held up her hand. “It’s this ring—it’s uncomfortable on my finger and I’m getting cramps.”
The waitress held Nila’s wrist and inspected her hand. “Gorgeous ring—can you take it off?”
“It’s not especially tight, but I can’t seem to get it over my knuckle.”
“Butter,” the waitress offered. “That always works. Let me get some and you can try it.”
The ring pulsed and flashed again.
Nila twisted the ring and peered into the central facet—the flat face that jewelers call the table—where she saw a bright image. The image wasn’t actually displayed on the surface of the stone—it was more like the diamond was projecting an image through Nila’s eyes to her consciousness. The image was perfectly distinct, clearer than a photo on the screen of her iPhone. It was her mother, who was lying, unmoving, on her side in a near-fetal position. Nila gasped and turned the ring away from her gaze.
“You all right, honey?” the waitress asked.
“I—I don’t know,” Nila stammered. She refocused on the orange stone. “She’s still there,” she whispered, more to herself than to the waitress.
“I’ll get some butter and we’ll get that ring off your finger.”
Her heart pounding, Nila reached into the pouch on the side of her leather purse and removed her phone. She nervously selected her mum’s cell number from the list and pressed the call button. Nila was breathing heavily while the connection moved through the international gateway to the UK network. Before Gordon had presented her with the new iPhone, he’d had it programmed to allow her to dial directly to her family and friends at home. At last, she heard the familiar European ringtone.
The frizzy-haired waitress returned and placed two pats of foil-covered butter on a paper napkin. “This’ll do it,” she said with a smile. Nila didn’t notice the waitress or the butter. Her eyes were fixed on the image of her mum on the floor of the lift.
“Here you all are,” Della called as she entered the snack bar.
Nila continued to hear ringing. She held up her free hand toward Della. “It’s Mum—something’s wrong.”
“Hello, this is Carrie. I can’t answer just now—please leave a message and I’ll ring back as soon as I can. Cheers.”
“Mum, this is Nila…I think you’re in some kind of trouble. Call me right away—I need to hear your voice.”
“Something’s wrong with Mum?” Della asked. “What’s going on?”
“I think Nick’s mini-lift is stuck with Mum inside.” Nila set her phone down on the table and raised her left hand to Della’s face. “Look into the ring—you can see for yourself.”
Della grasped Nila’s left wrist and pulled the orange diamond closer to her face. “I don’t understand—what am I supposed to see?”
“Mum!” Nila shouted. “She’s on the floor of the lift.” Nila turned her wrist and stared at the pulsing stone and image of her mother. “She’s there—can’t you see her?”
Della searched the ring. “Nila, there’s nothing. I can’t see a thing.”
“Right there!” Nila pointed to the image of the mini-lift that she saw hovering in the air above the ring. “You can’t see Mum lying on the floor?”
“I don’t see anything, except your ring.”
“See how the stone’s pulsing?”
“No, I don’t.”
Nila shook her head. “We’ve got to get help. You’ve got Stella’s number in your cell? You know—Mum’s next-door neighbor?”
Della nodded. “Yes, but what…”
Nila retrieved her phone. “Give me her number; I can dial straight through on this phone.”
Della fished in her shoulder bag for her cell phone. “I don’t understand why you want to call Stella.”
“Just give me her number—I’ll explain afterward.”
“Okay, I got it.”
Della called out the number and Nila dialed. “Come on, come on,” Nila impatiently muttered as the call was routed through the international gateway.
“Seven-seven-three-nine-four-two-one,” Stella answered after the first ring.
“Stella, it’s Nila Rawlings. There’s a problem with my mum and I need your help.”
“Nila, I thought you were in the States.”
“I am, but I need your help. Mum’s stuck in her new mini-lift. You still have her latch key, don’t you?”
“What? Well, yes—I’m sure it’s on the rack with the other keys but…”
“Please, Stella—go next-door a
nd check on my mum. I’m positive she’s in trouble.”
“All right, if you say so. I’ll just slip on a coat and take the phone with me. Nila, you’re sure about this?”
“Please, Stella—Mum needs help.”
“Okay. Stay on the line.”
Stella quickly located the key; it was attached to a small plastic, advertising give-away from Carrie’s travel agency. She pulled a tan raincoat over the lacy, baby-doll nightie that clung to her generous curves—Dennis would be arriving at any moment, and the sexy nightie was a surprise for him.
“Okay, Nila. I’m going next-door now.”
Stella knocked and then pressed the doorbell. The intercom crackled to life. “Help me! Please help me!” Carrie shouted in an exhausted voice. “I’m trapped in the lift!”
“Good God!” Stella called out as she turned the latch key in the lock.
~*~
Della was kneeling beside the double stroller, trying to wipe up the sticky globs from the tile floor. “I’ll need some more napkins, please,” she called to the frizzy-haired waitress. “I doubt that they actually ate any of this ice cream—it’s all over their hands and faces, as well as on the floor.”
“Leave the floor to me, honey,” the waitress called. “I got a wet mop back here—we get spills all the time.”
Della stood and shifted her clean-up focus to the girls and the stroller. The twins both reached out to Della. “Go walk!” Janna called. Julie bounced excitedly in the seat. “Up!” she cried. “Me up.”
Nila pivoted toward Della, her cell phone still pressed to her ear. “I’ve got Dennis on speaker; they got Mum out of the lift. Dennis arrived home at the same time Stella was entering Mum’s house. Dennis called 999 first and then, since he knew Nick had built the lift, he called Nick. Nick told him to have Mum press the up and down buttons at the same time and hold them in for ten seconds. It worked; the lift came right down and Mum’s safe. Dennis says Mum looked upset, but none the worse for wear. She was desperate for a pee and ran for the loo just as the lads from the fire brigade arrived. He says to hold on until our mum comes out of the WC and the medics check her out. It’s quite noisy that end—I could hardly hear him.”