by Sarah Dreher
* * *
Marylou could tell he was angry even before he reached the door. The squeak of his sneakers along the floor sounded like rats being tortured. He kicked open the door and strode in.
“Something wrong?” Marylou asked sweetly.
“Aw, she’s coming over here.”
She felt her stomach seize up in panic. “Here? Why is she coming here?”
“She thinks something’s wrong.”
Something’s wrong, all right. Lots of somethings, not the least of which is the fact that Millicent Tunes is going to get one nasty surprise when she sees me instead of Gwen. Such a nasty surprise, in fact, that she will probably act out in an unpleasant and very dangerous way.
Because I done that lady wrong, David me lad, and that lady doesn’t strike me as the forgiving type, no way.
But how do I explain that to Mr. I-Am-A-Professional? “Well, darn,” she said as calmly as she could. “I was hoping we’d have a quiet evening to ourselves.”
“I don’t get many quiet evenings when I’m working,” David said plaintively.
“I don’t imagine you do.” She tried to sound sympathetic.
“Either I work twenty-four hours a day, or not at all.”
Marylou shook her head and “tsked.”
“No chance for a normal life.”
“No medical benefits, either, I’ll bet,” she said.
“That’s why I can’t really take a lot of responsibility for the child.”
Millicent Tunes is coming here to kill me, and you’re talking about making babies? “I understand.”
David sighed deeply. “I dunno. Maybe you should think about someone else.”
Maybe we should think about something else. Like getting the hell out of here. “No, David, I think you’re just fine. You have brains and good looks. What else could a mother want?”
“I don’t know what my mother wanted,” he said gloomily, “but I don’t think it was me.”
“Well, then, she was an utter fool.” She touched his hand. “David, David, you’ve got to let go of her. She was wrong about you. She had her own problems. They had nothing to do with you.”
He looked at her with such cocker spaniel eyes she was almost moved to pity him. Except for the fact that he had kidnapped her and was holding her here to be slaughtered.
“There’s one thing that troubles me a little,” she said. She might blow it, but she had to try. It couldn’t get any worse. She couldn’t get away, death was approaching even as she spoke, and Stoner had obviously fallen through a hole in the Cosmos. “Can we speak openly?”
“Sure,” he said. “We don’t have any secrets from one another.”
If she hadn’t been looking death in the face, she might have laughed at that one. “It’s about your therapist. Dr. T?”
“I shouldn’t have told you that,” he said quickly.
“And I promise you it’ll go right out of my head as soon as we finish this little chat.” She cleared her throat. “She hired you to do this, am I right?”
He nodded.
“It wasn’t you who brought it up, was it? I mean, you didn’t offer to ‘do a job’ for her or anything?”
David screwed his eyebrows together and tried to remember. He thought she had… but maybe he had... “I think,” he said, “I offered to help her out if I ever could. You know, in a general kind of way.”
“And she took you right up on it.”
“It was some time later, but, yeah, she got in touch with me...”
Marylou chose her words very carefully. “Has it ever occurred to you that that was just a teeny bit unethical?”
“Huh?”
“To use you to commit a crime. I don’t expect you to have memorized the ethical standards for psychiatrists…”
“She’s a psychologist,” he corrected.
“Okay, for psychologists. But I can assure you, what your therapist is doing is definitely on the edge, if not downright—”
There was a tap on the door.
“She’s here,” David said, jumping to his feet.
Marylou’s heart began beating out the accompaniment to a rap song.
* * *
Stape’s driving gave a whole new meaning to the word “careen.” Stoner hoped she never had to ride passenger with her in any vehicle whose possible speed exceeded forty mph.
The tunnels were spotlessly clean, shiny with tile, and filled with echoes. They passed closed door after closed door, with exotic names like “laundry,” and “seamstresses,” and “costumes,” and “make-up, and “dressing room, men,” and “dressing room, women.” Stoner wondered if Annette Funicello had a private room, or if she was lumped in with “Mouseketeer steers.” It reminded her of being back stage at a theater. Not that she’d even really been back stage at a theater, but it was what she’d always imagined it would look like.
Aunt Hermione was up front, following the map and generally having a ball. It annoyed Stoner a little. After all, this was a very, very dangerous thing they were doing. And here was her aunt acting as if it was nothing more than a thrilling day at the beach. Of course, it could be that Aunt Hermione already knew how it would end, and that there was nothing to worry about. That would be a comforting thought. More likely, she was just experiencing it as one more ride on the roller coaster of this lifetime.
Please, please, please Stoner prayed to whatever gods might be listening. Let us be on time.
They were approaching the outer reaches of the tunnels. Tile walls giving way to concrete. Fewer doors, only “general maintenance.”
I’ll even pray to the patriarchal gods, she thought, if they’ll get us there.
Actually, given the level of technology in WDW, the patriarchal gods were probably the ones to pray to. Oh, Great Microchip, God of the Computer. Great Narrow beam light, God of the Laser. God of the Machine, God of Gods...
They rounded a corner.
A blank wall.
Stape slammed on the brakes. The car shuddered to a stop and died. “Looks like the end of the line,” she said.
George grabbed the blueprints. “Okay,” she said. She pointed to a door in the left-hand wall. “There’s a flight of stairs through that door. It’ll take you up into the kitchen of the Odyssey. Go out the back door, not through the restaurant. That’ll place you almost in the back yard of Mexico. Try not to make too much noise. There aren’t a lot of security guards this time of night, but there are some. You don’t want to waste time explaining, or maybe get kicked out.”
“What about you?” Stoner asked.
“Stape and I will arrange for police back-up.”
“Alert the guards on the grounds, too,” Stoner said. “They’re closer. Is there a way you can do that without broadcasting over the walkie-talkies? We don’t want to take the chance of being heard.”
George nodded. “There’s a code, sounds just like static. It tells them to check in from the nearest secure spot. Then we’ll come right back here. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Good luck, guys,” Stape said. She spun the car around in a perfect, wall-scraping circle, and tore back down the tunnel.
The stairwell was narrow and dimly lit. Stoner swung her knapsack onto her back, flicked on her flashlight, and started to climb. Part way up, she looked back. “You okay, Aunt Hermione?”
“Just fine.” Her aunt, despite her age, despite her smoking, sounded less out of breath than Stoner felt.
“Are you sure?”
“I work out, remember? You don’t.”
“Oh.” She was near the top. A door. She pushed it open, and stepped into the kitchen of the Odyssey Restaurant.
Dark and deserted kitchens at night, she realized, are among the eeriest places on earth. Pale blue light, as if from the moon, flooded the room. Chrome sinks and stoves and various unidentifiable appliances stood silent and hard and menacing. They seemed to sleep.
“Do you see a back door?” she whispered.
Her aunt po
inted to her left.
Stoner crept toward it.
“The place is deserted,” Aunt Hermione said. “Why are you skulking.”
“I don’t want to wake the appliances.”
Aunt Hermione giggled. “And you think I’m crazy for talking to Spirits.”
“I don’t think you’re crazy.”
“Yes, you do. Are we going to stay here and argue all night?”
Stoner sighed and continued on to the door. She pushed it open and prayed she hadn’t set off any alarms.
There may have been moonlight in the kitchen, but it didn’t come from any moon. Outside, the night was black as tar. Even the faint lights from the pavilions seemed closed in on themselves. The darkness in between was viscous, heavy.
The top of the Aztec Temple was like a pale, flickering candle. Pink sandstone barely visible over the jungle vegetation. They started toward it, picking their way through the undergrowth.
The silence was unearthly. The birds were quiet. Even the waves on the lagoon seemed to be asleep. She glanced back, toward Spaceship Earth. The massive sphere hovered over EPCOT like an approaching planet. The aluminum triangles that made up its skin glowed pale pink and blue and purple against the velvet blackness of space. A tiny crescent moon floated above it, small as an eyelash against the leviathan’s mass.
Spaceship Earth appeared to smile. And wait.
Aunt Hermione touched her shoulder. “It’s all right,” she said. “It doesn’t mean you any harm.”
“I know,” Stoner said. But she wasn’t so sure.
She turned back to Mexico.
They pushed forward until the back of the building came into view. Bushes and shrubs nearly hid the exit. A couple of boats bobbed gently in the backwater stream that led out of and back into the pavilion. Stoner held back, crouching behind a thick-trunked palm tree, Aunt Hermione in her shadow.
No one in sight. No sound.
And no hint as to where the tunnel entrance might be. If there was a tunnel. With an entrance. And it was the right one.
She wondered if it would be safe to turn on her flashlight. Without it, they were going to have to crawl around on the ground and feel for a door. And who knew what kind of other things were crawling around on the same ground?
Stoner shuddered. She recalled a time, when she was a child, when the thought of scooting around on a dark lawn filled with small alive things would have given her a shivery thrill. Not any more. That was probably what growing up meant. You changed your attitude toward small alive things in the dark. Or maybe you just changed your attitude toward fear.
She realized she was killing time, not wanting to step into the open. And time was the last thing they had to kill. She turned back to Aunt Hermione. “Let’s go.”
They circled the clearing, quickly checking the walls of the Temple, pressing and peering.
Nothing. But she hadn’t really expected to find anything there. She was sure the entrance would be in the ground.
Unfortunately, the ground was pitch black and open. As soon as she turned on her flashlight, they’d be visible to anyone walking over the bridge or along the pathway. Groping seemed to be the way to go for the moment.
Stoner got down on her hands and knees and felt her way along the grass, working from the outside of the circle in. Just like they told you to in those lost-ball-in-the-field questions on kids’ I.Q. tests. Or was it from the inside out?
The grass was damp and icky with congealed humidity. It soaked through the knees of her jeans and the toes of her sneakers. Really unpleasant.
Something live squiggled out from underneath her hand. It was slimy.
Worms, she told herself. Nothing but worms. They can’t hurt you. You used to keep them in your pockets, remember?
Goddess, I was a disgusting kid.
She sensed something ahead of her in the darkness. A lump of darker darkness inside the already very dark darkness. She couldn’t make it out.
Approach or withdraw? I’m open to suggestions.
It didn’t seem to be moving. If it was just a rock or an old tree stump or something, she was going to feel pretty silly.
And if she didn’t quit futzing around and take a few risks, Marylou was going to be pretty dead.
She reached out toward the object. Touched it hesitantly.
It was firm but soft. And warm.
It was a human body.
CHAPTER 11
Two days, more or less, of careful searching hadn’t unearthed any magic ways out of here. She wasn’t about to find one in the few frantic seconds she had left. Still, Marylou did a quick scan of the walls, hoping to notice a crack she’d overlooked that might be a door, an unevenness of cement that might hide a window. That voice she had heard yesterday—was it only yesterday?—where had it come from? Or was it only her mind playing tricks, a figment of her own imagination?
The quick, sharp tap of high heels on cement. Millicent Tunes for sure. Who else but the elegant Tunes would visit a prisoner in a cement tunnel cell wearing high heels?
May she develop shin splints.
If I suck in my cheeks, pull my hat down over my face, maybe she won’t recognize me.
Sure. She’ll think I’m who I’m supposed to be, Gwen.
I look about as much like Gwen Owens as...as...well, as nothing.
The doorknob turned. Slowly.
Oh, for Heaven’s sake, cut the dramatic tension and get on with it.
The door opened.
Millicent Tunes stepped into the room, a superior smile on her face. Her cold, hard eyes circled the room, came to light on Marylou, and froze.
“You!” she gasped.
“Surprise!” Marylou said. She forced a grin. “I see you still have a flair for a turn of phrase.”
Tunes whirled around to confront David. “What the hell are you up to?”
“Huh?”
“Are you trying to pull a fast one?”
David peered around Tunes’ shoulder, as if expecting to see an empty room, or a stranger in Marylou’s place.
“Well?” Millicent Tunes demanded.
David frowned. “Well, what?”
“What did you do with her?”
“She’s right there.” David pointed to Marylou. “Where you told me to put her. Look, I think we should talk about this. I’ve had some second...”
Millicent Tunes struck her forehead. “I can’t believe it!”
“You think you have problems,” Marylou said. “You should try it from my vantage point.”
David was looking from one to the other in a completely bewildered way. “I don’t get this.”
“You got the wrong one!” Millicent screeched, grabbing David by the collar. “You stupid, idiotic, insignificant little man!”
“Now, just a damn minute,” Marylou said. “That is very unprofessional behavior, even if you weren’t his therapist, which I happen to know you were. I won’t even go into the ethics of that. But, leaving ethics aside for the moment, this man has done his level best to carry out your instructions. It’s not his fault if you were vague, ambiguous, or otherwise unclear.”
“Oh, shut up,” Millicent said.
“I will not,” said Marylou, really angry now. “There is never, never an excuse for rude or abusive behavior.”
Tunes took a pistol from her purse and tossed it toward David. “Kill her,” she ordered, and started from the room.
David caught the gun and looked at it. “I have my own piece,” he said. “A lot better than this one. This is a Nancy Reagan Special. It might be okay for the bedside table, but...”
“I don’t care whose gun you use,” Millicent barked, snatching her gun and returning it to her handbag. “Just kill the bitch.”
“Excuse me,” Marylou said. “I really do have to object to your language. I was led to believe at one time that you considered yourself a feminist. Well, let me assure you that calling another woman a bitch is certainly not femin...”
“If you don’t sh
ut your mouth,” Millicent Tunes said to her, “I’ll kill you myself.”
Okay, Marylou told herself, settle down. With David you might have half a chance. With this walking frustrated, premenstrual mess, you’re dead meat. “Sorry,” she said, and—just to release any built-up and potentially dangerous inner tension—muttered “Politically incorrect” under her breath.
“What are you waiting for?” Tunes demanded of David.
“I want to know what’s going on.”
Millicent was turning pink with rage. “It’s none of your business what’s going on. I told you to kill her, so kill her.”
“I don’t know...” David began.
Millicent Tunes turned all sweet and reasonable. “David,” she said in a cajoling voice, “you know you have a problem with follow-through. We discussed it in your therapy. You get yourself into things, and then have trouble finishing them.”
He began to turn the color of a particularly vivid sunset.
“Especially with sex, but also in your business ventures…”
His eyes were taking on that glittery look.
Marylou didn’t like the looks of it. He was about to go toxic, and that was the last thing she needed. She needed him to be reachable, and capable of functioning in a directed manner. She cleared her throat. “If I may try to shed some light here...”
“You may not,” Tunes snapped.
Let her talk,” David said in an unexpectedly firm voice.
Millicent Tunes was startled into momentary silence.
“Thank you,” said Marylou. “You see, David, my friend Stoner was instrumental in...” She hesitated. David probably wasn’t going to be real positively impressed with this. But it was the only chance she had. Treat him with respect. It might give her an edge over Tunes. “She was instrumental in having Millicent Tunes arrested for using a mental hospital as a front for helping hardened criminals to escape from the country. People with money. Lots of money. People who would have been invited to dinner at the White House under the Reagan-Bush administrations. She wouldn’t have lifted a finger to help you or me. Oh, no. Millicent Tunes was in it for herself and herself alone, right from the start.”