Ink

by Jonathan Maberry

  “Do you, um, come here often?”

  The woman laughed out loud. “Oh my god,” she said, “you’re really bad at this, aren’t you?”

  “I … what…?”

  “I mean, like, awful.”

  Gayle felt her entire face and throat flare with heat. She was certain her blush was going to light the entire bar in a lurid crimson glow. “Um,” she said weakly. “Thanks?”

  The woman chuckled softly and laid a hand on her forearm. “Honey, I can spot a visitor from a foreign country at a hundred yards, and you are a classic example of the species. All you need is a tourist visa and a guidebook.”

  Gayle started to say something, stopped, looked down into her glass, and then raised her eyes and smiled sheepishly.

  “That bad, huh?”

  “Worse. I mean … the weather? You were in real danger of asking what my sign is.”

  “Ouch.”

  “Yeah,” said the woman. “But don’t worry, I’ll let you off the hook. Let’s start with the basics, okay? I’m Dianna Agbala. And you are…?”

  “Gayle Kosinski. Gayle with a y. And an e.”

  “Hello, Gayle with a y and an e. I’m Dianna with two n’s. Yes, it’s raining. For the record, I’m a Scorpio. And, yes, this is a real-life lesbian bar and I will bet a stack of shiny nickels you’ve never been inside of one before.”

  The heat on Gayle’s face increased. Scorching.

  “I’ll take that as a no,” said Dianna. “And I’m guessing you’re a Libra.”

  “How…?” Gayle gasped.

  “You look the type. And,” said Dianna quickly, still smiling, “before you freak out … I’m a professional card reader, astrologer, and sensitive.”

  Gayle didn’t quite know how to respond to that. She fumbled for a moment and then said, “I don’t mean to be rude, but I’m not sure I believe in any of that stuff.”

  “It’s not a requirement. But you are a Libra.”

  “Well … yes.… but…”

  “And your drink is almost empty. Let me get the next round,” Diana said and tapped the rim of her glass with a silver ring. Juana sauntered down, her eyes clicking back and forth between Gayle and Dianna.

  “Same again?” she asked, got nods, and went away to do her magic.

  Gayle had no map for how to navigate what she was doing, but Dianna’s frankness was emboldening her. So, she decided to try frankness, herself.

  “It’s my first time here,” she said. “Or anywhere like this. And by here I mean anywhere like … like…”

  “Like a queer bar?”

  “Um … yes.” She paused. “Excuse me, but I thought queer was a bad word. Like calling a gay man a faggot.”

  “Oh, it’s okay to use here, but we tend to not dig it if straights use it. If they use it because they’re trying to relate—you know, an LGBTQ ally—then we give them a pass. Heart in the right place and all that. But when used as a pejorative … then, hell no.”

  “So, is it more like using the N-word if you’re not black?”

  “About that … black folks kind of hate it when people say ‘N-word.’ Either say ‘nigger’ when talking about racist terms, or skip the subject. ‘N-word’ is a slippery way of saying ‘nigger’ while trying to be PC. No, don’t worry, I’m not offended, and you get a pass because I think your heart’s in the right place.”

  The new drinks arrived and Gayle gulped a third of hers, choked, coughed, and soothed her throat with a smaller sip.

  “This new terminology is a bit of a challenge,” she admitted. “I mean, I’m getting used to going to conventions where people have their pronouns on their name tags, but…”

  “When’s the last time you had a conversation with a lesbian?”

  “A few months ago,” admitted Gayle.

  “In person?”

  “No.”

  “Didn’t think so,” said Dianna. “You don’t know how to have this conversation, do you?”

  “No,” admitted Gayle weakly, “I really don’t.”

  “Pretend—just for a moment—that lesbians are totally human beings and go from there.”

  “Ouch,” said Gayle.

  Dianna sipped her new drink and winked at Juana, who was washing glasses a few yards away.

  “So tell me, Gayle,” said Dianna, “if we were meeting casually at a Starbucks, or in the checkout line at a grocery store, then what would you talk about?”

  “I … don’t know … I rehearsed a bunch of lines but.…”

  “I’m not talking about you having a lesbian conversation with a lesbian at a lesbian bar. Take that word out of the equation. We met at the clothing store. We’re about the same age. We live in Pine Deep. We visit the Fringe. And we know the weather sucks. None of that needs to be commented on. It doesn’t tell either of us about the other.”

  “I guess it doesn’t.”

  “Then what kind of conversation do you, Gayle, want to have with me, Dianna?”

  Gayle felt like she wanted to flee. The conversation was off its rails and she didn’t know how to get it right. “I really don’t know.”

  “Okay, that’s fair. How about we start somewhere in the middle, then? Between ‘gosh, it rains a lot’ and ‘I’m not sure about my sexuality.’ What’s in the middle for you?”

  Gayle thought about it. The first drink was already working on her and the big gulp of the second was softening the edges.

  “My life, I guess. My kids, my job.”

  “And your husband?”

  Gayle’s gaze flicked away for a moment, but then she made herself look at Dianna.

  “Yes. Him, too.”

  Dianna nodded slowly. “Let’s work up to that. Start slow, stay in the middle lane. Tell me about your kids and your job.”

  71

  Monk locked Patty’s place up and drifted down Boundary Street, discovering the Fringe. Even in the rain it looked like a happening place. Much more alive—or alive in a less disturbing way—than the rest of the damn town. The shops were nice, but he wasn’t in the mood to buy anything. The clubs were too loud for the mood he was in, so he began driving the side streets. There was a shithole of a beer joint off the main drag. He parked and headed in. A sign above the door read JAKE’S HIDEAWAY. Pretentious name for a place this nasty, dark, and dirty. Maybe thirty people in all, broken into little gangs that clustered around different parts of the place. But the beer was cold and the first glass tasted so good he had three more.

  He called the hospital and got the same female nurse he’d pissed off the last time he called.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Addison,” she said in a way that said she was not sorry at all, merely pissed. “As I believe I told you last time, hospital policy prohibits us from sharing patient information with anyone except relatives.”

  Monk looked around for a place at the bar, couldn’t see one, and stood there, trying hard not to go bang his head on a wall. He was never good at being stonewalled.

  “Miss…” he said slowly, “I’m not asking for details. I just want to know if she’s okay.”

  He heard her sigh. Long, caustic, unfriendly. “Mr. Addison, I don’t know how many ways I can say this—”

  He hung up.

  A truck driver–looking guy got up from the bar, tossed a five down, nodded to the bartender, and ambled away. Monk made a move but someone tried to cut him off and take the seat. The guy actually put a hand on Monk’s wrist as if to pull him away from the only available seat. Monk looked down at the hand and then up at its owner.

  “Fuck off,” he said in a way that handed out credible promises.

  “Um,” said the man, clearly running the numbers in his head and not digging his odds. “Sure. Fucking off.” And he did.

  Monk shrugged out of his leather jacket, hung it on the back of the chair, and sat. A bemused bartender came over and took his order for a Jameson’s neat and a draft of Big Black Voodoo Daddy, a stout with serious balls. The bartender nodded approval and brought the drinks.


  Monk shot the Jamie’s. “Fucking hick-town hospitals.”

  A voice beside him asked, “If you’re talking about Pinelands Regional Medical, I can’t argue.”

  Monk turned to see a white guy on the younger side of middle age, and almost dealt him a fresh “go fuck yourself,” too, but didn’t. The guy looked like Monk felt. Lean, harried-looking, hollow-eyed, with a Band-Aid on a bruised forehead. Even so, Monk said nothing, letting the other guy deal the next card.

  “Sorry,” said the man self-consciously, “I heard you talking to Nurse Hitler on your cell. If it’s the one I’m thinking of, she’s a real piece of work. Tall brunette, eyes like she works in a Chicago slaughterhouse and enjoys it. Mean as a snake.”

  “That’d be the one,” agreed Monk.

  The man touched his bandage. “Spent some lovely hours with her.” When Monk didn’t ask how or why, the guy explained, “Hit a cow on the road. Well, the car did. I hit the windshield.”

  “Cow?” asked Monk distractedly.

  “Long story; I’m Duncan.” He nodded to the faces peeking out from Monk’s push-up sweatshirt cuffs. “Hey, you’re into tattoos … mind if I ask you a question?”

  “Depends on the question.”

  “Sure, sure, and it comes with a weird little goddamn story.”

  “Try me,” said Monk.

  Duncan signaled the waiter and then forked two fingers down at his glass and Monk’s. Refills happened as the guy told Monk the story about his missing tattoo. At first Monk wasn’t really listening, but then the details caught up and slapped him across the mouth.

  “Whoa,” he said, “wait, go back and tell that part again.”

  “Which part? Oh, right, sure.” Duncan showed him the faint scar and then picked his cell phone off the bar, scrolled through the pictures, and held it up for Monk to see.

  “So, you had it removed…?” said Monk uncertainly.

  “No, that’s what I was trying to tell you. I never had a tattoo at all, but the picture—and my wife—say I did. So either the world is fucked up, or I hit my head worse than I thought, or … or, well, something. It doesn’t make any sense to me at all. I mean, how could I have a tattoo I don’t ever remember getting, then somehow lose it with no memory of getting it removed? And, worse, how come I can’t remember why I got it? My wife’s cancer…”

  Monk studied Duncan. The man’s eyes were bright with tears but behind that there was a terror that was close to the screaming point.

  “I came in here,” said Duncan, “and spent the last couple hours scrolling through photos. That tattoo is in dozens of them. Here, let me show you. See? There it is, clear as day. I even went through my emails and found the receipt from a tattoo studio in Doylestown I never heard of. And I found so many”—and here his voice broke high and wet—“emails and text messages from my wife about her cancer. Emails from the doctor, from relatives, from friends, all talking about the cancer. The remission. All of it. Like three, four hundred messages.”

  Monk stared at him. “And you don’t remember any of it?”

  Tears fell down Duncan’s face as he shook his head. “It’s insane, man. I mean, this never happened. If it had, I’d remember something, right? Right?”

  72

  Gayle stood—not sat—in a toilet stall at Tank Girl. Hiding. Wondering how the night had gone this far wrong.

  She and Dianna had talked and talked. In response to Dianna’s request, Gayle showed pictures of her two kids and even a vacation photo of her and Scott taken at Disney last year. She also showed photos of herself at the school where she worked in administration four days a week, and more of herself at conventions receiving awards or giving speeches. Then, while scrolling to find a photo of herself at a party, she accidentally stumbled on a couple of photos she had thought long deleted.

  Selfies she’d taken for Carrie. One was of her in pajamas with the top unbuttoned but only her sternum exposed, which wasn’t too bad; but the one after that was of her standing in the bathroom wearing only pink underpants. Gayle gasped and yanked the phone back, hastily scrolling away from those.

  “Oh my god,” she said sharply, “I’m so sorry.”

  “It’s all good, honey,” said Dianna, laughing. “Nothing I haven’t seen before.”

  “No, I thought I’d deleted them and … oh, god, I’m so embarrassed.”

  Dianna touched her hand with the pads of two fingers. A very light touch. “I’d like to see them again. One in particular.” When Gayle could meet her eyes, she added, “Please?”

  Not cajoling. Not begging. Merely asking.

  It took a whole lot for Gayle to scroll back to find the pictures. She hesitated a long time before finally angling the phone to privately display the bathroom nude. But Dianna shook her head and used one finger to move to the previous picture. The pajama one.

  “This is so lovely…” she murmured. “Your eyes are full of light.”

  Gayle looked at her, then down to the photo. Despite the unbuttoned top, the focus on the image was more than a promise of skin to be revealed. It was a statement of both vulnerability and trust. Not even a promise of more. It said, See me. Me. Not my parts. Me.

  Her face was hot again, but not from embarrassment. Gayle couldn’t have put a label on the emotion seeping through her.

  That’s when she had exited the image file, excused herself, and fled to the bathroom. She didn’t need to go, but it was quiet in the stall. Gayle leaned against the closed door and tried to remember how to breathe.

  What am I doing here?

  She heard someone come in. Heard the faucet and then the paper towel dispenser. Then silence.

  I have to get out of here, Gayle told herself. I have a husband. I have kids. What if someone from school sees me here?

  She banged the back of her head on the door. Once. Twice.

  Then she pushed off, straightened her clothes, took a deep and steadying breath, and left the stall.

  And froze.

  Dianna was right there, resting a hip against the sink, arms folded beneath her breasts, a small and very wicked little smile on her lips.

  “I…” began Gayle and once more words failed her.

  “As I see it there are three options,” said Dianna casually. “Option one is you can leave right now. Go brave the storm, drive home, step into the costume you’ve been wearing since you were a girl. You can forget this place, or maybe chalk it up to ‘research.’ Go be who everyone already thinks you are.”

  Gayle licked very dry lips.

  “Option two,” continued Dianna, “is we go back to the bar and chitchat some more. We haven’t discussed your stock portfolio, your husband’s golf handicap, or your kids’ favorite teachers. There’s sooooo much small talk to be had.”

  It took a lot for Gayle to ask, “What’s … option three?”

  Dianna stood straight, walked past her, and locked the bathroom door. Then she turned and leaned back against it.

  “Option three is you kiss me.”

  INTERLUDE THIRTEEN

  THE LORD OF THE FLIES

  While taking classes at a community college in Tucson—his eighth place of residence in as many years—Owen began to wonder if he was a vampire. Granted, he didn’t suck blood—and that sounded disgusting anyway—but he knew for sure that he not only fed on memories, he thrived on them.

  He did some Net searches on vampires and made a very interesting discovery. Several discoveries, in fact.

  Only a third of the vampires in world folklore actually fed on human blood, and even some of those mostly fed on animals living near human villages and towns. Livestock and pets. Another group of vampires ate the flesh of corpses, and a smaller group fed on living flesh. Like zombies from those “living dead” movies or those TV shows—The Walking Dead. One show, iZombie, was pretty close. When the woman who played the coroner ate the brains of murder victims she was able to step into their memories and relive them sufficiently to get clues useful in solving those crimes. But it was f
iction, a TV show based on a comic book, and not even from actual belief systems. Though there were some people—the Fore people of the Okapa District of the Eastern Highlands Province, Papua New Guinea—who fed on the brains of their fellow tribesmen because they believed this allowed them to preserve their memories and strengths.

  Close, but not the same.

  Then he read a book by a famous folklorist named Dr. Jonatha Corbiel-Newton. It was one of a whole list of books she’d written, but that one in particular was called Deep Hunger: The Essential Vampire in World Culture. In it she described a larger class of supernatural predators called “essential vampires.” Owen had encountered that label before on websites. He ordered the book from a local bookstore and when it came in he spent all day in a Starbucks reading it. Two passages really struck him. The first was about the nature of these kinds of creatures:

  There are two forms of psychic vampires, one is human and the other is decidedly not. Human psychic vampires are people who either deliberately or, more often, subconsciously use passive-aggressive or codependent behavior to drain others of emotional, mental, and psychological energy. You’ve met them in the office, or in the PTA, or maybe one of them is your mother-in-law. Supernatural psychic vampires are creatures whose physical bodies have been destroyed or have completely putrefied or turned to dust. What is left is a kind of ghost whose presence pollutes an entire region. Psychic vampires often manifest as Nosferatu and spread disease and pestilence. Psychic vampires can create other vampires at will by causing the bodies of any sinful people to rise from the dead, and these newly created vampires are generally your typical blood-drinking revenant.

  And the second riveted him to his chair.

  If any vampire type is to be accepted as a possibility, as something that may have existed, or might still exist, then it is the essential vampire. We know from the preponderance of published studies by psychologists and psychiatrists, as well as supporting evidence by neurobiologists, that concepts like true empathy and toxic empathy exist. What some pop culture subgroups refer to as a “psychic vampire,” someone who by some means appears to feed off the emotions, particularly negative emotions, their presence engenders in others. Some of the more radical theories suggest that passive-aggressive behavior is an aspect of psychic vampirism. If this is ever provable, then contemporary science will need to take a closer look at the concept of the essential vampire and measure it against the mountain of case studies of abnormal behavior which have not yet been comfortably classified.