Ink

by Jonathan Maberry

  Which was weird. Monk wasn’t a good-looking man. He knew that. His face had been hit too many times with great enthusiasm and from too many angles. He had boxer’s gristle on one ear, a nose that wandered this way and that, scars that didn’t come from anything nice. He was the kind of guy cops and bouncers always took note of. He was the kind of guy that encouraged decent folks to cross the street, lock their car doors, and avoid eye contact with. Fair enough.

  The fact that Sandy seemed to like what she saw said a lot. She was okay with rough trade, or at least rough packaging. She wasn’t afraid of how he looked but had other kinds of caution lights blinking.

  He watched her deliver a pitcher and glasses to two utility company repairmen and she caught his eye as she strolled back to the bar. That’s what it became—a transition within two steps from brisk business walk to a stroll that invited him to observe. It was such a clear invitation, too, that Monk didn’t feel awkward looking at her curves. She was petite, but every inch of her was lush. She gave him a small slice of a wicked little smile.

  Nice.

  Earl did not come in.

  Monk had a third beer, checked five times to see if Spider had opened his shop, ate the nuts, ate a plate of fish and chips, and felt like there was a big clock ticking in his head.

  Finally Sandy came and leaned on the bar. “Shift is over in ten.”

  “Okay.”

  She leaned farther.

  “For god’s sake, Monk, ask.”

  He grinned. “Okay … can I get your number? Maybe take you out for some food sometime?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You are actually corny.”

  “I—”

  “I think that’s sweet. The world could use a little more corny.”

  Monk said nothing.

  “I get off in nine minutes. I need to eat. You have two choices.”

  “Which are?”

  “You could take me to the nicest restaurant that would take someone who looks like you, and let’s face it, that limits the choices here in Doylestown, No offense.”

  “Truly, none taken.”

  “Or, if you’re not fussy, I could reheat the lasagna I made the other night. We could watch a movie on Netflix, maybe.” There was a beat, and her smile widened. “Oh, you so get points for not making a ‘Netflix and chill’ joke.”

  “I’m not actually an asshole.”

  “No,” she said, giving him an appraising look, “I don’t think you are.”

  “Thanks. You want me to leave first and meet you?”

  “I’d rather you walked me to my car.”

  “I can do that.”

  “Good. Let me cash out, wash my face, and I’ll be back.”

  Eighteen minutes later they left the bar. Eyes watched them, from the squinty-eyed night bartender to several of the customers. There was envy in those eyes. Good dollop of hostility. No one said shit, though. Smart choice.

  Monk checked the tattoo parlor, knocked really loud, and called the number from the website. Zilch.

  “He must be away somewhere,” said Sandy. “Which is weird, because he usually asks me to feed his cat when he goes off to a convention or something.”

  “Short of kicking down the door,” said Monk, “I’m out of options here.”

  Sandy glanced around and asked what he drove, and when Monk pointed to his rust bucket of a car, she laugh-snorted. “Sweet baby Jesus.”

  “It runs.”

  Thunder rumbled and a few fat drops splatted on the pavement.

  “God. Let’s take my car,” she said, then turned and ran down the side alley as lightning forked the sky. He followed and found that her car was actually a hefty Ford Expedition. Huge, and new. She popped the locks and they got in just as the drizzle turned into a downpour.

  Sandy shivered and wiped drops from her face. When she saw him checking out the sleek interior, she said, “Divorce settlement. At least he was good for something.”

  “It’s cleaner than anything I’ve ever seen in a showroom.”

  “I like clean.”

  He nodded, getting it. Big car was protection. New car was a statement about self-worth, especially after a bad divorce. Clean car was imposing her will over aspects of her life. He upped his appreciation for her even higher because he was pretty sure she was aware of all that and deliberate in how she played the cards dealt.

  She was also a good driver, which earned her more Monk points.

  Sandy made a couple of backstreet turns and then found a road that took them into the suburbs, but the rain was getting as bad as it was the night he’d driven to Pine Deep. The streets metamorphosed from gray to purple to black, with walls of water falling like iron bars. She slowed from road speed to a crawl.

  “I think we need to pull off and wait until it eases up,” she said. “I haven’t seen rain like this in years.”

  “This is nothing,” he said as she pulled off into an empty parking lot. “You should visit Pine Deep.”

  “That place? No thanks.”

  “I just moved there.”

  She cut him a look. “Why?”

  “Long story.”

  The parking lot was ringed by big oaks and pines and wrapped around a big old church that had a sign out front saying that the whole location was for sale for commercial development. A dead church. Monk wondered what had killed it.

  Sandy drove around the building and pulled in between the back entrance and a big construction Dumpster, both of which created a natural shelter from the winds. The rain still hammered down, though.

  She left the engine on, put on some music—some Goth stuff that Monk half-ass knew. No metal. Nothing harsh. He watched her unbuckle and then turn to him and pick up his bandaged left hand. “What happened? Pop a knuckle in a fight?”

  “Nah,” said Monk, making it casual. “Mishap with a tool. Nothing to tell.”

  Sandy did not immediately let go of his hand.

  “I have to ask a question,” she said. “And it’s important. I’ll know if you lie.”

  “Ask me anything.”

  “Will you hurt me?”

  Monk looked into those brown eyes. Seeing the colors. Seeing her.

  “No,” he said softly. “I won’t ever do that.”

  Sandy sat there, reading his eyes. Seeing him, too.

  She reached out and took him by the jacket lapels and pulled him to her. Maybe she was just nervous, or maybe it was something else, but she pulled him with a lot of force.

  He came willingly.

  106

  Gayle looked at Dianna and Patty, then down at her hands, and finally out the window. The other two women waited in silence. Inside her chest her heart was pounding hard enough to break. And break it might.

  Forgotten.

  Everything … just gone.

  She took a tissue from her purse and pressed it to her eyes. Fighting for control. Feeling her face burning with borrowed shame. This wasn’t her fault, but it felt that way. It was like school, when boys made crude jokes about her breasts and the girls just walked past her in the hallway as if she were a piece of dog shit on the ground. No, worse than that. Like she was nothing at all to them. Like she did not exist, and if she died they wouldn’t even pause in their day to notice. It felt like that.

  Like some part of her had died. And that somehow she, not Dianna, was to blame.

  Gayle wanted to leave. She even looked at the door, but did not get up or move toward it. She needed to be out of there, to be somewhere with enough air. Somewhere neither Dianna nor this tattoo artist, Patty, could see her.

  Forgotten. Every awkward moment. Everything that was said and shared. Every secret. Each kiss. And what they had done together in bed. Forgotten, as if it were nothing. As if she were nothing.

  Just get up and go, she told herself. Just say fuck this, tell Dianna I never want to see her ever again, and go. Go back home.

  Home.

  Gayle got to her feet. The room swayed, but she managed to keep her balance. />
  There was a shopping bag on the floor by the barber chair in which Dianna sat. Gayle went over to it, removed one of the big magnums of white zinfandel, and studied the label without really reading it. The wine had a screw cap and Gayle twisted it off.

  “I’ll get you a glass—” began Patty but Gayle silenced her with a stare and took a very long drink from the bottle.

  Gayle used her foot to nudge Dianna’s chair until they were eye-to-eye. “And you really want me to believe that you don’t remember a thing about that night?”

  Dianna shook her head.

  “Nothing?” insisted Gayle. “Not one moment of one of the most important nights of my life?”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Gayle took another heavy pull. She had no head for wine and welcomed the punches it was going to throw.

  “Sorry? Well, imagine how I feel.”

  “I can.”

  “Oh, why? Because you’re a psychic?” Gayle shot back.

  Dianna looked hurt. “No,” she said, “because I have a smidgeon of actual compassion. Empathy, too.”

  She held out her hand for the bottle. Patty watched the drama, her heart racing. Gayle wanted to throw the bottle at Dianna. She wanted to scream and kick her. There was an ugly ringing in her head that was probably blood pressure and hurt and shame coming to a furious boil.

  “Why did you even bother to have me come here?” Gayle demanded. “What’s the point? You just punched a big hole in everything. My self-confidence, my sexuality. All of it. Why would you want to rub it in my face?”

  “Because,” said Patty, “this isn’t something she did to you. This is something someone did to her.”

  Gayle paused, the bottle halfway to her lips. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “She means,” said Dianna, “that someone stole my memories. They stole some of Patty’s, too.”

  “Stole?” echoed Gayle, half smiling. “How does someone steal a memory?”

  “That’s what we’re trying to figure out,” said Dianna. “Patty and I are victims. You’re a victim, too, in a way. Whoever did this stole from all three of us. We’ve been violated in a way I can’t even properly describe.”

  “And you want me to believe that?”

  “Yes,” said Patty.

  “Yes,” said Dianna. “I need you to. From the texts you sent and I apparently sent before I…”

  “Before you forgot me,” finished Gayle.

  “Yes. From what we shared in those texts someone stole something very special and very beautiful. But they stole a lot more than that, Gayle. They stole my whole life as a lesbian. They stole everything that defines who I am … and I am so terrified I don’t know how to even be. I thought you being here might help trigger something, or give me some insight into what I lost so I can get it back.”

  Gayle’s hand tightened on the bottle. “Do you want it back?”

  “Yes. God, yes, I do.”

  The room was quiet except for the rain on the window. “This is all insane, you both know that, right?”

  They said nothing.

  “I don’t believe in ESP, channeling, Atlantis, astral projection, tarot cards, astrology, or any of that crap.”

  Patty and Dianna were silent.

  “I’ll listen,” Gayle said. “That’s all I can promise. And then when we’re done here I don’t think I ever want to see either of you again.”

  Gayle took another long drink and handed the bottle to Dianna.

  107

  Owen Minor lay in darkness as the storm raged.

  Bedroom door closed, lights out, window open ten inches. Rain slanted in and pooled on the floor. The cold wind raised gooseflesh all along Owen’s thighs. His body trembled and shuddered, but not with orgasm. No, he felt the flies moving inside his skin. Not under it. Inside it. They were only as deep as the ink that had created them. Even after all this time the movement felt strange. Almost an itch. Almost uncomfortable.

  Always exciting

  All those other times, with Alexa Clare, Burleigh Hopewell, Slider, Eileen Sandoval, and dozens of other drones over the years, it was a different kind of excitement. Sure, he’d made them do bad things. Delicious things. Exciting things. Some of them anyway. Others he just fed on their despair, because that emotion was so firmly anchored to specific memories. Alexa was his favorite because on some level Owen was sure she enjoyed killing all those boys as much as she enjoyed banging them. The others were just random murders, and with a fly in their skin Owen got to be right there. Not memories but actual in-the-moment experiences.

  So hot.

  Tonight was different, though. Tonight he was not just sending out a single fly to create a single drone.

  Tonight he was going wash Pine Deep in blood.

  Tonight Owen Minor was going to war.

  108

  Crow and Mike drove over to Monk Addison’s house and got there as that night’s storm was in full swing. They found the U-Haul parked in the driveway and a locked door; no one answered.

  “Check the windows,” said Crow. “See if he’s inside.”

  “His car’s not here,” said Mike.

  “Check anyway.”

  Mike checked, peering through the windows as he tried to see. The blinds were angled wrong, so all he got was a fragment of a view of packing materials, boxes, and part of a couch.

  “Nothing,” he said and straightened, then saw something on his left palm. At first he thought it was a dead bug and started to wipe it on the porch rail, then stopped and peered more closely. “Hey, Crow? Take a look at this.”

  They both studied the gunk on Mike’s hand. Two cops frowning at a smear of black and purple, red and green.

  “I thought it was a bug,” said Mike.

  “I think it is,” said Crow dubiously. “A wasp or fly, maybe. I think.”

  “Not a real one, though.”

  Crow touched it with the point of a pencil he took from his shirt pocket. Some of the purple mess and a bit of black that looked like an insect leg clung to the point. He angled it toward the thin orange light coming from the streetlight.

  “Is it some kind of paint?” asked Mike.

  Crow sniffed it. “I don’t think so. More like…”

  His voice trailed off and the two of them stood and stared at each other.

  Neither of them said the word, but it was right there, and in that moment it made a weird kind of sense.

  Ink.

  109

  Monk and Sandy wound up in the back seat. They got soaked getting there, but that didn’t matter.

  They kissed for a long time. It began with a kind of junkie urgency, on her part, now his. But the way he kissed her back changed the rhythm. His kiss was soft, gentle, respectful. He did not pull her to him but rather brushed her cheek with his fingers, doing it very softly. That sent a ripple through her and in the space of a heartbeat her kiss stopped being an attack and became a conversation. This is me, it said. This is who I am.

  And he responded in the same language.

  Their lips met and there was that awkward moment—very fleeting—as they became familiar with tastes and textures, with resistance and acceptance. When their tongues met, it was as tentative as opening eyes on a spring morning. Then the kiss built from there, rising and falling with intensity. Learning, exploring creativity and generosity, until they were breathing the same heated breaths.

  He did not touch her first. He knew that he was allowed to, that was evident in the tensions he could feel in her kiss, and in her hands on his chest. But he was willing to wait, to yield power so that she understood how safe he really was.

  The kiss went on and on as the rain fell. The windows were smoked dark already and a night full of rain probably made the car invisible, especially tucked away back here. Why would anyone come looking?

  Sandy trailed her fingers down his chest, over his flat stomach, and onto his thigh. She paused, leaning back an inch to force eye contact. Then she took his right hand and kisse
d it—the knuckles, the hollow of his palm—and placed it over her heart. In any other circumstance it would have been trite, too romantic a gesture to be anything but a come-on. And there was some of that there, sure, but she wanted him to know something. That she trusted him.

  The whole thing was about trust.

  Monk kept his hand there while he bent to kiss her again.

  Time became meaningless.

  He undressed her in the back seat. She was the kind of woman who was made lean by clothes, but naked she was riper than Monk expected. Her breasts were full and high, and her nipples were an exquisite chocolate brown. He bent and exhaled hot breath on each before taking them into his mouth. She cried out and arched her back. His big, scarred hands discovered the landscape of her. She had many scars on her stomach and back, and Monk could feel vibrations of the evil things done to her. The guy part of him wanted to do ugly things to whoever had hurt her, but that was macho bullshit. The man in him accepted her as she was and on her own terms, offering neither pity nor bravado. She required neither from him.

  She settled back as he slid onto his knees in the rear footwell. He lifted one of her legs over his shoulder, kissing the cream-pale skin from knee to hip. Then he breathed another hot breath on the bud of her clitoris before bending closer still.

  When she came she punched the back of the seat, the roof, and even his shoulders. She screamed so loud. She thrashed. Monk knew that it was not really about how well he’d gone down on her. She was releasing things that had nothing to do with him. He was her safe bridge from there to here.

  She came again seconds later, one orgasm flowing into the next.