My Candy:
It’s been a long time I’ve been waiting to get another letter from you. I figured something must be wrong when I got a check from LetterBoxes. I couldn’t understand it because I never asked for a refund. Please write me Candy. I will die if I don’t get some kind of proof that our love is still the best. I got a visit from a postal inspector awhile back, but my Dad talked to the guy. You didn’t tell anybody I was looking for you did you? Lately I been spending more time with Bowser. He likes the showers more and more. I don’t want to sound like I’m getting angry or making any threats, but if I don’t get a letter from you soon, I might have to start writing to some of the other women who really like me and would love to be my girlfriends. Like maybe Madonna and Paula Abdul (even though I think she might be a nigger) and Tiffany. When I go out to the woods, the voice in the well tells me things about you that maybe you don’t love me anymore and maybe I’ll just start listening. Think about it.
Still Yours,
Wayne
* * *
Paula Abdul
February 5
Apex Records
Box 13788
Northridge CA 91324
Dear Paula
I had to tell Candy it was over. You are the only woman in my life now, and I promise to make you happy forever. When I see you at your concert, I’ll show you my love-meat. I’d do anything for you. Even kill or die for you. I like to watch you dance and can imagine you doing with no clothes definitely not for MTV. Bowser likes you too even though he’s only a dog and won’t be allowed in the shower with us. Write soon.
Love Always,
Big-Wad Wayne Gundersen
* * *
April 21
Darin McDowell
Los Angeles Security Services
23444 Melrose Ave
Suite 655
Los Angeles CA 90069
Mr. McDowell:
Enclosed please find this month’s batch of letters. Things are getting pretty hectic as we prepare for Ms. Abdul’s first concert tour of the year. As usual, thank you very much.
Sincerely,
Jamie Lerner
Personal Secretary to Ms. Abdul
* * *
MEMORANDUM
From: Darin McDowell, Director
Date: May 3
To: Joseph D’Agostino
Re: Priority Ones
Enclosed please find NA’s of all the Priority One letters. We have a Red Flag on Subject #1 (Wayne Gundersen). Be aware that Subject #l’s letters rang up the highest scores ever recorded on all three Test Indices. Subject #1 is considered to be extremely unstable and dangerous. I want you on location in Wisconsin for a complete dossier work-up. The Abdul tour starts next week—with a stop in Madison, so we will want to be ready for anything.
* * *
MEMORANDUM
CONFIDENTIAL
From: J. D’Agostino
Date: May 19
To: Mr. McDowell
Re: Wayne Gundersen
Everything I’ve been able to uncover about the subject indicates we have a real doughnut on our hands.
No known friends, bad relationships with his teachers, parents, and the local authorities. School records show below-average Stanford-Binet intelligence scores, unsubstantiated claims of sexual abuse while still in elementary grades, poor classroom attendance, and non-existent parental involvement with the education process. A series of misdemeanors on the county docket ranging from Malicious Destruction of Property to Animal Cruelty to Voyeurism.
I’ve been able to observe the subject at fairly close range. He spends most of his time just meandering around the family farm or in the nearby woods. Once in the woods, he either stands over the opening of an abandoned well talking to himself, or committing acts of sodomy with his dog. We are talking about a very sick boy out here in cheese country.
* * *
Paula Abdul
June 12
Apex Records
Box 13788
Northridge CA 91324
My Paula
I don’t understand what is going on here. Why did you let those men jump on me at your concert? I tried to tell them you said it was okay to come up and sing and dance with you. They took me to a trailer and used Bruce Lee stuff on me. The police were just as bad, and I kept waiting for you to come and save me and you never did. Don’t you still love me? And when are you going to buy my Dad’s farm so we can get rid of him and my two (brat) sisters? The thing in the well told me I should be mad about all this, but I love you so much I just can’t. But write soon or I will be upset.
Your
Wayne Gundersen
* * *
MEMORANDUM
From: Darin McDowell
Date: July 15
To: Joseph D’Agostino
Re: W. Gundersen
Sorry to keep you twisting in the wind so long, but it looks like you’re going to have to stay on this one. We’ve faxed copies of all our documentation to the Portage County D.A. The ball’s in their court now. Till then, I want you so close to Gundersen he’ll have to goose you to get into his pajamas at night. Talking to the kid’s father is a waste of time. Talk about chips off the old block. Continue to fax me a weekly report memo. I want our documentation to be air-tight in case we run into trouble down the line. And Joe—thanks for going the extra mile on this one.
* * *
Paula Abdu
July 31
Apex Records
Box 13788
Northridge CA 91324
My Naked Dancer, Paula
Okay, everything is ready for you out here. You can buy everything and nobody will say anything about it. Bowser says he will like you too. I’ll teach him to lick you in the shower like he licks me. The only problem we’re going to have is keep the thing in the well happy. The more I give it to eat the more it wants and it says it will make me do what it wants. You have to come out here and help me.
I Love You Paula,
Wayne The G-Man
* * *
FROM THE DESK OF
HUGHES STURDEVANT, ESQ.
PORTAGE COUNTY DISTRICT ATTORNEY’S OFFICE
August 15
Judge Hartkey:
After reviewing the material on the case against Wayne Gundersen (case #33467), I’ve decided not to pursue charges. The State’s evidence is mostly based on what even a public defender is going to have thrown out as hearsay or innuendo. Admittedly, we have a kid who appears to be potentially dangerous, but, at least up until now, hasn’t actually committed any crimes.
Give me a call if you have any comments, suggestions, etc. By the way, I saw Leo in the cafeteria yesterday, and he is itching for a rematch on the links this Sunday. Interested?
Hugh
* * *
—PRIVATE INVESTIGATOR MISSING—
Ingram, Wisconsin – The Portage County Sheriff Stanley G. Houseman today confirmed claims made by the Los Angeles Security Services that Mr. Joseph D’Agostino, a long-time employee of LASS, has been missing without a trace for twenty-one days. Mr. D’Agostino works for a private agency which provides maximum security for public figures such as singers and actors. When President of LASS, Darin McDowell, was questioned about the presence of Mr. D’Agostino in Portage County, Mr. McDowell freely admitted his employee was working on a confidential company assignment. Sheriff Houseman also confirmed the search for Mr. D’Agostino has already commenced.
* * *
CONFIDENTIAL
MEMORANDUM
From: M. Lonnigan
Date: August 22
To: Darin McDowell
Re: Ingram WI
Hard to believe it took that asshole Sheriff this long to listen to us. They just dragged the abandoned well at the Gundersen farm and found what we figured—plus a lot more. Looks like Joe’s been in there at least two weeks. The rest of the family’s been there maybe a week longer. They also found some bones of another body—probably the stepmother. But here’s the weir
d part: they found the Gundersen kid in there too. There were parts of his fingernails on the edge of the well, like he was trying to hold on and something was trying to pull him in. The local John Laws were so glad to wrap this up, they just glossed over that little oddity. I might go back tonight and check out the scene after the County ME pulls out. I’ll call you later.
* * *
—SECOND INVESTIGATOR MISSING—
Ingram, Wisconsin – Sheriff Stanley Houseman refused to confirm or deny claims that a second investigator from the Los Angeles Security Services, a Mr. Mickey Lonnigan, may be missing in Ingram, Wisconsin. The President of the California-based company, Darin McDowell has announced plans to personally investigate the matter.
This one was for a theme anthology entitled Obsessions edited by a talented writer, Gary Raisor, who doesn’t write enough. From the title, it was obvious what kind of stories he was looking for, and I figured I would use the opportunity to expand my range a bit and try to come up with something from one of the outer orbital paths of human oddity. Weeks went by and I kept ticking off items from the list of obsessive subjects and only two held my interest—one was about those compulsive hand-washers, Kleenex-wipers, and door-lockers (you know the types whose stories show up on the Discovery Channel every once in a while), but I couldn’t get a handle on the actual direction of the plot, couldn’t get the thing moving with enough internal momentum that would eventually propel me to a resolution, an ending1; and the second one was—well, I can’t tell you that.
1 and if you been paying attention, you know that’s the way I like to write short fiction—i.e. by the seat of my pants. I love to see where the words and complications will eventually take me. I can’t think of anybody better I would want to tell me a story than myself.
“Are you sure it’s really hers?” asked Stanley Devereaux.
The man named Harkey smiled, displaying uneven, yellow teeth. He was seated across the table from Stanley Devereaux, scraping dirt from under his fingernails with a Swiss army knife. Harkey directed his gaze down at the velvet sack, which rested between them, flanked by an ashtray and two bottles of Beck’s dark.
“C’mon, Stan-boy, would I shit ya?” he said. “Of course it’s hers!”
“Where did you get this fancy bag?”
Harkey shrugged. “I got a friend. Deals in jewelry and you know—crystal and shit like that. He’s got plenty of ’em layin’ around. Thought it would be a nice touch—puttin’ it in somethin’ velvet, you know?”
Stanley Devereaux was suddenly aware of his breathing, of his tongue lolling dryly in his mouth, of his pulse pounding behind his ears. Speed-metal music seared the smoky atmosphere of the club and a double-bass rhythm synched-up with his heartbeat. Women in glitzy colors rainbowed past his table, but he ignored them as he continued to stare at the velvet bag.
“But how? How did you do it?”
Harkey shrugged, reached into his scuffed leather jacket to scrounge out a pack of Camels. Nobody smoked Camels anymore, but this shabby little guy did. “How’dja think I did it?! I went in and I took it!”
Stanley reached out, tentatively fingered the satin cord which held the opening to the sack fast. His blood swelled in his veins. An erection hardened in his boxers. Jesus, he couldn’t believe this!
“Hey! Not so fast…” Harkey barked out a mouthful of smoke with his words. “There’s my fee, remember?”
“You’ll get it. You always do.” Stanley nervously rubbed his lips with the back of his hand. “I just want to see it, if you don’t mind.”
“Not in here, man. Are ya fuckin’ nuts?” Harkey pushed the velvet sack closer to Stanley Devereaux.
“Here—touch it. Feel it through the bag, man. It’s the goods, man, I guarantee it.”
Stanley’s breath hitched up in his throat, which felt as though it had tightened down to the diameter of a straw. He couldn’t believe this, still! Slowly, he let his soft, somewhat plump, accountant’s fingers probe and touch the object concealed by the velvet bag. The expected contours and surfaces passed beneath his touch and he felt himself smiling. His erection was like the handle of a hatchet and his breathing had jagged edges.
Have to get control of things. Take it easy. Don’t let this creep see how it was affecting him.
Plus, there was one more thing…
“Okay, it feels okay, but how do I know it was hers—I mean really hers? You got any proof?”
Harkey reached for his Beck’s, sucked down a mouthful with enough lack of style to let some of it dribble down his stubbled chin. “You’ll get all the proof ya need when ya watch the news tonight.”
Checking his watch, Stanley frowned. “It’s already after 11:00. Too late. You could be bullshitting me.”
Harkey grinned again. Stanley had always thought he looked like that character actor Harry Dean Stanton—only more depraved, more dissipated.
“I ain’t bullshittin’ ya, Stan. When you go home, catch the Cable News. They got it goin’ around the clock.”
He was right about that. “Okay,” said Stanley. “I want to take this with me and check the news. When I get my proof, you get your money.”
“My ass…”
“Come on, Harkey. You know where to find me. I’m not going anywhere, and you know I’m good for it.”
Harkey giggled. “Yeah, yer right—I know where ya live, Stan—baby. So if ya don’t come through with the cash after tonight, I’m gonna hafta come lookin’ for ya.”
Stanley was already getting up, pulling his trenchcoat over his Perry Ellis jacket. He picked up the velvet bag and tucked it under the folds of the coat. “I’m going home, Harkey. I want to see this for myself.”
“Yeah, I bet ya do…”
Stanley stepped back and let the music and the insect swarm of the crowd flow over him. Harkey dissolved into the smear of color and sound, and suddenly the air seemed cleaner. Falling into the leather womb of his BMW’s front seat, Stanley placed the velvet sack on the passenger’s side. Pale sodium light filtered down from the parking lot’s overhead lamps, casting everything in sick yellows.
Open the bag. See it. Touch it. Hold it close!
Hand on the ignition key, he grappled with his own impulses.
Despite the damp chill in the night air, his hands were sweaty-slick. He looked at the bag and its contents seemed to be throbbing like a dark heart.
See it! Touch it!
No. Somebody might discover him. Better to just get the hell home. To a safe haven. To the Shrine.
Summoning up his will, he keyed the ignition and pressed down on the accelerator. His 832i, a typical L. A. Jungle predator, turboed silkily from the lot and onto Sunset. He headed west, exceeding the posted limit, ducked onto Laurel Canyon, then west again on Mullholland. The whole time he wrestled the car through the endless turns and hitchbacks, Stanley expected to see the colored lights in his rear-view mirror, to have some meddling cop shine his flashlight into the car and pin the velvet bag under its beam. He swallowed hard as he pulled into his driveway on Beverly Glen. He killed the engine, and gulped several breaths. His pulse had been jumping and he needed to just calm down. Another minute and he’d be safely inside, and no one would ever know. In his peripheral vision the bag again seemed to pulse and throb like a shining, black organ. Quickly he snapped his head to the right, stared at the object and exhaled only after convinced it was not really moving.
Maybe it was wrong what he’d done? Perhaps this was carrying things too far…?
No, of course not, screamed his next thought. It was the only thing to do. The ultimate acquisition. He smiled. Yes, it was certainly that. Stanley Devereaux nodded to himself, felt himself growing hard again.
Carefully, he picked up the bag to cradle it close to his chest. When he had locked himself in and left his London Fog crumpled on the foyer tile, he began to feel secure for the first time that evening. He reached quickly for the remote control, which infra-redded his Sony out of that dead zone where TVs waited for h
uman attention. Punching through the numbers until he found the Headline News Channel, Stanley didn’t take another breath until he heard the familiar voices of the cable news anchors.
Like a statuette Buddha, he sat cross-legged in the floor watching the flickering images, letting the voice-overs bathe in their waters of forgetfulness. He held his prize in his lap in a sort of trance, not really registering any of the information or advertisements. He remained inert, a cold vessel, empty of thought, waiting for the news segment which would either justify or abrogate his vigilance.
And then suddenly it appeared.
Video tape footage from Westwood Memorial Park. The smooth skin of the pink marble crypt violated as thoroughly as a schoolgirl’s virginity. As the on-the-scene commentator monotoned the horror and depravity of such a desecration, the camera zoomed in on the bronze faceplate, the dates and the name which had never lost its magic.
It was true! The bastard had done what he said…
Reality seeped into Stanley like a subtle acid. What had been total fantasy, now consummate fact, initially stunned him.
He’d done it. Actually done it…! Slowly, he rose to his feet, fighting a sudden disequilibrium, an unsteadiness in his legs. He remoted off the television and stood in the darkness cradling his prize with a new care, a new passion.
It was time.
As he walked through the house, each room he passed was like the shedding of another false skin, another faked aspect of his life. His den, his office, his bedroom—-where he paused only long enough to strip naked and pull on a silk kimono he purchased on his last vacation in Tokyo.
He descended the basement stairs, crossed the tile of a sterile, banal “rec” room replete with de rigueur bar and pool table, and touched a concealed button in a cabinet of bowling trophies. The cabinet swung inward on hidden hinges to reveal a sub-basement room. Stanley had explained to the contractors who’d built it to his specs he wanted a place to hide from the Charlie Mansons of the world. The builder, a grungy Italian, had grunted a conciliatory agreement and finished the job without further comment or opinion.
Fearful Symmetries Page 18
