Death's Excellent Vacation

by Charlaine Harris

  “Uh . . . no.”

  “Oh my God. Don’t tell me that they ate people.”

  She shook her head.

  “Then how did they . . .”

  “They fucked the fish monsters.”

  “They what?” asked Philip.

  “Yeah, how does that even work?” added Vance.

  “I don’t know,” she replied, “but they figured it out. And the deep one DNA eventually started turning people into fish monsters, too, and more and more citizens swam out to sea, never to return. Probably would’ve happened to everyone, except at some point the government got wise and stepped in. Raided the town, using Prohibition as a pretense, killed everyone who had too much fish in them.

  “But they left some behind, people who were still more human than not. The town renounced the deep ones, and everyone tried to forget about it. Most of the citizens left. But there were still some who had enough deep one in them that they couldn’t leave the bay, couldn’t abandon the sea. They stayed behind, trying to move on as best they could. Waiting for the deep ones to return. Anticipating their return, but dreading it at the same time.”

  “And now they’re back,” said Philip.

  “To have sex with us,” said Vance.

  An ominous silence filled the cellar.

  “We were all thinking it,” said Vance.

  “That didn’t mean you had to say it,” said Philip.

  The cellar door creaked as it slowly opened. They searched for a place to hide, but there was none. A pair of deep ones lumbered down the stairs. They moved with the same shuffling gait the citizens of Clam Bay possessed. The flashlight and their glowing eyes mixed to form a putrid illumination, allowing Philip his first clear glimpse of the monsters. The resemblance to the citizens of Clam Bay was rather obvious. From the walk to the slack-jawed expression to the only slightly more scaly skin. If anything, the deep ones seemed less monstrous because they were fully monsters, not caught in some halfway genetic dead end.

  Despite his best efforts, his glance fell across the lead creature’s groin. They seemed to lack the necessary equipment for blood mingling, but maybe they were more fish than human. He was no expert, but he thought fish reproduce by laying eggs and then the male would come along and deposit his contribution. If that was the way this was going to work, he supposed he could handle it.

  A thunderclap rattled the house. The first thunderclap Philip had heard in Clam Bay. And possibly the last. The lights flicked back on, revealing the deep ones, in all their briny, mottled-green glory.

  Vance seized a wine bottle and smashed it over the leader’s head. The bottle shattered. Red dripped down the deep one’s body, but it was wine, not blood. The creature itself appeared unharmed. It didn’t even move with the blow. But it did turn its fish head slowly, degree by degree, in Vance’s direction.

  He smiled and laughed nervously, as if trying to pass the whole thing off as a bad joke.

  The deep one opened its mouth. A horrible gurgle bubbled up from its throat. Its body twitched in a spasm. Its gills throbbed. It retched, spewing a black stew of seaweed and fish bones all over Vance.

  Philip hoped this wasn’t foreplay. The last time he’d been willing to have sex while covered in vomit, he’d been in college. He wasn’t nearly drunk enough tonight.

  “Excuse me.” The deep one pounded its chest while clearing its throat. It was a horrible scraping sound.

  The humans all took a moment to analyze the creature’s apology. There was an accent. The same not-quaint, vaguely New Englandish accent as the good citizens of Clam Bay. The voice was raspy but decipherable. It had less to do with what the deep one said and more to do with that it said anything at all.

  A fit of coughs racked the creature. Seawater dripped from its open mouth. It wiped its lips and sucked in a scraping breath.

  “By Dagon, the air is dry. Could we trouble you for something to drink?”

  PHILIP sat on the porch overlooking the beach. The rain came down in a fine mist. His beach umbrella protected him from the worst of it, but he zipped up his jacket as a stiff breeze swept across Clam Bay.

  “Hey,” said Angela. “Vance said I’d find you here.”

  She leaned over and gave him a kiss, then sat in the chair beside him.

  “They’re coming,” he said.

  “How do you know?”

  “The beach,” replied Philip, taking her hand. “When the sand turns to a light brown mud, that’s when you know.”

  “How’s the remodel coming?”

  “Good. We finally got the bigger bathtubs installed. Now we just have to rip out the rest of the carpeting.” He took a sip of his soda. “They drip. A lot. Easier to mop up hardwood than fight a never-ending battle against mildew.”

  They watched the tides go in and out for a few minutes until the deep ones appeared. Strange how quickly Philip had gotten used to the sight of fish monsters lumbering from the ocean. Sometimes, there was just one or two. Never more than five. They trudged up the beach, toward Philip and Angela, and the lead creature spoke.

  “Is this the Innsmouth Nook?”

  “Yes, sir.” Philip could tell by the gills that this was a male. The females had a more elaborate fringe.

  “We have a reservation for three,” said the deep one.

  “Just follow this trail up to the house. My partner, Vance, is ready to check you folks in.” Philip jumped to his feet and saluted casually. The deep ones didn’t shake hands, and he didn’t mind that.

  They deposited a mound of fresh fish at Philip’s feet. Rusty bits of dull metal were mixed within. Philip spotted a couple of doubloons and several jewels. The deep ones shambled away.

  Tourism had come to Clam Bay. Cold even when sunny, gloomy even during the four weeks of “summer,” trees without leaves all year long, and full of weird people. But for the right kind of people, creatures from the depths looking for a chance to revisit the old country, there was a certain charm to the place.

  A customer was a customer. And aside from the dripping and the rasping, the deep ones were polite and easy to please. They brought their own food, and cooking was easy. Just throw a raw tuna on a plate, garnish with seaweed, and serve with a tall glass of seawater. For the most part, the deep ones were quiet and undemanding. The only danger was getting caught in an extended conversation with the more fervent fish folk. They could talk for hours upon hours about the glory of R’lyeh and the beautiful oblivion destined to sweep up from the ocean’s depths to consume the surface world. But that was more tolerable than when that Scientologist guy spent the night.

  Things were looking up at the Nook. It wasn’t what Philip had in mind when first embarking on this endeavor, but life called for flexibility. He was making a tidy profit, and Clam Bay, still dreary, wet, and cold, had more to offer than he’d ever imagined.

  He took Angela in his arms and gave her a long, deep kiss.

  “Okay,” she said. “I get it. You’re not gay.”

  They shared a chuckle.

  “So up for a little . . . mingling?” he asked.

  “I thought you’d never ask.”

  Smiling, she took him by the hand and led him toward the Nook.

  Safe and Sound

  JEFF ABBOTT

  Jeff Abbott was once involved in a taxicab race with Charlaine Harris in North Carolina (he did not win). He is the internationally bestselling author of twelve suspense novels, including Trust Me, Panic, Fear, and Collision . He is published in more than twenty languages. He is a three-time Edgar® Award nominee, a two-time Anthony Award nominee, a Thriller Award and Barry Award nominee, and a past winner of the Agatha and Macavity awards. He lives in Austin with his family. You can read more about Jeff and his work at www.jeffabbott.com.

  IF Jason Kirk was still alive on the tiny island of Sint Pieter, that happy news would boost Nora Dare’s ratings to a level that made media presidents tremble, rewrote the rules of news coverage, and produced new business case studies at journalism school.r />
  Nora Dare sat at her Constant News Channel (CNC) desk, lacquered talons skimming the notes on the most recent police report. Her camera-men readied themselves in the gleaming studio, the sound checks ringing in her ears. She put her carefully mascaraed gaze on the computer screen buried in her desk, scanning for any breaking updates. The interview had to be played carefully—to make the story last longer, without seeming exploitative of a missing young man’s tragedy. But, Nora knew, no one walked that line better than she did.

  Of course during those treasured moments when she interviewed Jason’s family—which was roughly every other night on her cable- news show, Dare to Fight Back—she pleaded for Jason’s safe return, and she meant every word. Because if the young man turned up safe and sound, well, then, that was ratings gold. Not gold: better, platinum. Maybe even uranium. For three months, college student Jason Kirk’s disappearance while on vacation with his family had made for a deliciously high market share.

  Stories as long-legged as Jason Kirk’s did not happen every day. It had all the elements Nora considered key to a ratings grabber: a highly attractive, sympathetic victim with an easy-to-remember name; a photogenic mourning family stunned by tragedy’s random sideswipe; an exotic locale; incompetent local police; a mysterious, exotic woman who had last been seen with the missing young man.

  The theories had come up, and Nora had dissected them with the care of a coroner. Jason had been kidnapped (an early favorite and still the feeling of the Kirk family); Jason had been sold into slavery (popular for two weeks); Jason had been murdered by the mysterious woman, robbed, his body dumped into the ocean (more likely); Jason had drowned, drunk, in a swim off a Sint Pieter beach and the woman had simply fled the scene (the preferred theory of the local police); or Jason had committed suicide (Nora quickly slaughtered that theory; it would savage her ratings).

  But now, everything had changed, and the story had fresh life. A witness from a small town on the far north tip of the island claimed that a young man fitting Jason’s description had been spotted near her house. The eyewitness was a young woman who could have been a little more photogenic (didn’t they, Nora wondered, have dentists in Sint Pieter?) but was earnest and heartfelt in her sureness that she’d seen Jason.

  The makeup director tended to Nora’s eyebrows with the gentlest of touches while Nora’s director, Molly, slipped an update onto Nora’s interview pages.

  “Um, Nora, I’m not really comfortable with your headline theme tonight.”

  “ ‘Hope or Hoax’ is perfectly accurate.” Nora didn’t flinch as a stray hair was plucked away from her near-immaculate brow. It was a point of honor for Nora that she never flinched. She made other people flinch. It had been a rocky road on the climb to ratings glory and the multimilliondollar book deals. There’d been that suspect in one case who’d killed himself after Nora grilled him (could his guilt then be clearer? Nora had saved the taxpayers the cost of a trial, in her mind), and the other one where the man she’d proclaimed guilty for five months for killing his wife had, well, been found innocent via DNA evidence. Nora still had her doubts, as did any right-minded viewer. “ ‘Hope or Hoax’ is what tonight is about,” she said with an air of irritation.

  Molly raised an eyebrow. “I see your point, but I think it’s a bit cruel to the Kirks to call this hope.”

  “If it’s hope,” Nora explained with a smile of infinite patience, “then the viewers have a reason to tune in tomorrow. If it’s hoax, then they get to see me rip this little lying bitch to shreds.”

  “It just seems a bit . . .”

  “What?”

  Nora thought for a minute Molly’s mouth was forming the fatal word tasteless, but Molly crossed her arms. “Opportunistic. We’re walking a very fine line here, Nora.”

  “The only opportunistic person here might be this witness, this”—she glanced at her notes—“hotel worker, Annie Van Dorn. She could just be an attention seeker, a publicity hound. You know how I despise those loathsome people.”

  “I know, feeding on tragedy. The vultures.”

  Nora thought she detected sarcasm lurking in the vicinity of Molly’s tone but decided Molly wasn’t that stupid. “The intro stands.”

  “All right, Nora.” Molly turned and walked back to the director’s seat in the control room.

  Nora watched her go. She’d have to keep an eye on Molly. That girl was an unappealing mix of judgmental and ambitious. Most unbecoming. Opportunistic? No one was a greater friend or advocate to the Kirk family than Nora was. And poor lost Jason. She was truly his only friend, the person doing the most to keep his face in front of millions each day. She waved away the makeup artist.

  They went live thirty minutes later, and Nora, after her standard setup on the missing Jason’s history, cut straight to the satellite interview with the young woman who’d supposedly (Nora wove this knotty word into every sentence; it was her second favorite, after allegedly) seen Jason on the far side of the island.

  Annie Van Dorn’s skin was a caramel color; her voice lightly accented, her English excellent. Slightly crooked teeth, but otherwise a nice face. She’d put on what Nora surmised was her Sunday best for the interview: a neat white blouse, three years out of fashion. Annie stood in front of a gnarled, wind-bent divi-divi tree in her yard that, to Nora, evoked an air of mystery and danger and Caribbean intrigue. The tree looked like a hand, reaching to clutch the young woman.

  “Annie, tell our viewers about yourself,” Nora said. Her voice was bright, open, and friendly.

  “I work at a hotel on Sint Pieter, in housekeeping.” Annie had a quiet, mild voice. A servant’s voice, Nora thought.

  “But not the hotel from which Jason vanished?”

  “No, ma’am, another one.” Annie wisely did not try to work the hotel’s name into her answer. Nora frowned on free advertising.

  “And what exactly do you claim you saw last night?”

  “Well.” Annie swallowed. “It was close to midnight, and I was at home in Marysville, on the other side of the island from where young Mr. Kirk vanished. I was getting ready for bed—and I thought I heard a noise in the yard. I live with my sister, but she was asleep already. I went to the window, and I saw, in the moonlight, a young man standing in the yard. Close to this tree.”

  “Describe him to me.” And at these words, a picture of Jason appeared on the split screen: blondish, handsome enough to be a model, six three, with a wide grin and broad shoulders, dressed in a T-shirt and baggy shorts. Smiling the smile of a man who has his entire and likely quite-happy life before him, and is savoring a particular moment of fun.

  “I couldn’t see him well in the shadows. I thought maybe it was an old boyfriend of mine, at first. He was sticking close to the trees, not drawing closer, not really stepping out into the moonlight.” The camera panned across Annie’s yard: The viewers could see a dense growth of the divi- divi trees, dark and close; a neighbor’s fenced yard; a clothesline with athletic jerseys, jeans, and a checkered tablecloth snapping in the twilight air. Rustic, Nora thought, yet ever so mildly forbidding.

  “Do your old boyfriends often stop by late at night?”

  “Only one. Who might need money now and then and doesn’t understand I won’t loan him any,” Annie said with a little more spine in her tone, and Nora nodded. Her viewers would like Annie for her moral stance.

  Annie continued: “So I went outside and called out ‘Who’s there?’ then the moonlight broke from the clouds, and I saw it wasn’t my old boyfriend. This man was tall, he was white, with blond hair, wearing a dark shirt, baseball cap, and muddy jeans. I thought he was a prowler then, and I stepped back toward my house.”

  “Were you afraid?” Nora pounced.

  “Not exactly. When I could see him, I just felt this . . . sadness. I can’t describe it; it was strange. He looked lost, like he needed help. Like he was confused. I wanted to comfort him. It’s like I could sense his need—like when you see a lost child.”

  Nora’s voic
e sharpened into a needle. “And then what happened?”

  “Well, my neighbor’s dog got roused; it started barking really loud, and the neighbor’s porch lights switched on, and the man just sort of vanished into the divi-divi trees.”

  “He ran off?”

  “I guess. I didn’t hear him. He stepped back into the shadows and then he was gone. I ran to where he had stood and there was no sign of him.” Annie swallowed.

  “And you’re sure this was Jason Kirk?”

  “At first, ma’am, I wasn’t. Then when I saw his face in the moonlight, clear as day—I knew it was him. He’s been all over the TV here, and the newspapers. I am sure it was him.”

  Nora took a moment to let that grab her viewers by the collective throat. “And how did he—this man you thought was Jason—look to you?” Nora said, leaning forward.

  “Heartbroken. Pale, like he was ill. Lost, I thought. Strange that he seemed lost when a whole island is looking for him.”

  “Did you see anyone else with him?”

  “No, ma’am, but it was very dark, cloudy; the moonlight kept coming and going.”

  Nora let the words sink in. “Annie”—and here she knew it was important at this single moment to be kind and understanding—“are you sure about what you saw? Because you can understand”—dramatic pause, Nora gave her most sympathetic head tilt (patent pending)—“how very cruel it would be to give Jason’s family false hope.”

  “Yes, ma’am, I do understand. It was him. I’m as sure of it as I can be.”

  “Have you talked to any tabloids or other papers about what you saw?”

  “No. I wouldn’t. I’m not selling a story, Ms. Dare. I only wanted to help . . .” Annie bit her lip. “I called the police, and I called your people, because you’ve been the one talking about him every night on the TV.”

  Nora allowed herself a satisfied smile. Her efforts, as always, were for the public good. “But you see how hard it is to believe that if Jason was in trouble, and you were willing to help, that he ran away simply because the neighbor’s dog started barking.”