by A. S. French
Lost In America
A. S. French
Neonoir Books
Copyright © 2021 by A. S. French
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, events, businesses, locales and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Also by A. S. French
The Astrid Snow series.
Book one: Don’t Fear the Reaper.
Book two: The Killing Moon.
Book three: Lost in America.
* * *
The Detective Jen Flowers series.
Book one: The Hashtag Killer.
Book two: Serial Killer.
Book three: Night Killer.
* * *
Go to www.andrewsfrench.com for more information.
Contents
1. I Just Can’t Be Happy Today
2. Grave Disorder
3. Little Miss Disaster
4. Problem Child
5. Sanctum Sanctorum
6. Alone Again Or
7. Life Goes On
8. Looking At You
9. Noise Noise Noise
10. Pretty Vacant
11. Sick of Being Sick
12. Gun Fury
13. Don’t Cry Wolf
14. Fan Club
15. Feel the Pain
16. Grimly Fiendish
17. Thanks For The Night
18. Lively Arts
19. Drinking About My Baby
20. The Dog
21. Democracy
22. Girl Goes Down
23. Ignite
24. Curtain Call
About the Author
Acknowledgments
1 I Just Can’t Be Happy Today
The stare on his face was so hard you could sharpen knives on it. His voice was as thin as the rest of him and seesawed up and down like an out-of-tune violin. Astrid ignored it and considered how she’d ended up inside a jail in small-town America, twitching her nose at the smell of sweat drifting from her. She rubbed at the bruise on her cheek and wriggled her mouth to squeeze out the ache in her jaw.
What is that taste lingering on my lips?
The Police Officer repeated something, but all she heard was last night’s terrible band banging the drums inside her ears and that woman screeching through her skull.
I’m the queen of raaack and rollll!
She couldn’t get that scream from her head.
She’s the one who did this to me.
Astrid licked at the stale tequila squatting at the back of her throat and remembered getting into the fight with the lead singer from that group.
She was no queen of anything, let alone rock-and-roll. Her name was Stella Starr, and the band was London Riot.
She’d pushed her way to the stage, fighting through the rednecks and mullets, and shouted at them. ‘You’re more like London Shite!’
The tequila missed her mouth and slipped from the bottle, splashing the giant of a bloke swaying next to her. She ignored his scowl and scanned the room: the bar was a mating ground for those whom evolution had forgotten: apish men with shaven heads dragged their knuckles along the floor while lumbering after women in white stilettos and matching PVC catsuits, who clattered around blaring like banshees to match the singer.
As she sat in the police cell, her brain recalled the mixed aromas of the night before: the strong whiff of tobacco and fatty foods with subtle hints of exhaust fumes, sweat and damp vegetables from the market area; all with an undertone of vomit, Hai Karate aftershave and old cheese. The Officer continued to say things she didn’t hear as a rush started in her toes and surged up through her body. The memories released thousands of tiny bubbles of booze and chilli into her veins. She felt like a shaken-up bottle of Lucozade as he opened the door and reached for her.
Then she vomited all over him.
His angry shouts loosened the cotton wool in her head as he pushed her back on to the bed. She hit it with a thump and the metal edge bit through her jeans and into her leg. As she rubbed at it, her ribs throbbed to a similarly bruised tune. The policeman pulled away from her and locked the door behind him, retreating down the corridor and filling the air with a choice selection of obscenities.
She rolled on to the bed and gazed at the ceiling. Someone had scrawled pornographic drawings into the concrete, but they didn’t distract her from returning to last night’s activities. She wasn’t in the cell any more, but back in the dive bar, at the front of the stage and harassing the singer. That tall woman, Stella, jumped down to punch her; wasn’t that what happened? The memories were fuzzy, but Astrid knew one thing: she was a Brit in an American bar and was in no mood to refuse an international challenge, even though she should have returned to England days ago.
A crude caricature of two policemen having sex brought her back to reality. Astrid wondered if the station’s occupants ever looked at the ceiling to see what was there. She wiped the taste of vomit from her lips, but could do nothing about the smell of what she’d drunk last night sticking to the walls of her nose like a thick carpet. She steadied her legs and lurched towards the far wall, amused to notice a map peering at her. She assumed it was of the town, but most of the names printed across the top had faded over the years, so all it read now was B##ERSTOWN. The crick in her neck twitched as she pushed her face close to the text.
Perhaps I’m living in BEERSTOWN. How appropriate would that be?
She rubbed at her rumbling stomach as she examined the figures on the paper. If her current accommodation was a jail in the town’s police department, then according to the map, she was bang in Main Street’s centre. On her release, she could turn left and pop into the Well-Read bookstore and perhaps pick up a rare copy of The Bell Jar. Next door was Tom’s Diner, and perhaps they’d have something to quell the grumbling inside her guts. Further on, she’d visit the drug store and the perfume shop, perfect places to ease her aching bones and improve her smell. If she kept going in the same direction, she’d eventually reach Siggy’s Used Cars and perhaps use their expertise to get out of this town without relying on the bus service that brought her there.
Her other option would be to turn the opposite way and step into the movie theatre; hadn’t she seen an advert somewhere for a revival double feature of Alien and Aliens? Then again, her memories of last night were few and covered in hazy fuzz, plus the idea of spending so long in the dark didn’t appeal to her. In that case, she could visit the town hall on the other side of the road, or possibly find some spiritual redemption inside the United Methodist Church or the First Church of the Baptist; only Main Street separated the two places of worship. That and the religiously themed delicatessen called Jesus Cheeses. Then came the brewery, and beyond that were a hospital and a sign leading off the map, pointing to WORTHING WOODS at the end of the street.
All the town’s roads had unassuming names apart from a long, winding one on the east side named DOGS HEAD ROAD. The title intrigued Astrid, and the path led into a swathe of trees surrounding most of the town. She reached out and ran her fingers across the wrinkled paper, the touch of it resurrecting memories of the first maps she’d created in her family home so long ago. The twinge in her brain would soon grow into a roaring locomotive if she didn’t get her past under control. She had several mechanisms to deal with this, honed and cultivated over time to near perfection, but they weren’t needed now since the
soreness in her ribs was making her body flinch and returning her mind to the present.
She stepped back, her leg bumping into the bed as she pulled up her top to stare at the vivid purple and blue imprinted on her skin. Then the memories came, not of her childhood, but of yesterday and the beating she’d taken. She shook her head and gazed at the map, only noticing from that distance someone had drawn on it two stick figures having sex at the bottom of the paper.
If she scrunched up her eyes, they reminded her of ants grappling with each other. This image triggered the flickering frames of her father over thirty years ago, dragging her into the garden to make her watch as he set an ant colony on fire. It wasn’t the illumination of the flames or the smell of the smoke which stuck with her the most, but the sight of him, of Lawrence Snow, leading light of the local police force, and the expression of pure joy which lit up his face.
She resurrected the bile at the bottom of her throat because the taste of it was better than thinking about him. Astrid turned towards the bed, noticing for the first time the newspaper underneath it. Her ribs tingled as she reached down and grabbed it. She’d hoped it would be the local rag so she could find out where she was, but it was a two-day-old copy of the New York Times. The cover and front pages focused on the President’s decision to pull all US troops from the Middle East, talking of a partial withdrawal from Europe to follow. He was a Good Old Boy, and his action against his military advisors’ advice was going down well in the Red States. She flicked by the news for a crossword or puzzle to keep her brain active.
‘Welcome to American justice.’
The guy who spoke was not the Officer she’d thrown up on. He opened the cell door, swinging keys in one hand and clutching a cup of coffee in the other. It wouldn’t have mattered if he’d been cradling two shotguns like an over-excited John Wayne. Even in her present state, she could have dropped him without a second thought. Then it would be a quick walk down to the exit from the cells, through that and past the motley crew of doughnut eaters and moustache groomers she’d staggered by in the early hours of the morning. Even with her Armageddon-inducing headache, it wouldn’t be too much of a problem. But what then? Flee from small-town Americana and blag her way back to Blighty? That would only cause more problems.
The guy read Astrid her rights. He had a long, narrow face, with straight angular bones hiding beneath the skin, sharp enough to slice through steel. Frozen eyes sat in two sunken fleshy holes. His short brushed hair sprang forward from the top of the head like the brittle wire on a brush, flecked with white and grey.
‘Do you understand what I said, Brit girl?’
She kept her fist from smashing into his nose for calling her a girl. ‘I’m guessing my comprehension of the English language is greater than yours, Yank boy.’ Astrid placed heavy emphasis on the word Yank. Sweat poured off him like a monsoon. He stank of cheap aftershave and desperation. Wrapped around his face was one of those hipster beards only a jackass would have.
Astrid had travelled through New York State for a week, stopping in a few small towns, tempted to visit Greece in Monroe County because of its name, and then continue to her ultimate destination in Rochester. But she’d needed rest from the beaten-up bus carrying her weary body before she got there and took a break in this one-horse town. The tangle with Stella Starr was the first entertainment she’d had in weeks, and even though her head and ribs throbbed like superheated electricity, she didn’t regret it. Whatever this was now, it seemed unlikely to be enjoyable. But she wasn’t worried; how long would she be locked up for getting into a fight?
His teeth were un-American in their crooked, nicotine-stained shape. ‘You’re in deep trouble, girl.’
Astrid had left her teenage years behind a long time ago, so she assumed he was calling her girl to wind her up. Or perhaps his experiences with women were that limited, which, looking at him again, she could well believe.
‘Where am I?’
He stared at her as if she was dumb. ‘You’re in jail, Brit girl.’
There was that word again. She licked the last of the stale tequila from her lips.
‘Which village are you the idiot of?’
He had a face designed to sneer. ‘Turn around with your hands behind your back.’
She did as instructed and the handcuffs bit into her skin. He didn’t waste the opportunity of leaving grubby fingers lingering across the top of her legs. She fought off the urge to kick him in the balls. He spun her around and glared at her, so close she thought the halitosis would melt the flesh from her cheeks.
‘You’re in Bakerstown, Brit girl, and there’s no fancy lords or ladies to get you out of this mess. Even the King of England can’t help you now.’
She wondered where he got his curious knowledge of Britain and its residents from as he shoved her towards the exit, then reached above her head to bang on the faded paint of the wood. A sewer lived in his armpit, and she wanted to throw up again. The door opened as she shovelled the bile back down her throat.
She stepped out, keen to get away from the stink surrounding her. A blonde woman stared at her from behind a computer screen. She had fingernails so long, Astrid thought it would be impossible to type with them, but she caressed those keys as if born to it. Stationed across the room were several Officers with guns strapped to their waists, their heads turning towards her in unison.
No American could ever understand how strange it was for a Brit to witness weapons worn so openly and casually. Even with the police, it was a rarity to see that in Britain. She’d had training with firearms, but had never been comfortable around them. She guessed it gave people a sense of security they didn’t need in a town this small; then again, perhaps Bakerstown was a lot more dangerous than the name suggested. Why else would they lock her in a cell?
All this because I got into a fight with that woman from the band?
The stink cop shoved her to the left and inside another room, furnished with a single table and three chairs. The walls were as barren as the rest of the building, the carpet stolen from the Ark. Wherever the money was in this town, it wasn’t with the local police department.
A camera peered at her from the corner of the ceiling, but nobody had switched it on. The stink cop told her to sit down and removed the handcuffs. Then he left, locking the door with her inside. All she had to do was wait. And that wouldn’t be a problem as long as she kept her hyperactive brain satisfied. So she scrutinised the room and contemplated her situation.
She was an expert in seclusion. It was Astrid who’d codified the isolation interrogation process and procedures in her previous employment. Was that what this was about? Did her employers want her back and were they trying the same techniques against her which had failed before?
Perhaps I should be worried about this.
A man unlocked the door and entered with a woman. He looked like a young Denzel Washington but with none of the confidence, and she was a mouse in a dress, all edgy tics and restless eyes. He took Astrid’s mug shots, and she did the fingerprints. Astrid was glad it was the woman who got to hold her hands, with the feel of her skin distracting enough to quell the warning signs exploding through her head. The woman was even more nervous after Astrid finished flicking her eyelids at her. They didn’t bother to cuff her again before leaving.
She checked the place after they’d gone, staring past the dead camera and the American flag on the wall. A large man shuffled into the room. She wasn’t sure how he fitted into the chair opposite her, but he did. The wood creaked so loudly she expected it to shatter at any second.
He sneered at her and spoke through lungs caked with decades of nicotine.
‘You’re in a lot of trouble, girl.’
She tried not to smile. His face had too much flesh on it, as if bits were trying to find an escape route by swimming through the sweat dripping down his receding hairline and the lakes settling under his eyes.
‘Is this how you treat all your guests?’
He ig
nored her question. ‘My name is Colt, Chief of Police in this town you’ve invaded.’ He made it sound as if she was the first wave of a barbarian horde. He threw papers on to the desk, bits of food sticking to his chubby fingers. ‘Your visa expired weeks ago, Snow, and the British Embassy in Washington wants nothing to do with you, considering your crimes here. All you can do now is confess to them.’
There was hate in his eyes which stretched further back than whatever she was supposed to have done. She might have a stonewall alibi for what he was about to accuse her of, but it wouldn’t make a jot of difference.
I don’t have one for that fight.
‘My lead Detective will deal with you, but not yet. After what you did, it’s gonna be my pleasure to set you on the path to a life in prison.’ He rolled his eyes at her. ‘Being a Brit ain’t gonna help you now, girl; those limey bastards have washed their hands of you. So what do you think of that?’
‘What am I supposed to have done?’
He leant back into his chair, and she waited for the snap, which never came. He smoked an imaginary cigar and glared at her. She said nothing, still confident she’d get out of this when she had to, waiting for Colt to tell her.
‘You’re a murderer, Snow.’
2 Grave Disorder
The words echoed inside her head as Chief Colt banged on the wall behind him. The door creaked open, and a tall man strode inside. He looked like he’d stepped out of a Vietnam movie, with cold sea-blue eyes and a scar on his right cheek. He took the other seat and removed a digital recording device from his pocket. His voice was melodic, like an angel’s tears.
