by John Locke
…and shit!
While the tube of ointment was still in his shirt pocket, he realized he’d left that particular shirt in the trunk of his car when he changed clothes and put on the ball cap. Was it the power of suggestion that made his itching worse? D’Augie hoped so, because if it were an issue of mind over matter he’d be fine. He knew his mental powers were second to none, thanks to the countless hours he’d invested over many months mastering the art of meditation. He’d studied with the best yogis and perfected the art.
D’Augie spent the next five minutes in a deep meditative state. He would have devoted even more time to the meditating, but his crotch was on fire. It hurt like hell and was getting worse. He unzipped the top of the carry bag on his shoulder, took out a bottle of water, twisted the cap, and took a long sip. Then he unzipped his pants and poured some water on his festering blisters.
D’Augie knew there were squirrels in the attic, so he had expected to encounter the scent of feces in the air. He’d been around feces before, had a cat he used to clean up after a few years back. But this attic stench beat anything he’d whiffed in his lifetime. It was unearthly, truly appalling. Made his eyes itch and water and triggered his gag reflex. This odor was rich in feces, but there was more going on here than simple squirrel shit. D’Augie was a city boy, so he couldn’t be certain, but there seemed to be at least two other odors at work, fighting for dominance. He was pretty sure that the more pleasant of the two was rotting carcass, while the other might be something like undigested, regurgitated, decaying animal bits. Whatever the nature of the smell, it was harsh enough to scare a mongrel off a corn dog.
But…no problem, D’Augie would deal with it. He took another sip of water.
The attic insulation was the pink roll-type with paper on top. He had been hearing intermittent scurrying sounds on the paper some distance in front of him, and—there, it happened again—behind him. The sounds were too light to be squirrels, too heavy to be mice. Large mice? Small rats?
Moments later D’Augie heard chattering sounds in one of the eaves that were probably baby squirrels. Though he had spent little time in the country, he knew that in the animal kingdom, new mothers are often fiercely protective and rarely stray far from their litters. So he made a mental note to stay away from the eaves. That wouldn’t be a problem, assuming Creed returned soon. But if he didn’t, D’Augie would be forced to stand and walk around a bit to keep his muscles from cramping up. Nothing ruins the element of surprise like jumping through a plywood door and attacking Creed on your knees.
The itching and burning in his thighs and crotch had escalated far beyond anything D’Augie’s meditation could handle. It felt like someone was repeatedly burning his nuts and thighs with miniature branding irons. Bad as the stink in the attic was to deal with, the fire ant pain in his loins was worse. D’Augie scratched his crotch vigorously, and experienced instant relief.
For about five seconds.
Then the itching and burning returned, and when it did, it was worse than before. D’Augie clenched his fists, gritted his teeth, and handled the itch and burn for about twenty seconds. Then he gave in and scratched his crotch again. And again.
…And managed to scratch the scabs off his wounds.
He’d been sweating profusely since entering the attic, and sweat contained salt, so D’Augie wasn’t surprised that the sweat stung his private area when it seeped into his open sores.
What did surprise him was how badly it hurt.
He wondered why this attic attack seemed like such a great idea earlier in the day. Now he was dealing with itchy crotch, burning crotch, horrific smells, cramping muscles, rats, baby squirrels, and…
What was that?
More scurrying on paper, only much louder.
And then a thwack.
And then the muffled squeaking sound a rat might make if it had been crushed in the jaws of…
…Of a huge snake.
D’Augie felt the hairs on the back of his neck tingle, as if something cold were blowing on them. If that was a snake it was a large one, and very close by. And where there’s one it’s almost certain there’ll be another. The attic was virtually pitch black. Snakes could be slithering all around him, and he would never know it. They could be surrounding him at that very moment.
D’Augie was a city boy, not a country one. But he wasn’t completely clueless. He knew, for example, that most snakes are not venomous. But he didn’t know how many were.
He tried to remain calm. He drained his bottled water and put the empty in his carry sack. Then he did something a country boy would never do: he suddenly introduced a fresh food source into an enclosed attic space where wild animals and reptiles were trapped, fearful, and starving to death. He removed a peanut butter meal replacement bar from his carry sack and tore off the wrapper, releasing the scent of peanuts and chocolate into the air. As he started to move the food toward his mouth, something happened that caused him to forget his itchy, burning crotch and all the rest of his attic problems.
The battle was over as quickly as it started. D’Augie screamed and leaped through the plywood door with a snake on his face and two squirrels biting various parts of his neck and shoulders all the way to the floor. His elbow landed on the snake’s head, crushing it, and the squirrels panicked and ran through the house. Before D’Augie could get to his feet, a dozen more squirrels came pouring out of the opening like lemmings, followed by half as many snakes, representing several varieties. As the creatures landed on or around him, D’Augie scrambled to get to his feet.
But couldn’t.
Along with the numerous cuts, scrapes, bites and bruises he’d acquired before and during the fall, he’d apparently broken an arm and leg at the end of it.
“This is bullshit!” he screamed, covering up and waiting for the last of the critters to stop raining down from the shattered plywood hole above him
When at last things had quieted down, D’Augie secured his shoulder bag and began the slow and painful process of getting himself down the stairs, out the door, and to his car a quarter mile away.
Chapter 14
IT WAS FRIDAY morning, and Rachel was upstairs making herself pretty. I was in the kitchen, cooking up a storm for the guests, and Beth was setting the dining room tables. Wherever the rats and mice were hiding, it worked, because the two couples that checked in yesterday made it through the night without screaming.
“What is that heavenly scent?” Beth asked.
“I’m baking a caramel bread pudding custard.”
She walked back into the kitchen and eyeballed me. “You’re joking.”
“Want to see it?”
I led her to the oven and opened the door and said, “You’ll get the full aroma in about twenty minutes.”
“You’ve made this before, right?”
“Let me put it this way: within a week people will travel from parts unknown just to eat breakfast here.”
“If you cook as well as you brag, my troubles are over.”
I put my hand on my heart and bowed. “No one can brag as well as I cook. Not even me.”
She looked past me, to the box on the far counter. “What’s this?”
“Fresh flowers for the centerpiece.”
Beth used both hands to smooth her hair back. “Custard, fresh flowers. I’m not sure you realize how deeply in debt I am.”
“Relax. It’s my treat.”
Rachel made her way down the steps treading lightly in black, espadrille wedge sandals. She wore pale pink lipstick and had on a white dress shirt with a high button-down collar, and black stretch jeans. The jeans looked particularly hot. She carried a crystal vase that I knew to be Baccarat. Reacting to Beth’s stunned expression, Rachel said, “For the centerpiece.” She spied the box of flowers and opened it and began arranging them in the vase.
Beth hadn’t moved a muscle since entering the kitchen. She continued staring at the vase. “Who are you people?” she said.
Rachel�
�s lips curled into a smile that resembled a pretty pink bow. She winked at me, and I took the cue.
“We are people not to be trifled with,” I said.
“Excuse me?”
Rachel said, “That’s a line from our favorite movie, The Princess Bride.”
“Oh,” Beth said. “Well, if it’s your favorite, I’ll have to check it out.”
“It’s about a pirate,” Rachel said. “We love pirates, don’t we, Kevin?”
“Arrr,” I said. “And them who likes ‘em, too.”
“And their ships and crew members,” Rachel said.
“Aye, and their families as well,” I said, getting into it.
“And don’t forget their descendants,” Rachel said.
“Aye, especially them—”
And then something creepy happened. Beth slowly turned toward Rachel, turned so slowly I thought she must be imitating a scene from her own favorite movie, except that her face had lost all color and expression. When at last Beth’s eyes met Rachel’s, she spoke in a voice so chilly it seemed to freeze the room.
“What’s going on here?” she said. Then she looked at me.
I shrugged. “We’re saving your bed and breakfast. I’m cooking, Rachel’s serving.”
Beth looked at us a long time, making up her mind about something. Whatever it was, it seemed to go in our favor because a bit of the color came back to her face and she managed a tight smile. “In that case,” she said, “I’d better get out the trays and bowls and serving spoons.”
She headed back into the dining room and busied herself in the hutch. Rachel and I exchanged a glance.
“What was that all about?” Rachel whispered.
“Hell if I know,” I said. “You’re the woman.”
Rachel made a soft singing sound, “Doo doo doo doo,” which I recognized as the theme from the Twilight Zone.
Chapter 15
THERE’S NO POINT in being modest: the guests loved my bread pudding. They also raved about my cream biscuits, sausage gravy, and the French toast I’d stuffed with apple pie filling. But it was the mini BLT rounds that made the guests delirious. I had punched circles out of sliced potato bread with a large biscuit cutter, filled them with bacon, fresh tomatoes and romaine lettuce. Of course, the bacon was distinctively prepared. I started with thick slices, pressed them in brown sugar, and broiled them in the oven over a drip pan. The result was elegant, unique, and tasty enough to make a jackrabbit jump up and slap a hound dog.
“Mr. Creed,” one of the ladies said. “Wherever did you study food preparation?”
“Why, in Paris, of course!” Rachel gushed.
I hadn’t done anything of the kind. I was, in fact, self taught. But Rachel’s lie set so well with the guests I didn’t have the heart to correct her.
This morning she’d been charming and sweet, though I wondered how she’d react to a large crowd and long lines of hungry customers waiting to be seated.
I didn’t need to worry: she had done an excellent job with the serving. She had a natural rhythm about her, an athletic grace that was evident in everything she did. I loved watching her move. She could be walking down a flight of stairs or carrying platters in and out of a busy kitchen, it didn’t matter.
She was, in my eyes, a work of art.
Over the next few days Rachel and I settled into our routines. Afternoons, she’d shop for groceries, and I sawed off tree limbs that overhung the roof. Word on our food had gotten out, and we were doing ten tables of breakfast with the locals, more than half our capacity. Beth hired a teenager, Tracy, to help Rachel with the waitressing duties. Bob Pocket, the banker, had become a regular, and even Jimbo and Earl showed up twice, though they were disappointed to find us fresh out of squirrel both times.
Thursday morning, after our last breakfast guest had been served, I noticed Beth packing leftovers into a picnic basket.
“Hot date?” I said.
She didn’t look up. “Sick friend.”
Though Beth had been pleasant all week, she’d never gotten back to the degree of friendly she’d been prior to Rachel’s comment about the pirate. She added four bottles of water to the basket and headed out the door without elaborating further. But as I saw her step out the door with the basket, my mind flashed to the quaint little church I’d passed the previous week, and the lady I’d seen carrying a similar picnic basket up the church steps.
“Think she’s got a fella?” Rachel said.
“Why would you jump to that conclusion?”
“Might explain why she’s acting so weird.”
Rachel was hand-washing the dishes before putting them in the dishwasher. A few strands of hair kept falling over one of her eyes. She straightened up, stuck her bottom lip out and tried to blow them off her face, but that didn’t work. She tossed her head, but that didn’t work either. She sighed, wiped her hands on her apron, and tucked the errant strands behind her ear. Then she said, “Are you still happy doing this?”
She extended an arm when she said it, indicating the kitchen, but I knew what she meant. It was a lot of work, and not the type I’d done before, at least not exclusively. For more years than I care to remember, my days consisted of hunting people or trying to keep from being hunted. I had acquired—okay, stolen—billions of dollars from the world’s wealthiest and most dangerous criminals. Rachel didn’t know I was a paid assassin, but she knew I was pretty comfortable financially. She, herself, had become a multi-millionaire through her association with me.
“We could be anywhere in the world right now,” she said, “doing anything we’ve ever wanted to do.”
“True.”
“And?”
“It’s been a nice break for me,” I said.
“Just to be clear: if you could be anywhere in the world, doing anything you’ve ever wanted to do, this is what you’d choose?”
I glanced around the kitchen and back at her. “At this exact moment in time? Yes.”
“Uh huh. And why’s that?”
“For starters, I’ve always wanted to vacation with a beautiful girl.”
“Not a gorgeous one, like me?”
“I meant to say gorgeous.”
“A gorgeous girl like me that you love with all your heart.”
“Exactly.”
“But?”
“But I’ve also learned that I need to stay busy.”
“You love to cook,” she said.
“I do love to cook. But I wouldn’t want to cook for a large restaurant, or have to prepare more than one meal a day. I also enjoy working with my hands, but I wouldn’t want to be a full-time maintenance guy. This place,” I gestured the way she had, “doesn’t require too much cooking or maintenance. I get to hang out with you, and we’ve got the beach, the sun, the sand…”
“But there’s something else.”
I paused. “There is something else.”
We looked at each other a minute and she said, “Are you going to tell me or do I have to beat it out of you?”
“I feel ridiculous saying it out loud, but…”
“But?”
“There’s something going on in this town,” I said, “some type of mysterious presence. A power that comes and goes.”
“A power.”
“Surely you’ve felt it.”
“Jesus, Kevin. I’m supposed to be the crazy one.”
I shrugged, thought about saying “you’re still plenty crazy,” but didn’t.
She looked at me curiously. “It’s almost like paradise to you, now that you’ve got these projects going.”
“For now it is.”
Rachel nodded, and went back to loading the dishwasher. “You’re expecting a lot from me, after inviting me to go on a vacation with you,” she said.
I let that comment hang in the air, and worked her entire conversation around in my mind as I scrubbed down the kitchen surfaces. The first two weeks of our coastal vacation had been right out of the millionaire’s handbook, and Rachel had love
d the five-star resorts in Virginia and Georgia, the limos, fancy restaurants, luxurious pools and spas.
Now that I thought about it, she hadn’t been remotely enthused when I brought up the idea of hitting St. Alban’s and checking out a quaint little B&B called The Seaside. But she agreed to come, and she did it for me. Then, a day into our stay, I’d thrown her into a waitressing job she wouldn’t have tolerated under any other circumstances.
I thought about Rachel’s comment, and what she’d asked me, and realized there were probably a hundred places she’d rather be right now. On the other hand, I couldn’t help but notice her mental condition had improved dramatically since we’d come here. It seemed to change the moment we found that kid on the ant hill. Or maybe the moment just before, when we were exposed to the power for the first time.
“I never thought to check on that kid,” I said.
“You mean Tracy?”
“No, I meant —”
“Where is she, anyway? I thought she was hired to help us clean. All she’s doing is food service.”
“Beth said she starts full time on Monday.”
“She’s kind of creepy, don’t you think?”
“Beth or Tracy?”
Rachel turned to face me. “Both. But this Tracy girl, I don’t know. She’s like a robot or something.”
“You mean because she’s always happy?”
“Exactly. She’s too happy. You know that movie, Stepford Wives? She’s Stepford happy. In fact, everyone in St. Alban’s seems to have that sort of vacant happiness.”
Rachel hadn’t just hit it, she’d knocked it out of the park. I wondered if the collective happiness among the locals had anything to do with the strange feeling I’d experienced.
“I’ve noticed that,” I said. “Everyone we’ve met here is cheery to the point of seeming programmed.”
“Except for the gang guys that tried to rape me that first night.”
“Rape you? They said they were offering you a ride.”
“And you said you’re a pencil pusher for Homeland Security.”
