Dastardly Bastard
Page 20
Donald had come up with the story they would tell. He began with fragments of truth—Jaleel spinning around, spewing nonsense—then moved on to the fiction. The crazy guide had pulled a gun on them. Marsha Lake—a mother protecting her cub—tried to wrestle the weapon from Jaleel, and both had gone over the edge. Donald told it with flair, filling in grand details with intricate lies. Justine found his tale very satisfying. In Donald’s version, Marsha Lake had gone out a hero.
Justine remembered Donald had said he was an author back in the real world. She decided to look up one of his books when she got home.
The group followed the officer back into Bay’s End so they could give proper statements while forensic teams tried to make sense of everything. Donald’s story had been sound, no holes, but investigators had to… well, investigate.
Trevor followed close behind Mark’s tiny car, paying attention to the road. He remained silent, stoic behind the wheel.
But as they passed the Bay’s End city limits sign, Trevor finally asked, “You wouldn’t know what happened to my pants, would you? I’m surprised that cop didn’t ask me why I was half naked.”
Justine could only laugh.
He snaked a hand into hers. Justine kissed the back of his hand, thinking she would never let it go. Never again. His fingers found the engagement band on her ring finger and twirled it slowly.
“Looks good on you.” Trevor took his eyes off the road for a brief moment, meeting her gaze. His smile shone in the light coming through the windshield. She didn’t know if a person could fall in love with someone twice, but it sure felt as though she was doing just that.
“And it always will.” Justine leaned back in her seat and watched the caravan of survivors enter Bay’s End. “Now and forever.”
THE MEMORIES REMAIN
51
LYLE PACKED WHILE GRANDMA BOBBI waited in the living room, a book of cryptograms splayed out on her lap under a working pencil. He barely knew her, but she was all he had left. Mom and Dad were gone. He’d spent a week with Child Protective Services waiting for her to arrive. She lived in Burbank, California, somewhere Lyle had never been. He was certain his life in So Cal would be much different from his smalltown life in Bay’s End, but he was glad to be leaving.
Everywhere he looked, he saw his parents. They were in the back of the closet when he pulled clothes off hangers; in the living room, sitting on either side of his grandmother while she did her puzzle; watching him from the doorway in the hall while he boxed up DVDs from his entertainment center.
Somehow, he was comforted. Their memories remained. The realization was hard to swallow. No matter what you did in life, no matter where you went, memories were created. You just couldn’t focus on the bad ones. Those things were behind you. Gone.
The Bastard couldn’t be forgotten, but he could be suppressed. Mom and Dad would make sure of that.
Lyle placed his final bit of clothing into his suitcase and zipped it up. His cell phone went off in his pocket.
The screen told him he had a new text. He unlocked the screen and opened the message.
how you holding up???
Between police interviews, Lyle had given Justine his number. Lyle had no way of knowing whether his grandmother was going to keep paying the bill, but it still worked for the moment.
Lyle turned the phone sideways and brought up the keyboard.
hangin in there. u?
making it. just wanted to check in :)
thx
no problem
Lyle’s grandmother cleared her throat from the doorway. She pointed at him with the rolled-up puzzle book. “You about ready?”
“Yeah. Gimme a sec.”
“We have a long—”
“I know. Just a minute?”
“All right. But hurry up.” She turned to leave, but stopped. “I’m sorry. Take your time. We’re gonna be okay. I just gotta get used to this.”
“Me, too. Don’t worry. I’m not such a bad kid.”
“Never thought you were. I’ll be in the living room when you’re ready.”
Lyle nodded. His phone went off again.
u let us know if you need anything… okay?
Lyle looked back up to make sure his grandmother had gone. A smile slowly spread across his face. Mom and Dad stood in the doorway. Their faces said everything was going to be just fine. He agreed.
will do!!!
52
JUSTINE MCCARTHY STOOD WITH TREVOR at Nana Penance’s grave. A warm Georgia breeze played over her skin, killing the chill that had settled inside her. She didn’t like cemeteries.
“We can go if you want, baby.” Trevor wrapped his arm around her waist.
“No, it’s all right.”
Justine knelt, setting flowers atop her grandmother’s final resting place. Beside Nana Penance’s gravestone was Papa’s. Justine remembered her conversation with her grandmother, the talk in the limo. The confession. When she had told Trevor, he hadn’t seemed shocked. He had just reassured her that sometimes bad things had to happen so that good things could survive.
She thought about Scott and how her hands had felt on his neck. She shuddered in Trevor’s grasp.
Could she ever forgive herself? Maybe she could. With Trevor’s help. The fact that what she’d done had been needed did not comfort her. The memory would haunt her for the rest of her life. Yet, she could only focus on the present. Nana Penance didn’t visit her anymore, and Justine thought that was for the best. The old woman deserved to rest. She’d fought the good fight and won.
“There’s only today,” she said, more to herself than to Trevor.
“Don’t forget about tomorrow. You’re getting married, remember?”
“How could I forget?” She stood and kissed Trevor.
“So what are we going to do for our honeymoon?” he asked.
“One thing’s for sure.” Justine slugged his arm playfully. “No camping and no tours. Deal?”
Trevor rubbed his shoulder and smiled. “Deal.”
53
“ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT to go ahead?” Lars Stillstead puffed his cheeks out, exhaling hard.
“Would you rather Jeff get rich off this?” Donald asked.
“You’re a better man than me, Don… oh, sorry, Donald. Gotta remember you don’t like being called Don. It’s gonna take me some time to—”
“It’s okay. You can call me Squirt, for all I care.”
“Really?” The shock in Lars’s eyes made Donald chuckle. “What happened to you? You actually look… happy.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
“You’re not going to start writing chick lit now, are you?”
That one slayed Donald. He patted Lars on the back. “Highly unlikely, old man.”
“Thank God. I can’t stand that fu—”
“Mister Adams?” A young man with a headset broke in and waved at Donald. “They’re ready for you.”
“Thanks.” Donald turned back to Lars. “Wish me luck.”
“You’re going to need it.”
Donald walked out of the wings and crossed the stage with proud steps. The guy with the headset lowered the microphone to his level, but Donald still had to adjust it. He gazed out over the crowd in the conference room.
Newsweek had shown up, so had The New Yorker and The Times. Even journalists—if you could call them that—from the trash mags were present and accounted for. The crowd seethed, a living mass. He didn’t care.
Straightening his shoulders, he leaned into the microphone. “Hello, everybody. My name is Donald Adams. I have been writing under the penname H.R. Chatmon for the past ten years. I am here to answer all questions you might have about that.”
The mass erupted in shouted voices and raised hands. Up and over the crowd, Donald found a center of interest on the back wall. She stood, hands clasped in front of her, the overhead lights making her eyes twinkle, a broad smile about her face.
You good man, Donald Adams.
I
know that, Donald returned. Now.
She began to fade, until finally, Donald could no longer see her. Sunne was gone. But not forgotten.
“Yes.” Donald pointed at one of the anxious reporters in the front row. “You first.”
54
MARK SIMMONS QUIT HIS JOB. The look on Willy Montgomery’s face was thoroughly worth it. Mark’s nemesis, Julia, had decided to sue the company for sexual harassment, and the newspaper was going to take a serious hit. Mark had always known not to shit where he ate. Willy had not taken that into consideration. Julia looked to ruin everything, and for the first time ever, Mark hoped the bitch succeeded.
He sat in that same plastic seat at the airport, mulling over his plans. The USO had taken him on as a publicity photographer. He would spend the rest of his career helping an organization that gave back to the troops. The idea put a warm spot in the middle of his chest.
Annabelle was a distant memory, but he thought about her from time to time, not the version missing half her skull, but the pretty one who had helped him find reality back in that house. She would stay with him forever. One of the good ones.
Mark pulled his carryon into his lap. He had an entire hour to kill before boarding. Unzipping his bag, Mark grabbed the book from under his pile of snacks and toiletries.
The cover had a bloody laptop on it. Above the computer, in bold italic horror script, was the title, eMurder. The author’s name was listed as H.R. Chatmon. The flyleaf description made it sound like a hell of a good story. Mark had never really cared too much for horror, but he figured nothing could be more terrifying than what he’d lived through back at the chasm. Plus, it had been on sale at the gift shop, so he figured he would give a new author a chance.
He flipped to the first page and was about to turn to the first chapter, but the dedication stopped him.
For Sunne. Gone but not forgotten.
“You little sonuvabitch.”
Mark Simmons laughed, probably too hard, but he didn’t care.
He began to read.
THE END
So told is the tale of how they prevailed,
The five who denied the Bastard his pride.
Though bear in mind, as you live out your lives,
If the Bastard returns, your mem’ries he’ll find.
Should the good ones defect, and the shadows collect,
Burn them, child, before they infect.
Venture aware through his one-eyed stare,
The Dastardly Bastard is here and there…
About the Author
EDWARD LORN IS AN AMERICAN horror author presently residing somewhere in the southeast United States.
He enjoys storytelling, reading, and writing biographies in the third person.
Other Books by Edward Lorn
Bay’s End
Three After