by Chelsea Cain
Gretchen tossed one corner of her cape over her shoulder jauntily, showing off the red lining. “Happy Halloween,” she said.
Ginger put her ears back and trotted over next to Archie.
“You’re in costume,” Archie said slowly, flabbergasted.
“Tell me the truth,” Gretchen said, frowning and holding her arms out at her sides to display her ensemble. “Too slutty?”
Sometimes Archie was certain that she actually was quite insane. “Your sense of humor escapes me,” he said.
Gretchen bit her lip and stepped toward him and Archie raised his weapon and braced it with both hands. She didn’t stop. He didn’t lower the weapon. Ginger growled. Gretchen snapped her fingers, and Ginger’s ears flattened and she darted off toward the couch. Gretchen’s eyes never wavered from Archie. She kept coming. When she stopped, her forehead was directly in front of the barrel of the gun. Archie released the safety and curled the first joint of his finger around the trigger. They were both perfectly still. He could hear Rachel breathing. His trigger arm ached. If he flinched or coughed, the gun would fire. Gretchen tilted her head slightly, her large blue eyes on him. Then she leaned forward and pressed her forehead against the barrel of the gun. Archie could feel her pushing, the pressure of the grip against his palm. His finger was stiff around the trigger. He felt his elbow weaken. Gretchen smiled at him. His elbows ached. She leaned her skull harder against the barrel, lifting her heels off the floor, putting her weight behind it. He could see the tendons in her pale neck tense. Archie was backed against the bar; there was nowhere to go. He wasn’t going to shoot her. They both knew that. If he did, Susan would be lost.
Archie bent his elbow and drew it back to his waist. Gretchen stumbled forward, catching herself by putting her palms on his chest. A bright red ring, like a target, lingered on her forehead where the barrel of his gun had been. Archie’s weapon was at his side, now directed at Gretchen’s midsection. She kept her hands on him. They were so close that he could feel her breath on his face. The gun was the only thing between them. Archie’s cramped trigger finger was still on the trigger. Gretchen inhaled and closed her eyes, like she was remembering some long-forgotten smell. Then she opened her eyes and fixed them on him, those blue eyes with the dark blue rings around the irises. “It’s good to see you,” she said gently.
Archie could feel a layer of sweat between the grip of the gun and his hand. “It hasn’t been that long,” he said. “Apparently.”
Gretchen’s eyes traveled over his face. Then she reached up and threaded her fingers through his hair. “Look at all this gray hair,” she said.
Despite himself, Archie felt his body relax under her touch. A gentle tingling sensation spread across his skin. His muscles loosened. “You’ve aged me,” he said, and he took his finger off the trigger of the gun. She knew the moment he’d done it. Maybe he’d glanced down or relaxed his shoulder or she felt his hand shift between their bodies. But she knew. And her free hand was there, between them, moving the gun out of his hand. He let her take it. He didn’t care. He wasn’t going to shoot her, not now, not today.
She set the gun on the bar behind him. “You need to take better care of yourself,” she said.
Rachel was still sobbing softly. Gretchen gave an irritated sigh and rolled her eyes. “I find that sound irksome,” she said. She pivoted to Archie’s side, and leaned back against the bar next to him, facing Rachel.
Rachel cowed under Gretchen’s gaze, eyes on the floor, her body twisted away from them.
“I know emotions can be tough for you psychopaths,” Archie said. “So I’ll help you out with this one.” He indicated Rachel. “That’s called fear.”
“I know what that’s called,” Gretchen said, eyeing Rachel like she was a particularly unappealing piece of meat. She turned to Archie. “Are you going to introduce me?” Gretchen asked.
“I was under the impression that you’d met,” Archie said.
“Not formally,” Gretchen said with a smirk.
“Gretchen, this is Rachel,” Archie said flatly. “Rachel, this is your employer.”
Rachel was shaking, the handcuffs rattling against the wood of the chair. Her cheeks were wet with tears. “Don’t kill me,” she pleaded.
“She’s not going to kill you,” Archie said with a pointed look at Gretchen. “Because if she does, I’m not going with her.”
Gretchen raised an eyebrow.
Archie held his ground.
Then Gretchen inhaled deeply and her eyelids fluttered. “I can smell you in here,” she said. “The room reeks of sex.”
Archie’s gut twisted, but he tried not to show it on his face. “Did you like watching?” he asked.
“Mmm,” she said. “It was almost like being here.”
Her eyes grazed the floor, landing on the rubber mask, and she walked to it and picked it up. She turned it right side out and held it aloft on one hand, so that she was facing her own profile. Then she laughed.
“It doesn’t do you justice,” Archie said. His body was feeling calmer, looser. He was no less afraid, but the Oxycodone made his body forget that a little.
Gretchen tossed the mask back on the floor. “No,” she said. “It doesn’t, does it?” She cocked her head and examined Rachel some more. “Do you like her?” she asked Archie.
Archie searched for the correct answer, the one that would ensure that Rachel made it out of here alive. “I liked having sex with her, because she reminded me of you,” he said.
Gretchen gave him an approving smile. “Very good,” she said. Then she walked to Rachel and put her arm around her. Rachel shrank from her touch, but Gretchen just kept patting her shoulder, comforting her, until Rachel’s wracked breathing had slowed. “It was a fine effort, little one,” Gretchen said to her. “But restraining him isn’t enough.” Gretchen looked up at Archie, her eyes blazing. “You have to hurt him,” Gretchen said. “He likes to be hurt.” She squeezed Rachel’s shoulder. “I told you that.”
Rachel was shaking her head. “I couldn’t…”
“That’s okay,” Archie said quickly. “I soured on those games about the time I woke up strapped to a gurney in your basement,” he added to Gretchen.
But Gretchen’s attention was now firmly on Rachel. She stroked Rachel’s hair like she was calming a lamb she was readying to slaughter. Archie knew that look in Gretchen’s eyes—that heated anticipation—it might as well have been a rattle on a snake. Archie moved to Gretchen’s side and laid his hand on her shoulder blade. He could feel the muscles of her back contract under his touch. She turned from Rachel and faced him.
“What do you want, Gretchen?” Archie asked.
Her eyebrows lifted slightly. “Aren’t you happy to see me?” she asked. She sighed, leaned her cheek against his shoulder, and lifted a hand to his chest. Archie swallowed hard. Up close, her skin always amazed him. It was smooth, without lines or pores, like a doll’s. He moved his hand down to the small of her back.
“Is she still alive?” he asked softly.
Gretchen took a few breaths, nuzzling against his shirt. “I know how much you care about her,” she said, fingers drumming against the cloth of his shirt. “I know you want to keep her safe. But I also know that you are little bit tempted to put a bullet through my brain. So I want you to know this.” She was drawing on his chest with her finger. The same shape, over and over. A heart. “She is someplace where no one will find her, so if you kill me, she will die.”
Archie fought to keep his pulse steady. Her ear was over his heart, so that she would notice any nervous system change. He was grateful for the pills in his system. He did not want to betray Susan by caring too much.
Gretchen gazed up at him. Her eyes were like a doll’s, too, he realized—they reflected back what the viewer wanted to see. “Do you understand?” Gretchen asked.
Archie nodded. He tried not to think about Susan. He concentrated instead on Gretchen, on that famous beauty. He let himself feel Gretchen’s br
easts against his body, the firmness of her thigh placed against his pelvis. He let himself want her, let his adrenaline ebb, embraced the soft warmth coursing through his body. It was always there—that reserve of repressed sexual desire—it was just a matter of surrendering to it. Susan’s life depended on it. He put his lips on Gretchen’s forehead and gently kissed her hairline. The fake blood tasted like peppermint. “I want your word that you’ll let her go after we’re done,” he said carefully.
Gretchen smiled magnanimously. “If I wanted her dead, she’d be dead,” she said.
“Then let’s go,” Archie said.
Gretchen stepped away from him and looked down at Rachel with a disappointed frown. “It’s a shame,” she said. “I would have had fun slaughtering you.”
Rachel was trembling, snot dripping from her nose, her face wet with tears.
Archie stepped in front of Gretchen and leaned close to Rachel with his hands on his knees. He wanted to offer her some comfort, to touch her, to rub her arms, to put his hands on her face, anything to calm her. But he didn’t want to give Gretchen any more reasons to kill her. Rachel’s eyes were desperate. “They’ll figure this out soon,” Archie told her in as confident a tone as he could muster. “Henry will come. Tell him everything.” He lifted his eyebrows at her. “You hear me, Rachel?” he said. “Everything. Make sure he looks at my computer.” Rachel nodded. “Are the cops outside alive?” Archie asked Gretchen.
“They’ll recover,” Gretchen said with a dismissive wave. “I know how it disappoints you when I slaughter lawmen. Where’s your phone?”
“On the coffee table,” Archie said.
Gretchen swept over to the coffee table and picked up his phone. “You’ve got a text from Henry,” she said, her eyes on the screen. “Looks like I’m not on the island.” She took the battery out of the phone, closed it back up, and then tossed the phone to Archie. He caught it and placed the dead phone next to his gun. He removed the extra ammo from his pocket and laid it next to the phone. Gretchen was standing by the door, waiting for him.
Ginger was hiding under the coffee table. Archie went around to the kitchen counter and got a treat. Usually Ginger came scrambling over at the sound of the lid coming off the treat jar, but this time Archie had to call her. He gave her the treat and she took it and carried it back under the coffee table. Archie stood up. “Make sure someone takes care of my dog,” he said to Rachel.
“She’s gained weight,” Gretchen said from the door. “You’re feeding her too much.”
“I find it hard to say no to her,” Archie said. He came around the bar again, and found his shoes on the floor where he’d taken them off hours before.
“Remember, she only gets the sensitive-stomach Science Diet,” he said to Rachel.
“Enough chitchat,” Gretchen said. “Time to go, darling.”
Archie bent over to pull on his shoes, momentarily blocking Gretchen’s view of him. “Rachel,” he whispered immediately. Her eyes moved to him. “Tell Henry Susan is the priority,” he whispered. “Not me. If they have to shoot me to put a bullet in Gretchen, tell him I said that was okay,” he said. Her eyes widened almost imperceptibly. Archie knotted his shoes and stood up. “By the way,” he added, no longer whispering, “I think we should split up.”
He turned to Gretchen. “I’m ready,” he announced. “Let’s get this over with.”
CHAPTER
37
The vinyl banner hanging outside the Dancin’ Bare said that tonight was the HALLOWEEN EVE STRIPTASTICA. Claire already had to pee. Her fingers were swollen from being on her feet so much today. And she was hungry enough that she was seriously considering the two plates of fried onion rings for the price of one advertised on the banner. “You take me to the nicest places,” she said to Henry as they approached the door.
“Wait until you get inside,” Henry said.
“Oh, I’ve been inside,” Claire said, grabbing him playfully on the ass of his black jeans.
Henry jumped and turned back to her, eyebrows raised, just as the bouncer stepped out the front door with his hand on the back of a patron he was in the process of eighty-sixing. Claire and Henry both stopped short as the bouncer gave the man a gentle push and he staggered past them. The expelled patron was dressed in some sort of psycho clown costume, which in Claire’s book would have been reason enough to kick him out of the club. The rubber clown mask had a frizz of neon-orange hair, a red ball nose, and a black-lipped, yellow-toothed maniacal grin. He had several one-dollar bills clutched in his white-gloved fist. They watched as he stumbled drunkenly over his size-thirty shoes and disappeared around the corner. Claire heard the sound of retching a few moments later, and had to swallow hard to keep from following suit.
“I hate Halloween,” the bouncer grumbled.
Henry and Claire both flashed their badges.
“So, what?” the bouncer said, narrowing his eyes at them. “You’re dressed as cops?”
Henry started to open his mouth to explain, but Claire cut him off. Henry would take too long. She wanted to get home to bed. “We are cops, Einstein,” Claire said, lifting her chin to stare up into the bouncer’s broad, bearded face. “Now step aside. I feel like my unborn child is getting crabs just standing here.”
“Sorry, ma’am,” the bouncer said. He held the door for Claire and she walked through, with Henry following her.
Claire had been telling the truth. She had been to the Dancin’ Bare before. But that had been five years ago, when she’d been the only woman at Greg Fremont’s bachelor party. They’d gone to two other clubs before this one, and two more after it, and her memory got a little hazy. But now she remembered this place. Three stages. A full bar. Dim lighting. An aroma like a frat boy’s armpit. She looked around at the orange and black streamers that twisted overhead and the orange and black balloons that bounced against the ceiling, vibrating to the dance music blasting over the club speakers. One balloon popped and dropped, unnoticed, into the crowd. Claire couldn’t even see the strippers. There were too many people standing between the door and the stages. The clientele was mostly male, but there were women, too. Everyone was in costume. There were a lot of bees, Claire noticed, and a shirtless Easter Bunny dirty dancing with what appeared to be a sexy pirate wench ghost. Henry took her hand—Henry almost never took her hand—and held her fingers tight as he led her through the mingled devils, aliens, ninjas, cowboys, and superheroes. They found Leo Reynolds nursing a drink at a table in front of the third stage, where a dancer in a witch hat and nothing else was writhing around a brass pole that looked like it needed cleaning.
Leo glanced up at them blearily.
There were no empty chairs, but Henry whispered something to a zombie sitting nearby and he stood up quickly and left. Henry pulled the chair over and gestured for Claire to sit.
There was a time when Claire would have refused such an act of chivalry as sexist, but she now took the chair and sat down gratefully. Henry put his palms on the table and leaned over Leo. Claire had seen that move before. It was intended to intimidate. But Leo didn’t look all that shaken. Leo lifted his glass, toasted each of them, and then drank.
“We just got done searching the island,” Henry shouted at him over the music.
Leo Reynolds was a handsome guy—there was no denying it. But Claire had never understood why Archie hadn’t done more to warn Susan off him. The guy was waist-deep in his father’s business.
“I got a few messages about that,” Leo shouted back. “I told Jack it wouldn’t work. I knew Archie wouldn’t bury that footage.”
Claire perked up, not sure she’d heard right. Bury the footage? But Henry gave her an I’ll-explain-later look and she settled back in her chair. She knew she was probably supposed to be playing good cop or bad cop or something, but she could barely hear and she had to pee.
“Any evidence of Gretchen killing that young woman on your island was obliterated by your landscape crew this morning,” Henry shouted at Leo.
Claire crossed her legs tightly and tried to look tough.
“They clean the grounds after every event,” Leo shouted back. “Jack would do a lot of things, but he would never do anything to intentionally protect Gretchen Lowell.”
She really had to pee now. Claire clenched her knees together and jiggled her legs up and down.
Henry was asking Leo about the video footage, whether it had all been turned over, and Leo was saying he didn’t know, and both of them were posturing. Men. At this rate, they’d be another half hour.
The naked witch writhed and gyrated onstage.
Claire stood up and Henry and Leo both looked at her with startled expressions.
Claire put her hand on Henry’s shoulder. “I have to,” she yelled, “you know.”
Henry nodded, and Claire turned away from the table and started scanning for restroom signs. She came up with nothing. It was too crowded, and streamers hung everywhere, covering everything. The club had servers—she’d seen a few women in short shorts and Dancin’ Bare tank tops, but she didn’t see any of them now. So she decided to head for the bar to ask a bartender where the hell the toilets were. She walked sideways through the crowd, most of whom were watching a nun disrobe on the main stage. A man covered in blue body paint and naked except for what looked like a diaper stepped in front of her, blocking her path. He held out a clear plastic condiment to-go container filled with a neon-green gelatin.
“Jell-O shot?” he shouted.
Claire pointed down to her belly. “I’m pregnant, dickwad.”
“They’re lime!” he shouted.
Claire didn’t have time for this. People didn’t understand what it was like, having to pee like that. She stepped on the guy’s bare blue foot and squeezed past him as he doubled up in pain. She was elbowing around a couple of dirty-dancing cowboys when she finally saw a sign on the wall with an arrow pointing to restrooms. She was sweating a little now—she had to pee so bad. She made her way hurriedly out of the crowd and followed the arrow down a hallway lit entirely with red light like a darkroom until she came to a door with a female silhouette sign on it. Someone had drawn boobs and pubic hair on the silhouette with a black Sharpie.
