by Edward Lee
"They did that," Faye gibbered. "They did it."
"Who did, hon?"
"Belarius and his friends, in the Chirice Flaesc."
Jessica gagged through the rest of her work.
"It's coming again ..
"What's coming, sweetie?" Jessica asked if only to distract herself.
"The Chirice Flaesc-"
Jessica stared.
"end Belarius. Soon."
Faye giggled faintly, grinning upward with a toothy mouth. She parted her legs more.
Jessica groaned. Yes. She wished very much that she had stayed in school.
1l
Westmore awoke groggily at about 9 a.m., squared beams of sunlight cutting into the atrium from odd, high windows. He'd slept dreamlessly. It took a while before the morning cogs began to turn, and he remembered everything that had happened yesterday.
Belarius, he thought.
It was nearly as eerie now as when he'd heard the strange name on the tape.
I don't believe in demons, he reminded himself, gathering his toiletries from the small cabinet in his cubicle. In a Marriot-Courtyard robe he'd pilfered years ago at a writers convention, he used the large bathroom by the kitchen, showered, shaved, and dressed. Then he was ready ...
But for what?
He considered calling Vivica but thought better of it. Later, when I have something to tell her.
In the office, he typed some notes into his laptop for a few hours, then it occurred to him as an afterthought: The safe! But when he looked, the safe was still closed, and there was no sign of the locksmith. Mack had still been watching television when Westmore had gone to sleep. Had she opened the safe and reported to Mack? He looked down from the window and saw that her truck was gone. He had to know
Back in the atrium, he could hear at least one of the men snoring; he guessed most of this crowd were late sleepers. Then one of the women-Adrianne, he thought-murmured anxiously in her sleep: "No, no!"
Nightmares.
He found Mack's cubicle and tapped on the edge of the partition. "Mack? Hey, Mack?"
"Huh?"
"Sorry to wake you up but what happened with the girl from the locksmith's?"
A grunt and a cough, then Mack came through his cubi cle's privacy curtain clad only in boxer shorts. He palmed sleep out of his eyes. "Shit, I don't know. Is she still here?"
"The safe's still shut and her truck's gone."
He went to the bay window and winced when he pushed the drapes back, letting in a block of sun. "Shit," he said again. "Maybe she's not done. Maybe she's coming back."
"Or maybe she just couldn't open the son of a bitch. She did say no guarantees."
"Did you see her at all last night?"
Mack was clearly only half awake. "Well, no. I mean, not later."
"Look, man. What's the scoop with her?"
"Huh?"
"Last night you said something like she was good at more than locks. What's the scoop with that?"
Mack signed in a grog, then shrugged. "I did her, man. I told you she was hot for me."
Unbelievable. "You had sex with the locksmith, you're saying?"
"Yeah. She came on to me, know what I mean? And she's a hot number, too. Killer tits." Mack dragged his feet toward the kitchen, still rubbing his eyes. "Did you put coffee on?"
Westmore shook his head. Mack was probably about twenty-five. Kids, Jesus. They have sex with people like it's changing channels on a television. Westmore considered his own morality. Or maybe I'm just getting old ...
"Yes, I think her name's Vann. She came here about ten o'clock last night," he said later to the man on the phone. He'd called the locksmith's. "Did she say if she's coming back to finish the job?"
The man seemed duped. "I- There's no invoice in the nightbox, and-" A pause"... the truck's in the lot. Lemme get back to you, sir."
"Sure." Westmore hung up, astounded. Mack gave her a thousand bucks to open the safe and she walked of with it? Good help was hard to find. Maybe she had opened the safe and found a lot of money in it. Westmore wondered.
He walked outside into the blaze of the day. Adrianne said she saw some can on the property ... One seemed abandoned, she'd said, in the woods. Westmore was determined to find it, if it was to be found at all. She'd said she'd seen it during an out-of-body experience, which couldn't have sounded more hokey. There was quite a bit of hokeyness around here but the thing that bothered Westmore most was the casual if not bored regard the "psychics" maintained for each other. None of it's pokey to them. It's commonplace. It was like a bunch of Olympic weightlifters hanging around each other. Nobody was the least bit impressed that they could all bench four hundred.
An opening in the woodline led him down a brambled path. Gnats flitted annoyingly around his head as wigs of Spanish moss brushed his shoulders. The graveyard, he thought. And here it was, iron-crested fence and all. He noticed a broken eggshell and piece of burned aluminum foil at the foot of Hildreth's tombstone. She said something about divination, he remembered. Westmore knew nothing about that save for folklore about people finding water with forked branches.
He looked down at the grave and thought very resolutely, I'm going to have to dig this up. It would be no easy task and Westmore was a soft-handed writer, not a ditch-digger. And IT have to do it on my oum, can't let the others know.
But not now. There were still preliminaries. Back out on the open property, he began to bake in the sun. The annoying gnats turned into more annoying mosquitoes. At the opposite end of the property, after a sweat-seeping walk, he found a scratch of a foot-trail that stopped at a cramped clearing overhung by tree limbs. Lizards scattered when he wedged his way through brush. Facing him, dusted by pollen, was a relatively new jet-black Miata with a walnut-brown convertible top. Westmore's first impulse, for whatever reason, was to look inside for a dead body, but the vehicle's two bucket seats sat empty. The glove box revealed no tide or registration. He jotted down the plates and walked around back, found two long tire ruts, and followed them a hundred yards down the mountainous hill that the mansion had been built on. The heat teemed; spider-webs broke stickily over his face. Christ, it's like a rain forest! Soon, though, the tire ruts emptied onto a wider dirt mad that seemed to lead all the way down the hill. To the main road? he questioned. It had to be. But there was no reason to follow it all the way down.
At least he'd found the car in the woods ... which made him wonder. How the hell did Adrianne know about it unless she'd really had one of these OBE's? Westmore could scarcely grasp the concept much less have faith in it.
Oh, well.
He walked back to the house, smoking in spite of the heat and frowning at himself for wearing long pants on a day like this. Back at the courtyard, he spotted a man getting out of a van and approaching the front door. The locksmith? he thought.
No. BAYSIDE PEST CONTROL, the van read.
"Can I help you?" Westmore asked when he got to the porch.
Hair cut very short reduced the obviousness of a bald spot. Dark moustache. The man looked in his late-50s, starting to lose a battle to middle-age. Typical workman's utility dress, a nozzled cannister of pesticide sling over his back. "Hi, I'm Mike, from Bayside. Is Mr. Hildreth in?"
Westmore didn't know what to say. No, but there's a high likelihood that he's in a hole in the ground a couple hundred yards from here. "I'm afraid he isn't."
"I'm here for your routine 30-day service."
"Come on in. I'll get Karen." He took the guy inside and down the long hall to the atrium. He knew it was nothing but he also didn't want to give some guy free-reign in a house full of treasures. He tapped on the end of Karen's cubicle. "Karen?"
Eventually, a flattened voice said: "Aw, fuck. My head's about to explode."
"The exterminator's here. I just wanted to make sure it's cool to let him in the house."
A groan. "Aw, shit. Uh ... That's not supposed to be till the first of the month, I think. What company?"
"Bayside P
est Control."
"That's them. It's Jimmy, right?"
Westmore's brow arched. "No, a guy named Mike."
Cot springs creaked. For the briefest moment, when her hand parted the curtain, Westmore could see in the gap that she wore nothing but rose-red panties. Large white breasts blared from the impressive tan of her shoulders and abdomen, delineated by razor-sharp tan lines. Then she stuck her head out and closed the curtain around her neck. Bloodshot eyes squinted to the door. "You're not the regular guy. Where's Jimmy?"
"Jimmy Parks is in Key West, ma'am," Mike said. "Two weeks off. I'm filling in for him. Your next spraying isn't scheduled till the first, but they sent me out a little early to pick up some slack. Feel free to call my manager, Mr. Hol- sten, to verify."
"He's fine," Karen said, then disappeared back inside.
"Go do your thing," Westmore told the guy.
"Thanks for your time. I won't be more than an hour. It's just a perimeter spray."
The guy got to it, slowly spraying a line of clear fluid along the baseboards.
Westmore went back to the office, immediately got online. He ran the Miata's tags on the DMV website, paid $7.95 on his credit card, and got the owner's name. Damn. Doesn't do me any good. The vehicle was owned by Reginald Hildreth. The only thing left to do was go back into the heat and get the vehicle-identification number off the dashboard, if it was even marked on the dashboard, because not all cars did that now. It might be on the engine someplace. But then he thought: Insurance! He searched several oak file cabinets until he found a group of folders that appeared to be household. Records, receipts, warranties, etc. One folder read: CAR INSURANCE. The receipt for the last biyearly insurance receipt was right on top. Jesus, this guy oumed a lot of can! Over a dozen were listed, including a Rolls Royce Silver Shadow which cited the primary driver as Vivica Hildreth.
Eureka! he thought next. A black convertible with the same tag number was there.
PRIMARY OPERATOR: DEBORAH ANNE RODENBAUGH.
There were five Rodenbaughs in the phone book. Westmore called them all. Three answered and had never heard of Deborah Rodenbaugh. The fourth was a message: "Hi, this is Peter Rodenbaugh. If you have a legitimate reason to want to talk to me, leave a message. And if you're one of those goddamn telemarketers, eat shit and die and don't ever call this fucking number again because I hate all you annoying pains in the ass. If I need something, I go to the store and get it. I don't need you assholes ringing my fucking phone twenty times a day trying to sell me cruises or aluminum siding or satellite tv or basement waterproofing when I don't even have a fucking basement. I rent an apartment, dickheads. I don't need any of that bullshit you're trying to sell for some pissant commission. Do the world a favor, all of you moronic, lazy, unmotivated, no account motherfucking telemarketers: Get a real job." Westmore, laughing, left a message, eventually got a hold of the resident who'd never heard of Deborah Rodenbaugh, either. The fifth number was disconnected.
He'd have to research more thoroughly, and ask around some more. Maybe Vivica knew, or Karen. Why would Hildreth give a car to this woman? More importantly, why was that car abandoned in the woods? Later, he'd call one of his friends at the paper and ask for a full-scale Nexus-Lexus search.
The house below seemed very silent. Westmore spent the rest of the day watching DVD's by T&T Enterprises. It was stupefying. He groaned through one porn DVD after the other, making active use of the fast forward. The logo graphic on each DVD's main menu was a Gothic mansion; Westmore rolled his eyes. Each scene left him numb, the eroticism of beautiful women gone after the first "wetshot," which was followed by even more, hundreds more, over the course of the day. It was all the same, just different sets and different women, all of whom he'd seen previously in their autopsy photos. Many of the men in these films were fly-by-nights, with ludicrous stage names like Myles Long and Dick Standing, and finally Westmore met the cream of T&T's male crop: Jaz and Three-Balls. The latter's nickname was no joke, and both men's qualifications for the sex industry couldn't be contested.
The hours stretched by. The scenes were so depressing. But in none of the DVD's did he find anything of interest. Eventually, he plugged in the Halloween disc, which was refreshingly free of sexual activity. Plenty of imagery, though, most of the same girls from the hardcore movies prancing around in the skimpiest costumes. Lacy red-devil outfits, vampires complete with fangs, a nearly nude bride of Frankenstein, etc. Mack dressed as Sinatra (probably a reflection of his self-image) only in this case, Old Blue Eyes sported horns, and Three-Balls was a caveman (not much of a stretch) with his three namesakes gratefully hidden behind a loincloth. Jaz, on the other hand, partied as the Mummy, his occupational attribute similarly wrapped. Karen barged drunk into the frame, an exotic belly dancer. The camera zoomed in and out as she staged a dance. Thus far, though, there was no sign of Hildreth at the party.
"Hi," Karen said, wandering in.
Westmore did a double-take. She wore nothing but a carmine string bikini. "Hi."
"Do I look hungover?"
"Actually, no. That bikini's a very effective distraction."
She leaned against the doorway, arms crossed under her breasts, which propped them up even more than the implants. "Is that your way of saying I look good in a bikini?"
"Karen, you look so good in a bikini that I can't even concentrate on what I'm doing." He leaned back in the chair and lit a cigarette. "And, no, that's not a come-on."
..132= „
"Did you forget your clothes?"
"I've got nothing better to do so I thought I'd work on my tan in the inner courtyard. Care to join me?"
"No. I'm a journalist. Journalists are supposed to be pale; it's an image-thing."
"Well, at least if I'm by myself, I can sunbathe nude."
Westmore raised a brow. "So. Exactly which windows face the inner courtyard?"
"Funny. What have you been doing up here all day?"
"Watching the highly literate and always intellectual productions of T&T Enterprises."
Karen laughed. "Poor guy. Don't worry, I'll turn my head if you stand up."
"You got that wrong. To me, porn's not erotic or stimulating. It's depressing. I'm about brain-dead from it by now And you're on the screen as we speak."
Karen came around the desk with something like a fret on her face. "The Halloween party, thank God. I thought you meant you found one of my old pornos from the early '90s."
As attractive as Karen was, Westmore squarely didn't want to see images of Karen doing the same things he'd just watched the T&T girls do. "Great belly but-no offenseyou're not much of a dancer."
"I am when I'm sober, which I definitely wasn't during that party." She looked amusedly at the screen.
"I don't see Hildreth anywhere. Wasn't he at the party?"
"Actually, no. He took Halloween very seriously."
Westmore smiled at the inference. He could imagine the laughable image, which was probably true nonetheless: Hildreth and cronies chanting in the chapel, wearing ridiculous black capes and hoods. "Of course."
Still, watching the party footage, Karen shot a quick frown."Oh, shit. You can see my c-section."
Westmore hadn't noticed the scar, and he was further surprised. "I didn't know you had any kids."
"See?" She pulled the rim of the already-minuscule bikini down a hitch, revealing the thin scar. "I had Darlene when I was twenty-one, if you can believe that. It's starting to make me feel old now; she's in her first year of college. I'm really proud of her. She got accepted at Princeton."
"That's great," Westmore said. "But you practically gotta be a millionaire to cover the tuition."
"Vivica picks up what the scholarship doesn't cover."
"There's some good fortune. What happens if she lets you go?"
Karen paused. "Why would she do that?"
"Well, I don't know. You used to work for her husband's company, and now her husband's dead and the company's shut down."
"I guess i
f she cuts me loose, I'm more fucked than all of the chicks in those videos combined."
Westmore would have to find a polite way to tell her that profanity didn't make her more attractive. But he almost groaned when Karen waltzed around to the coffee machine and bent over the cabinet to get some filters. "Oh, while I'm thinking of it. You ever hear of a woman named Deborah Anne Rodenbaugh?" he asked.
"No, I don't think so."
"She's listed as the driver of the car that's abandoned. Maybe one of Hildreth's porn girls."
"Maybe."
On the screen, a rather dumpy, overweight woman could be seen sitting in the background. Lank hair hung in her eyes; she looked out of it. "Who's that?" Westmore asked.
Karen looked without much interest. "Oh, that's Faye. Talk about a basket case; I always felt so sorry for her. She was the company janitor, and did some groundskeeping."
"She's not even in a costume."
"Not a party-type. More dejected wallflower. She was just waiting for the party to end, so she could clean up. A lot of Hildreth's porn people would poke fun at her. It was really cruel. She was a closet junkie, is what I heard."
Looks like she was on something. Westmore was about to say something else, when his heart lurched.
On the screen.
He quickly hit pause. Someone else had stepped into view on the party DVD.
It's her. It was the girl from the desk snapshot, and the subject of the oil painting that hung in front of the safe. But she wasn't in costume at the party, just a nice dark business dress and high heels.
Could that be Deborah Rodenbaugh?
"I wish I knew who that was," he muttered to himself.
Karen glanced at the screen. "Never saw her before."
Westmore looked at her with some suspicion. "Yes you have."
"Nope. I don't think so."
He pointed behind him to the floor. "It's the girl in that painting. You said you never saw her before, either. And it's obviously the same girl." Westmore didn't even know what he was suspicious of, yet he gave Karen a long look.
"Why are you being a dick all of a sudden!" Karen sniped at him.
"I'm not, I just-"
"I was drunk when I saw that picture, and you're looking at me like I'm lying to you or something!"
