“Welcome to my workroom.” His lips were at her ear. “This is where I get rid of the mess.”
Sheila tried to speak, but no words came.
“That’s Marie.” Ethan looked directly at the concrete wall. “Say hello, Marie.”
Only two of them were in the room.
“Who’s Marie?” Sheila whispered, dazed.
He took a few steps forward, gesturing with the gun for Sheila to follow. He stared at the wall, eye level. “If you look close enough, you can see part of her hand.”
Sheila followed his gaze to the plastic covering the concrete. What the hell was he talking about?
Then, suddenly, like one of those 3-D stereogram pictures you had to stare at cross-eyed for the image to appear, she saw it.
A hand. Small, with long fingernails, clearly belonging to a woman. The fingertips jutted out about an inch from the concrete, brushing up against the plastic covering. The skin had a bluish tint.
With her eyes now knowing what to look for, the scene in front of her unfolded all at once.
She saw a foot. Several feet actually, spread out over the wall. Pink toenail polish. Gold toenail polish. Blue toenail polish.
A hand with short red fingernails. An elbow. A knee.
A swatch of brown hair.
It was a wall full of dead bodies.
“Guess the evil spirits thing doesn’t work after all.” Ethan’s voice was detached.
She hadn’t noticed that he was behind her once again.
“It didn’t work for Marie, and you’re wearing her amulet. Do you see them, Sheila?”
She managed to nod.
“You asked me if I was jealous. That, my darling, that isn’t jealousy.” She felt his hot breath on her cheek. “That’s rage. That’s what I’ve been filled with every day, since the day you ended it with me.” He pointed to the wall. “And that, my love, is what you have to look forward to.”
His fingers touched her throat, and the last thing Sheila heard before she passed out was the sound of her own screaming.
CHAPTER : 20
Sheila was really gone.
She wasn’t returning his calls. She wasn’t at home. She wasn’t at work. Morris had staked out every place he could think of and there was no sign of her. She had meant every word in that awful message she’d left.
He’d never gotten the chance to tell her what he’d decided. Or to wish her well. Or to say good-bye. Now she was out there somewhere, trying to get better, with no idea that he still loved her and wanted to make it work. She was all alone, probably terrified, and whatever she’d done, she didn’t deserve that.
It was all his fault. If he hadn’t been so goddamned judgmental . . .
He sat in his office, staring at a dark computer screen, his door shut tight. He was finally back at Bindle after taking a day off, but he couldn’t seem to remember his user name or password to log on to his computer. All he could think about was the locked drawer in his desk where a brand-new bottle of Johnnie Walker Red was hiding. He’d sneaked it in that morning, which hadn’t been too difficult—everybody was avoiding him thanks to Darcy’s strict instructions to the staff not to mention the canceled wedding.
He could only imagine the rumors swirling around the office like a flu virus. After all, it wasn’t every day that a senior partner got dumped a week before his own wedding. Hell, if this hadn’t been his life, he’d be titillated by it, too.
His gaze shifted to the framed photograph sitting beside his computer. The picture had been taken the night he proposed, at the restaurant at the top of the Space Needle. Sheila in a low-cut black dress, red velvet lips, gorgeous and glowing; he in his favorite pin-striped suit and the tie Sheila had picked out.
He touched the glass. She looked beautiful and he looked happy.
Someone cleared a throat discreetly. Morris looked up to see Trevor Baker standing there, one of his many account managers. Goddammit, he’d forgotten to lock the door.
“Good morning, Trevor.” His usually hearty voice sounded flat and deflated even to him. “What can I do for you?”
Trevor stood staring at his boss, not bothering to hide the shock on his angular face. It wasn’t hard to guess what the younger man was thinking—Morris knew how he looked. He’d slept only two hours the night before, and his eyes were puffy and bloodshot, his face ruddy from too much whiskey. Oh, yeah. He knew exactly what he looked like. And he didn’t give a shit.
Trevor eased his twig-thin frame into the office. His salmon shirt clashed with his coral tie, the combination too bright for Morris’s dry eyes. The man’s bony fingers clutched a thick manila folder.
“Sorry to bother you, sir, but I need your signature on these documents for the Glasgow account—”
“Leave the file with me.”
“Thanks.” Trevor placed the folder on the edge of Morris’s desk, then hesitated.
“Anything else?”
The younger man shifted his weight. “Just, uh, wondering how you’re doing.”
Morris grunted and leaned back in his chair. Cracking his knuckles, he glared at his account manager, suddenly unable to think of a single reason why he’d hired the twerp in the first place. “Well, let’s see. How do I look, Trevor?”
The younger man swallowed and backed away. “It’s just . . . I met your fiancée at last year’s Christmas party and she was so lovely, very down-to-earth. I honestly can’t believe—”
“For God’s sake, Trevor, she’s not dead. She dumped me.” Morris could see the spittle flying from his lips as he spoke. He kept his fingers firmly on the armrests of his chair so he wouldn’t spring up and detach Trevor’s pretty little head from his twiggy little body. “Thanks for your condolences, but if I’m not talking about it, why are you?”
Trevor opened his mouth to speak, then closed it again.
Morris stared him down. “Shut the door on your way out.”
The account manager scurried out without another word.
Morris got up and locked his office door, then sat back down, not sure what to do next. He stared at the football that always sat on his desk, preserved in Lucite. Game ball from his last college game with the Longhorns. He wished it weren’t boxed up in plastic—he wanted to hold it, squeeze it, smell the leather. Football used to be such a great outlet. He missed it almost as much as he missed Sheila.
Suddenly he felt her eyes on him. He turned back to the framed photo of the two of them. Restraining himself from hurling it against the wall, he instead shoved it into his top drawer, facedown.
It seemed like a real good time for the Red.
Unlocking his bottom cabinet, he poured a shot into the empty coffee mug. It went down like fire. He poured another, glancing at the clock. It was ten thirty in the morning. He poured one more.
It was gonna be a long day.
Feeling marginally better, at least for the meantime, he locked the bottle back up and turned to his computer. Mellowed from the booze, his password came back to him and he finally logged on.
Morris’s e-mail program informed him that he had twenty-one new e-mails, not terrible for a Tuesday morning and a day off from work. Darcy was good about screening his messages. He scrolled through them quickly. There weren’t any e-mails from Sheila. He hadn’t expected any, but he was disappointed anyway.
An e-mail buried in the middle of the list caught his eye and he scrolled back up. It was from Brenda Walcott, a woman in Human Resources. The subject line read: Tom Young.
Oh, yeah. Tom Young. He’d forgotten all about his son Randall’s old friend. They’d had dinner after the interview. Had that really only been a few weeks ago? It felt as if a decade had passed. Morris’s eyebrows furrowed as he read Brenda’s message.
Subject: Tom Young
Morris,
I got your e-mail last week about Tom Young applying for position #M-39003. I have not yet received his formal application. Just a reminder that the position closes Tuesday and interviews are next week if he’s s
till interested.
Brenda
p.s. Sorry about your wedding.
Morris felt his face flush. Well, fuck, if the news had made it all the way to HR eight floors down, then clearly the entire company knew that he had been stood up at the altar. Humiliating.
He pushed away the mental picture of his colleagues whispering behind his back and forced himself to concentrate. At least now he had something to distract him.
What the hell had happened to Tom Young? He was surprised that the paperwork hadn’t arrived—the kid had seemed bright. Morris had been impressed by him, had liked him because he’d made him feel one step closer to his estranged son.
He scrolled through his e-mails until he found the one Randall had sent him a few weeks before. Not giving himself a chance to chicken out this time, he hit REPLY and started typing.
Subject: Re: Favor
Dear Randall,
Hope this e-mail finds you well, wherever you are in the world. I was thrilled to hear from you, even if it was due to a business matter. I was going to respond earlier but I kept overanalyzing what I would say (you know me).
By the way, I gave your friend Tom a hearty recommendation. HR hasn’t received his résumé yet, so would you remind him to send it in no later than tomorrow?
My home and office numbers are the same. Your old man would love to hear from you.
I miss you very much.
Love,
Dad
Morris hit SEND.
Exactly three minutes later, he received a reply. That was quick. Excited, he clicked on the new e-mail.
Subject: Re: Favor
We’re sorry, but this e-mail is undeliverable for the following reason(s):
SENDER ADDRESS UNKNOWN.
CHAPTER : 21
Ethan couldn’t stop staring at the woman with the flaming-red hair.
He’d served her chicken and peas twenty minutes ago and hadn’t been able to get her out of his mind since. Her disheveled appearance did nothing to minimize her beauty. Petite, with creamy skin and a spatter of freckles across her nose, she was distracting as hell. The irritated homeless man waiting for his chicken sighed impatiently. Ethan slopped a thigh and a drumstick onto his plate to get rid of him.
Ethan’s groin stirred just watching her eat. He could only imagine what that fiery hair would feel like bunched up in his fists. If only he weren’t so tired. Abby wasn’t volunteering tonight, and it would be a shame not to take advantage of the opportunity. With Sheila locked away from the world and Abby at work . . .
Oh, the possibilities.
A small boy approached Ethan’s station clutching a clean metal plate with dirty fingers. The kid’s short hair was unevenly cut and there were hollows under his eyes. Stopping in front of the food, he held his plate out. His eyes wouldn’t rest on Ethan’s face longer than a second before darting away.
Ethan scooped up a chicken thigh and dropped it onto the kid’s plate. Across the room, the redhead was picking something out of her teeth. She caught Ethan looking and blushed. Interesting. She couldn’t have been homeless for long if she still cared about her table manners. The deep rose in her cheeks made her look prettier, sending a ripple of desire through Ethan’s body.
The boy was still standing in front of him, so Ethan ladled up a portion of peas.
“Actually, could I just have some extra chicken instead?”
Ethan put the spoon down and eyed the kid in disapproval. Skinny, with big teeth that would need braces in another year or two, he looked as if he hadn’t eaten in days. “Didn’t your mother tell you beggars can’t be choosers?”
The boy’s ears colored. “My mom’s dead, but thanks for the words of wisdom.”
Ethan grinned. Spunky little shit. He couldn’t have been older than ten, but it was hard to tell because he was skeletal under his stained sweatshirt and jeans. He might very well have been a malnourished twelve.
Ethan placed a chicken drumstick on the boy’s plate. “That enough or you want more?”
“More, please.” The boy’s voice was quiet and he seemed to be thinking hard about what he was going to say next. Finally his chin jutted out. “And I’m not a beggar. The food is free for anyone who’s hungry. At least that’s what your sign says out front.”
“Does it, now?” Ethan said, amused. He gave the kid two more drumsticks. Reaching over to the other station, he grabbed a plastic cup full of cherry Jell-O. “Here, dessert. So what’s your name?”
“Why do you want to know?”
“Just making conversation. Don’t get your panties in a twist.”
“Is that another old-man saying?”
Ethan couldn’t help but laugh. “Yeah, it is, wise guy. And my name’s Ethan.”
“Ben,” the kid said finally. “The chicken’s for my dad. He didn’t want to come up and ask for a second helping.” Ben pointed to a table where a man who looked old enough to be his grandfather was sitting. He was slumped in the chair. His deeply lined face was haggard and his cheeks sagged where there’d once been fat to fill them out. “We’re on our way to Alaska.”
“Yeah? What the hell for?” Ethan wasn’t particularly interested, but the dinner rush had passed and the kid was cool. Also, the redhead was watching them, smiling. Ethan stood up straighter and looked at Ben, continuing to keep one eye on her.
“My dad got a job on a fishing boat.” The boy looked glum. “We have to go because he lost his job and he says we have to go where the money is. But I don’t want to. Our room will be, like, the size of a closet. And I heard that it’s dark all the time in the winter. I saw that movie, 30 Days of Night? All these vampires came out and killed everybody.”
“Good movie, though, wasn’t it?” Ethan said. The redhead had finished eating and was looking around for a spot to leave her tray. “Here, Ben, take another Jell-O.”
“Thanks. So, do you think it’s true?”
“Do I think what’s true?”
The redhead had stacked her tray on the table with the others and was buttoning up her sweater. It was impossible not to notice her breasts. High and firm.
“About the thirty days of night,” Ben said, exasperated.
“Oh, yeah, that’s true. Absolutely.” The redhead was near the door. Shit. Don’t leave yet.
“For real?” The boy’s eyes were round. “I thought it was just a movie!”
“Yeah, but don’t worry about it,” Ethan said, his mind in two places at once. “All you need to do is get one of those laser pointers. You know the kind you get on a key chain from the dollar store? You just flash it at the vampires’ eyes. It blinds them.”
“For real? That works?”
“Little-known secret. And if they can’t see you, no way they can catch you.”
“Awesome.” Ben grinned. “Thanks, Ethan.”
“Anytime. Now go eat.”
The redhead was gone.
Next time, then. Probably best not to complicate things, anyway. Sheila was enough for now.
Ethan watched as the boy passed the older man his plate of chicken and got a halfhearted hair ruffle in return.
Ethan wondered briefly what would become of them in Alaska and knew he’d never find out. Maybe they’d be okay, maybe they wouldn’t. People passed through St. Mary’s all the time. But at least father and son had each other, which was more than Ethan had ever had. His old man had split when he was five, leaving him alone with his crazy bitch of a mother.
On the surface, a really sweet woman, and he’d loved her. Until she tried to kill him on his tenth birthday.
At first, he hadn’t minded being locked in the closet. In the darkness of the closet, with its narrow walls and the smell of mothballs, there was comfort.
Ever since Dad had gone away, Mom had become forgetful and easily frazzled. She couldn’t work, so she had boyfriends instead. Lots of boyfriends. And when one of them visited, Ethan would be locked away in the closet. Grown men didn’t like little boys hanging around.
&nbs
p; The closet was in Mom’s bedroom. It had a little keyhole that he could peek through. At first, he felt guilty watching her with them, seeing the things she’d let the men do to her. The handcuffs, the straps, the different positions. Eventually he came to understand that she must not mind his watching. After all, she could have sent him to the park. Or to the mall with ten bucks for a movie. But, no, she chose to put him in the closet, where he could see everything. . . .
So he watched.
But, sometimes, she’d forget about him. One time, he’d been cooped up for thirteen hours. She’d forgotten about him and had gone downstairs to the living room to watch television, where she’d fallen asleep until the next morning.
He hoped he wouldn’t be stuck here that long tonight. It was his birthday, and he really wanted to open his presents. He really wanted some birthday cake.
Unfortunately, Michael was coming over. Michael was his Mom’s favorite boyfriend. Even though Michael knew today was a special day, he’d insisted on seeing Ethan’s mother anyway. So Ethan was put in the closet, his birthday celebration on hold until they were done.
He hated Michael. He hated all these men because they came into his house and took his mother away from him and did things to her he couldn’t.
Tonight her bedroom was filled with candles. They were everywhere, on the dresser, on the window ledges, on the nightstands. Mom said candlelight made women look more beautiful.
And she did look beautiful. The sex thing went on for a few hours, maybe longer. Ethan had finally fallen asleep, his head pressed against one of his mother’s long winter coats.
It was the smell of smoke that woke him.
In the dark, he sat up straight, confused at first by the intense but unmistakable odor, his nostrils working like a rabbit’s. He felt the closet door.
It was hot. Very hot.
Panic washed over him like a rogue wave. He looked through the keyhole. His mother’s bedroom was awash in bright orange flames. He scrambled to his feet, pounding on the door, screams pouring out of him.
Creep Page 15
