Bannon gave Nick a curious look, removed the chair, and opened the door. They were struck by a rancid, musty smell, amplified by the heat of the room. They moved silently into a finished living area with chairs and a couch furnished in orange 1970s fabric. The shag carpet - also orange - made Nick feel pretty good about the gecko-green curtains in his rental. Narrow windows sat high, and a dust-covered upright piano rested against the far wall next to a heater that was working overtime. As Nick made his way down the hall, the fetid smell grew stronger, testing his stomach’s mettle.
They stood at a door at the end of the hall, both reluctant to open it.
The rookie pulled a face. “That’s not death, is it?”
“Smells like an old gym locker to me.” Nick threw the door open, stepping back as the reek of sex, sweat, vomit, feces, and urine exploded over them like a stink bomb.
“Fuck!” Bannon took an involuntary step back, clamping a hand over his nose and mouth.
The room was unfinished, claustrophobic. From a wooden ceiling beam, Jeffrey Gimple’s body hung suspended by a nylon rope noose. He was nude save for a large diaper, which was slung around his ankles and complete with gold plus-sized diaper pins on each side. Bright red clamps were fastened to each of the corpse’s swollen, discolored nipples.
He was the blue-gray non-color of the dead. Nick took in the bulging eyes, the fat, protruding tongue, and the odor of corruption. Livor mortis had painted his feet and ankles that ugly shade of purple that always made Nick squirm. He touched the cold rubbery skin. “Rigor’s set in.” He’s been here at least twelve hours.
Beneath his feet, a folding chair had tipped on its side. On the concrete floor beside it a shiny plastic object glistened in the jaundiced light of a single hanging bulb.
Bannon crouched to look. “What is it?”
Nick cleared his throat. “It’s, uh, it’s a butt plug.” And for God’s sake, don’t ask me how I know.
Bannon backed away from it the way you’d back away from a dead rat.
Nick felt an irrational compulsion to protect the kid - to tell him to go wait outside, or to at least apologize for the grotesque scene - but he kept silent, letting the young officer make peace with the horror.
Bannon swallowed. “This wasn’t suicide, was it?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Autoerotic asphyxiation gone wrong?”
“That would explain the diaper,” Nick said. “And the ligature marks on his neck. And the nipple clamps.”
Bannon touched his stomach, his pasty face glossed over with sick sweat.
“Bathroom’s down the hall,” said Nick.
“I’ll be okay.”
Nick admired the kid’s pluck.
Bannon stared down at the butt plug. “What about that? Is it … evidence?”
Nick grimaced at the glistening sex toy. “Sure is. But that’s for forensics to deal with.” He got on his radio and made the necessary calls.
* * *
They’regoingtogetme, they’regoingtogetme, they’regoingtogetme.
It wasn’t safe to remain in one place for long. Festus Crawley had to keep moving, and fast. Keeping to trees, behind buildings, using anything he could for cover, he made his way through town. He was tired, very tired, but he hardly noticed. When the fatigue was more than he could bear, he simply collapsed in the closest out-of-sight area and started moving again when he woke. In those brief moments of sleep, he dreamed of the golden-haired man in the alley, whose silver eyes had reached inside his mind and … and … broken it?
On Main Street, he crouched behind a large trashcan, watching people put up Founder’s Day posters and banners, all of them oblivious to the fact that they were under siege, that they were being watched by them.
They’regoingtogetme, they’regoingtogetme, they’regoingtogetme.
He darted into an alley between shops and peered out. That’s when he saw her. He froze, his heart thumping, his mouth instantly dry. “Mother?”
She was nude, her body oddly stiff as a man carried her across the street toward a shop called, The Fashion Enchantress. He knew at once what they planned to do: They would put her in clothing she didn’t approve of and stand her in the window for everyone to gape at. “Mother … ” he whispered. “No.” Tears of rage welled in his eyes as he watched her nude body, so smooth and perfect, being carted around for everyone to see.
Quickly, a plan formed. He looked around, saw a brick protruding from one of the buildings and, using all of his strength, he loosened it and pulled it out. He exploded out of the alleyway, lips pulled back in a feral sneer, shrieking as he raced toward the manhandling mom-raper.
The guy, a thirty-something string bean in a gray uniform, stopped, his eyes wide as Festus tackled him like a football player on methamphetamines. Mother dropped to the sidewalk, her left arm snapping off, her face a docile mask of pleasant tolerance. But it was she, there was no doubt.
The man screamed and scrambled back, but Festus was quick. He straddled him, bringing the brick down hard and fast, rapping at the man’s head until blood began to splatter. “Rapist!”
Cars screeched to stops in the street. People burst out of the shops to stare. A guy on a ladder dropped the banner he’d been hanging.
They’regoingtogetme. No … They’re going to get us! He looked down at his mother, then at the unconscious bleeding man he’d brought to justice. I have to keep moving! Lumbering to his feet, he tucked Mother under an arm. She was surprisingly light which meant they’d been starving her. Swooping to collect her severed arm, he sprinted back the way he’d come.
They’regoingtogetus, they’regoingtogetus, they’regoingtogetus!
He ran, legs pumping as he headed toward the safety of another alley, his nubby penis already stiffening as Mother’s petite rock-like breasts pressed into his side. Winding through narrow alleys, he found safety, and behind a Dumpster, lay her gently down on patch of soft earth. Her unblinking eyes sparkled at him, seeming to say, Thank you, my precious son. For a moment, he tried to attach her arm but it was no use; he settled for placing it close to the shoulder hole and being very gentle with her as he pulled down his trousers and lay on top of her. “Mother … oh, mother …”
And all was right in the world again.
* * *
The Vang’s Bangs waiting area contained most of the usual suspects: Lena Harding, Diana Stout, Howard Blackburn, and Cloris Riddley. Due to the suicide of Stardene Cassel and the recent domestic violence cases, the women - and Howard Blackburn - were at the salon almost every day, reiterating gossip and bragging about their nights at Club Mephistopheles. Currently, they pondered the absence of their leader, Rosemary Hess.
Howard Blackburn, in for his thrice-weekly shave, sat in Rebecca McNair’s chair, his face lathered. Ms. Vang left the unpleasant task to Rebecca - unpleasant because Mr. Blackburn’s shaves were just thinly veiled excuses to get an eyeful of boob. Everyone knew it, including Ms. Vang, but Rebecca usually had no problem performing the duty - Blackburn left especially good tips on shaving days.
But today, she resented the way his eyes molested her.
She was still angry about last night - at the bastard who’d rejected her. ‘I do not want you,’ he’d said. It was more than a rejection. She felt like an addict in withdrawal. She looked down at Howard Blackburn, briefly fantasizing about smacking him upside the head.
“Well, I think she’s been seeing someone,” bellowed half-deaf Cloris Riddley.
Lena Harding laughed. “Like who? Rosemary hasn’t been on a date since her husband died.” With her platinum hair, candy-red lips, and blue jacket, she reminded Rebecca of an American flag - if a flag could look tawdry. She wondered if the Disrobed Daredevil would have rejected Lena last night. She eyed the bimbo, resenting the silver moon pendant that matched her own. Lena rubbed hers incessantly, fingering it like she was trying to bring it to orgasm. It infuriated Rebecca - she wanted to be the only one with such a beautiful piece of jewelry. I
won’t take it off, not ever.
“Why else would she go missing like this?” Lena continued. “She doesn’t even answer the phone!”
Diana Stout’s head swiveled back and forth between them, her chubby cheeks pink. “I called her the other day and she answered. She said she was tired, that’s all.”
“I’ll bet she’s tired!” Lena cackled like a slutty hyena. “Rosemary’s quite old, and she did get one hell of a lap dance at the club.”
The Club, that’s what they called it now. Two little words, one syllable each - but it was at the center of everything these days, and Rebecca was sick of it. She was sick of it all! Her jaw tensed as she bit back bitter words. She dragged the straight razor down Mr. Blackburn’s cheek, wishing she could hear the stubble scream in pain as it was decapitated.
Cloris rolled her eyes. “Imagine acting like that at her age!”
“Now, now, ladies.” Evelyn Vang shook a wet comb at the women. “There’s no need to judge.” She turned her attention back to Barbara Parker, a woman so large she made Diana Stout look petite.
She’s just gross, thought Rebecca. They’re all fucking gross!
Cloris faced Diana. “Well, did she tell you she had an altercation with that pet store owner, right in her front yard! Marion Busby told me all about it.”
“An altercation?” Diana’s little piggy eyes danced.
Rebecca sighed. Blah, blah, blah, that’s all she heard anymore. She popped her gum and got an icy look from her boss. Gum was prohibited. It wasn’t sanitary, according to Ms. Vang, but Rebecca was as sick of rules as she was of the gossiping bitches in the waiting area. Most of all, she was sick of Howard Blackburn tit-fucking her with his eyes. She snapped her gum again, just to prove she could, and glared a challenge at Ms. Vang.
“I told her she shouldn’t leave that poor dog tied up outside all the time!” bellowed Cloris.
Heads nodded agreement.
Lena stroked her silver moon.
As they blathered on, Rebecca found herself dwelling on the Disrobed Daredevil. Again. Fury rose, kicking and screaming inside her. That son of a bitch! That fucking son of a bitch! How dare he tell me no?
The silver moon pendant felt suddenly warm.
She slid the blade down Blackburn’s cheek.
After all the trouble I went to, he has the nerve to turn me away! He’ll pay for this.
Blackburn winced. “Take it easy, Becky.”
Becky? She saw a thin smear of blood on his jaw where she’d gotten careless. Becky?
He grinned, eyes on her tits.
You filthy motherfucker. An idea struck. “Sorry, Mr. Blackburn.” She leaned close, grabbed him by the hair and thrust his head between her breasts. And screamed. Every head in the salon shot up and stared. “Rape!” Her gum fell from her mouth and stuck in Blackburn’s shoe-polish black hair as he struggled for freedom. She released his head and dragged the business end of the straight razor lengthwise across his throat, watching in fascination as his Adam’s apple split wide open. He coughed, gurgled, and wheezed. Blood spilled from the slash, splattering the floor.
Evelyn Vang screamed and dropped her scissors.
Howard’s eyes rolled up and his arms and legs went limp.
The women in the waiting area clamored over, gaping at the wound.
“He … he tried to rape me!” Rebecca summoned tears. “It was … self-defense!”
But the women weren’t listening. They’d gathered around the dead man like ants around a rotting piece of meat, eyes glittering.
“Oh, my.” Cloris Riddley’s mouth hung open.
Lena Harding clucked her tongue and shook her head. “Oh, Evelyn. I don’t know if you’ll ever get the blood out of that cape.”
Diana Stout pursed her mouth. “It looks like the inside of a raspberry donut.”
Sighing, Barbara Parker hefted herself out of her chair, elbowing the women aside, her gelatinous hips rollicking as she squeezed to the center of the commotion. “Let me have a look-see. Step aside.” She frowned at Blackburn’s gaping slash then stuck a finger in it, wiggling it around. “Oh, yes,” she said. “It’s very deep. Fatal, I’m afraid.” She slipped a second finger inside. “And it’s very tight.”
“Tight?” Lena Harding poked a finger into the wound.
Rebecca picked her gum out of his hair, plucked off some loose strands, and popped it back into her mouth.
Evelyn Vang backed against the wall, eyes wide, hands trembling at her mouth. “What is wrong with all of you? Have you all gone mad?”
Rebecca snapped her gum, rolled her eyes at her boss, and used a finger to see if Mr. Blackburn’s neck-hole was as tight as they said.
As it turned out, the women hadn’t been lying. Rebecca giggled. “And it’s warm. Like pie!”
The women of Vang’s Bangs laughed and began a playful game of Indian war paint with the blood. Good times were had by all.
Except Evelyn Vang. Like an idiot, she just screamed and screamed and screamed.
But Rebecca hadn’t felt so alive in days.
* * *
Nick pulled the cruiser into the lot at the station and Officer Corey Bannon hopped out and headed inside.
It had been a silent ride back from the Gimple residence, and Nick sat in the cruiser a moment; he wasn’t eager to find out what new shitstorms had begun to rage. His cell rang. It was Toby Tavers, P.I., in Crimson Cove.
“Tobes. Find anything?” Nick listened as the P.I. told him what he’d learned about the identity of the model, otherwise known as Alejandro, on Kathryn McLeod’s novel. As he listened, Nick’s brows came down and he found himself bewildered. What the man was saying was pretty hard to believe. “You’re sure?” He knew it was a futile question - Toby Tavers was the best in the business, and if he said something was true, it was true. “I see. Thanks a lot.” Nick hung up and sat a long moment, wondering how he was going to explain this to Madison. Or to himself, for that matter. This is nuts.
Deciding to get to O’Riley’s Rocks and relay the information immediately, he put the cruiser in drive and started out of the lot when a teenage kid darted from one of the stores across the street.
The owner ran after him. “Thief! Get him!”
Several passersby gave chase, one man charging and knocking him down.
Nick hopped out and took off at a run. An entire mob had gathered around the downed thief, kicking, punching, and smacking him. One woman pulled his hair as the teenager screamed.
“Stop! Police!”
But they didn’t stop. Instead, everyone in sight joined in, laughing as they wailed on the alleged shoplifter. Children cried. An old man jabbed the teen with his cane.
“Break it up! Break it up!” Nick pushed his way through the angry mob. “Enough! What the hell’s the matter with you people?”
The crowd looked at him as if nothing were wrong with them at all.
The alleged thief was no older than fourteen. His hand was clenched tightly around a pack of Juicy Fruit. Blood flowed from his nose to his mouth and his elbows and palms were scraped raw.
Officer Bannon appeared and began herding people away. “Police! Stand back, stand back!”
“Thief!” The shopkeeper, a rotund bald man, finally arrived at the scene. “Stop him!”
“It’s under control,” said Nick.
The shop owner made a grab for the pack of gum but Nick pushed his hand away. “Get out of here.” The gum fell to the cement. He guided the kid into a sitting position, hand supporting his head. “Are you all right, son?”
The teen’s eyes rolled around. “F-f-fine.” A bubble of blood popped in the corner of his mouth. Nick didn’t think it was internal bleeding, but this kid needed medical attention.
The crowd stood there, looking stupid.
“Call goddamn 911!” shouted Nick, but Bannon was already on it. “Get out of here, all of you!”
Slowly the knot of idiots began to loosen.
“Now! Before I arrest every goddamn
ed one of you!” To the kid, he said, “How do you feel?”
“I’ve been better.”
“Ambulance is on the way,” said Bannon.
“We’re going to get you to the hospital, okay?” Nick said to the kid.
He nodded.
“Here.” Nick handed him the pack of Juicy Fruit. “I hope it was worth it.”
“Not really.” The teen gave him a sheepish smile through a swelling, bleeding mouth. His eyes weren’t quite focused.
Nick heard the ambulance sirens. He kept the kid sitting up, asking him mundane questions to keep him alert and coherent. When they arrived, the medics were quick to get the young man in the vehicle and moments later, Nick watched it speed away, headed toward Prominence General.
And Main Street was back to normal.
Aside from the blood on the sidewalk, you’d never know that a teenaged Juicy Fruit-thief had nearly been beaten to death by a crazed horde of upstanding citizens. People continued putting up Founder’s Day banners, walking their dogs, and browsing the shops that lined the street, as if nothing was out of the ordinary at all.
Bannon looked dazed
“This isn’t normal, right?” Nick asked.
Bannon just stared at him.
“What the fuck is wrong with this town?”
“I’ve never seen it like this.”
“Something’s up,” said Nick as they headed back toward the station. He stopped, looked around at the tipped garbage cans, the litter, the graffiti. “The water.”
“What do you mean?”
“I wonder if it’s something in the water. There’s gotta be some explanation.”
“Maybe it’s just all the excitement of Founder’s-”
“Founder’s Day, right. I don’t think so. This is something more, it’s got to be.”
“But what?”
“We need to get the water tested.” But first, Nick needed to relay the private investigator’s findings to Madison. Findings that only added another layer of strangeness to his day. “I’m going to go make a stop at-”
His radio cut him off. “We’ve got a one-eighty-seven, repeat, one-eighty-seven, at Vang’s Bangs Beauty Salon on-”
The Angel Alejandro Page 40
