by Patti Larsen
(FADE IN:)
EXT. – THE STARLET LOUNGE – NIGHT
The stage door squealed softly on unoiled hinges as Aisling’s fake French manicure scraped over the edge.
“Well, damn it all to hell, girl.” She wobbled on her new Prada knockoffs, one knee buckling briefly before her natural balance kicked in. Her eyes struggled to focus on the partially torn edge of her nail. She turned with more enthusiasm than she should have risked in her mind-altered condition, upper body swaying as she flashed the offending gray, dented exit her damaged middle finger. And snorted out a giggle. “Showed you. Asshole.”
She’d only had one drink, shouldn’t have been this messed up. Her nose twitched as she sniffed. Oh, right. And a whole lot of cocaine for 3AM. Aisling giggled again, hands sliding down the front of her skintight red dress. Her fingers skimmed over the tucked in package she did her best to hide from the world, pausing on the way back up on her newly inflated chest. The trip to Tijuana cost her a fraction of plastics in the States. And the handsome Mexican doctor knew his shit. Gave her stunning breasts. She was lucky to find one who understood her particular situation. Who could turn a blind eye to what she lacked, no questions asked, who trained his nurses to silence and secrecy.
Worth his weight in gold. She brought lots of drugs home with her, over the border, for her friends, naturally.
But, for her, coke was better than painkillers.
The filthy alleyway stank of decaying food, waste from the bar she’d just left. Didn’t help the bums who lived under the bridge liked to peep at the dancers and used this place for a toilet after jerking off to the memory. Aisling’s finely-crafted nose turned up, ruby lips parting as she half strutted, half wavered her way past the rusting dumpster, shoe slipping in a patch of reeking fluid leaking out of the damaged corner.
She caught herself with a gasp, the loud clang of her heavy, metal bangle slamming into the side of the dumpster ringing like a bell. It made her pause after her start, hum the same note. Tottering on four inches of stiletto, she sashayed her narrow hips from side to side, spinning at last just past the dumpster with a flourish.
“Use that sweet move tomorrow night,” she told the open, humid air and deep, dark California night. It made her smile, even as she wobbled on, deeper into the alley. Music and dancing were her life and had been since she was a little boy.
Girl. She corrected herself by stopping, cocking one hip to the side and waggling her finger in the air as though to admonish a stranger. “I,” she said in a slurred and empty voice, “am a girl.”
Sure, she still had some junk to deal with. The patch of taut skin between her legs—the hated extra flesh tucked firmly back and taped out of sight—reminded her with every step she had a ways to go. Screw it. Small, fine-boned hands adjusted her new rack again. When she was done, she would give up the drugs and this crappy shit-hole of a queer bar and go find a real job as a real dancer. On the East Coast maybe. New York. London, even.
Silver City could kiss her ass.
Aisling giggled again at the visual image her stoned mind came up with. It took her a moment to drag her focus back, sniffing delicately, the faint tingle of the drug still in her nostrils. A giant bag—matching her shoes, of course—swung against her hip as she frowned down into it, swaying as she dug into the dark interior.
Damn it. What did she do with her car keys?
The door squealed for a second time, spinning her around. And, in that instant, everything changed. Fear raced through her, clearing her mind. Aisling's fingers located the small, square box of her Taser buried at the bottom. She hated being sober, and being afraid even more. Too many years of hiding, of having friends fall victim to haters. Worse, those who hunted, who tracked her kind for sport or out of “scientific curiosity.” Her free hand settled over the center of her chest, pressing into the silence there. No matter the reason for her fear, it left her with a cold and terrible pit of anxiety she knew she’d never shed no matter how much work she had done to this body of hers.
Or how well she hid what she really was.
Until she spotted the person walking toward her, down the alley, with steady, reassuring steps. She smiled, ruby lips separating, feeling her body warm in response to the sight. The coke resurged and made everything all right again. That empty place inside her chest, under her quivering hand, filled with longing, a hunger so powerful she could barely stand it. That was the true hole she tried to fill. That only a certain kind of attention could feed. And here was the perfect meal, falling into her lap.
“What are you doing here?” She licked her lips, chest tightening, heating in anticipation. “I wondered if you’d come looking for seconds.” She was almost grateful for the loss of her full-on buzz. There were better ways to get high. Much better ways.
It wasn’t until shadow fell over her, the flash of a silver blade cutting through the dark of between them, Aisling understood. And even then, she was so shocked, all she could do was stare as the knife plunged, Taser forgotten in her hand, the vague and distant scream in her head only begging her killer to spare her brand-new boobs.
***
Pilot Episode: Freak Show
(Kindle Edition)
Copyright 2014 by Patti Larsen
Purely Paranormal Press
Find out more about Patti Larsen at http://www.pattilarsen.com/
Sign up for new releases http://bit.ly/pattilarsenemail
***
Kindle Edition, License Notes
This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person. If you are reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Amazon.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.
Director Annetta Ribken www.wordwebbing.com
Production Designer Valerie Bellamy www.dog-earbookdesign.com
Editor Jessica Bufkin
Producer Anne Chaconas www.badassmktg.com
Series Created and Written by Patti Larsen
***
INT. – 9th PRECINCT GYM - MORNING
Sweat ran in distracting paths down Gerri’s face, rivers trickling to soak the neck of her academy T-shirt. The treadmill flew by beneath her pounding sneakers, miles run at a standstill since she climbed on board forty-five minutes ago.
Detective Geraldine Meyers ignored the steady drip of saltiness, the clang of someone dropping weights behind her. She liked the early morning quiet of the 9th Precinct gym. Even more now the 10th had that fancy new setup thanks to a wealthy family whose daughter their detectives rescued. Her precinct’s facility might have been dingy, the worn floor and patched benches signs of age and use, but she preferred the quiet to a packed new gym full of macho cops with something to prove.
She’d never admit she was one of them.
Choosing to become a cop like her dad hadn’t been much of a choice. Gerri sped up the treadmill, thighs burning as her mind flashed to the badge in her locker, the gun in her desk upstairs. She’d finished college, thought about the FBI, maybe. Even the CIA at one point. But, solving street level crimes, following in her father’s footsteps, won out over other ambitions. Not that she blamed Sergeant Dutch Meyers for pushing his oldest into the family business. It saved her brother and sister from a life behind a badge. And she really was uniquely suited to the job.
Gerri hit the speed button again. As if running meant she would outpace the fear that stirred in her when she thought about her uniqueness. Anything to avoid thi
nking about the burning inside her that whispered to her she could run so much faster.
The narrow bank of windows at the top of the wall across from her threw reflections from the early morning sun on the hubcaps of passing cars. Down here, she could forget about who she was, what she feared inside her. The way her father pressed her about it all through high school, with a gleam in his eye telling her he knew more about it than she did. That they shared some bond beyond the usual father/daughter connection. But her beloved father never, ever talked about it and, though she won meet after track meet, match after boxing match, and excelled at every single sport she ever tried, Dutch refused to tell her why he watched her succeed with haunted eyes.
Gerri scowled at the rising miles on the treadmill readout, not really seeing. She’d felt like a freak her entire life. All for but that brief, blissful stint she spent in college. Four years in residence, befriended by the most unlikely pair of girls she could ever imagine would attach themselves to her. Thinking of Kinsey and Ray actually put a smile on Gerri’s face, smoothed out her angry, heavy stride. Though they’d only had a few years together at the outset, she couldn’t think of two people she’d rather have in her life.
Sure, she was guilty of spending the next ten years sending birthday cards and Christmas cards and only throwing out the odd phone call. Life was busy, not just for her. Kinsey went on to be some hot-shot young professor, a doctor of anthropology. And Ray became a doctor of another kind, first as a physician, then as a medical examiner. Gerri threw herself into her police work, making detective two short years after putting on her uniform. Just like her father wanted. And, she was willing to admit as she flew over the track of the treadmill with her heart and lungs pumping in happy coordination, what she really wanted, too.
Gerri wiped at the sweat running down her face with the shoulder of her T-shirt. Eight years as a detective in Boston, bounced around from division to division, gave her a unique perspective on the darkness of the human soul. And, though Gerri excelled at every single one of them, she had a particular preference for homicide.
She laughed to herself, without humor. It took a specific kind of freak to get her rocks off on the deaths of others. And yet, with every call, every new case, Gerri loved her job more.
The treadmill groaned under her. The faint odor of burning plastic and odd hum rising from the belt warned her she’d pushed the old piece of crap to its limit. She ignored the fact she’d topped out its 12.4mph. Despite the sweat she shed, she still felt like she could run forever. Instead, she powered down and stepped off as the thing hummed to a stop.
She could swear she heard it sigh in relief.
As she turned, heading for the heavy bag, she didn’t miss the quick glances her way, the hostility from one of her fellow officers, the near-worship on the face of the single woman in the gym. Gerri ignored both, tossing her towel to the side, jerking on her gloves. Let them stare, judge, wonder what was wrong with her. Let the guys she worked with think she was a butch. Gerri lived with worse her entire life. And wasn’t about to let it bother her now.
Besides, she’d never had it so good. Two months ago, she’d been a mid-level detective in Boston, before the call came in. Within a matter of days, she received an offer from Silver City, lead detective, her own homicide team.
“Got to take it, kiddo,” Dad said, serious face stern over the cup of coffee they shared when she told him the news. Mom wouldn’t meet her eyes, but she seemed resigned to her leaving. “You have a job to do.”
He was always so damned serious about things, made it sound like life and death. Well, she did work homicide. Despite his odd behavior, the exciting prospect won over her guilt at leaving her family behind on the East coast.
Which led her to the best news of all. Gerri tested her gloves against each other before settling in to beat the crap out of the heavy bag hanging in front of her. Her right fist connected with a solid whack as she grinned. Imagine her shock, two weeks after arriving in Silver City, to run into her old friend, Ray, working a crime scene as a medical examiner. Then, to bump into Kinsey over a case involving a dead prof at the university.
Her grin faltered as she spun and delivered a roundhouse kick to the bag, sending it swinging. Such a coincidence, the three of them ending up here. Especially since the detective in her didn’t believe in coincidence.
Gerri bounced on her toes, smile gone completely, the tingle inside her burning brighter, vision narrow, focused on the center of the bag. There were times she was sure she could destroy it, rip it apart if she really let go. Which made her retreat further, drop her hands to her sides and pant while her mind spun away from the reunion of three friends and into the reason for their connection.
She hated to think of the night her partner died. The captain settled her in with veteran Detective Joe Mutch her first day in the bullpen. She immediately liked him, with his neatly shaven face and careful suit and tie. His talk about always looking professional. He reminded Gerri a lot of her dad, if an older version. She’d done her best to hide the fact, though. Wouldn’t do to have her partner think she was a softie. Still, he was easy going and damned good at his job, two traits that endeared him daily to her.
And made what came next all the harder. Three months from retirement and the former lead, Joe’s job was to teach her the ropes. Told her she’d better keep him out of trouble, that he had a fishing trip planned to end all fishing trips the day after he got his gold watch.
Gerri offered a half-hearted whack to the heavy bag. He didn’t make it.
This time, when Gerri’s fist connected with the worn leather, she felt her glove split, the bag itself vibrating from the end of the heavy chain holding it aloft. One of the guys behind her swore, but she didn’t bother turning around to find out if he was aiming his shock at her.
He was. Had to be. Like she didn’t know otherwise, hadn’t lived with such observation her whole life. She drew a shaking breath, pulled her lifelong temper problem under control. Doing so left her open to thinking about Joe. About the night he died. The druggie asshole who stuck a knife in the old man’s heart.
And the creature who pulled the remains into the lake—
Gerri jerked in response to her phone ringing, swearing softly to herself as she pulled at her gloves. She wouldn’t go there, couldn’t think about Joe’s death. Even though Ray had seen it, too. Kinsey swore she witnessed something equally as strange, the night her professor friend died. The three of them shared, over the recovery of Joe’s body from the lake, that they knew or rather feared, something odd was going on in Silver City.
Something paranormal.
Right hand finally free of the glove, Gerri scooped up her phone, swiped the screen to life. Missed call from the captain. She pressed dial as she shied from her own thoughts, grateful for the distraction.
Weird. She called it weird. And refused to believe otherwise. Ray and Kinsey might be willing to admit what they saw was supernatural or some such shit, but Gerri was a cop. Trained in logic and science and to follow the evidence. Even as the tingle inside her growled in response to her denial. Whispered to her, as always.
Gerri shoved that aside, too. Chances are the captain was calling with a case. Good. Murder always made her feel better.
***
INT. – SILVER CITY MORGUE - MORNING
While she knew her job disgusted the majority of people who asked what she did for a living, Dr. Rachel Hunter rather enjoyed the peace and solitude of the morgue in the early morning. She purposely took the odd shifts, the ones where murder and accidental deaths were most likely to come across her slab. Not because she considered herself a particularly morbid or hateful person who lived for death. But, because walking, talking, breathing people sometimes made her uncomfortable. It had been that way for the majority of her life.
And the fact Mummy hated so very much telling her socialite friends what Ray did for a living.
That was enough to keep her in the morgue. As if she needed enc
ouragement. Ray bent over the swollen, pale corpse, scalpel already set aside, bone saw and rib separator in place, exposing the lungs and heart of her patient. She still referred to them as patients, though her subjects were dead by the time she saw them. She’d spent too many years working the ER, in training to be a surgeon, to change her terminology now. Ray was well aware some of the other medical examiners used more vulgar words to call out the dead. Her precise British, upper-crust upbringing disallowed such frivolity.
Besides, she rather enjoyed their company.
“Now, then, my darling,” she said over the gaping cavity of the dead man, his bulging belly fair warning of what she was about to find. Ray knew without cutting, without scans and X-Rays and tests of his blood for the chemical evidence needed exactly what killed Jacob Harner, age 57. She didn’t even need to take into account his excessive weight or the whitened tissue making up the vast proportion of his heart, a clear sign of dead cells. Nor, as she lifted her scalpel once again, carefully excising into the heart's muscle, did she need to uncover the clot in his left coronary artery, nor the yellowish clog of atherosclerosis trapping the knot of hardened blood. No amount of clinging plaque could tell her what she already knew, known the moment she stepped up to Jacob’s body on her slab to begin her initial observations of the body.
And yet, she did her due diligence, extracting the clot with tweezers, placing it carefully into a glass container for analysis. The family insisted on a full forensic autopsy, and had the money to make sure it happened. Ray could have saved them the small fortune it likely cost them to fast-track the procedure, the small library or charity they probably financed to place Jacob Harner in front of three other bodies waiting for her attention. She carefully freed the heart from the chest cavity and placed in her scale, noting the weight, the severe damage the massive heart attack caused, all while wondering if there was something wrong with her.
