by James Newman
There was something about this room and everything in it, however, that Nick found...abandoned. Neglected and forgotten. Like the inventory for a business that went under years ago, now moldering in the dark with no one around to account for it. The shelves were in disarray—crowded, unorganized, and covered with a thin layer of dust. Many of the stuffed creatures lay on their side, or teetered on the edge of the shelf, about to fall. Most of them were missing some of their fur, or were leaking the sawdust that had replaced their vital organs.
Nick found himself thinking of poor Leon at that moment, and how his friend had been so proud of owning a faded old Widowmaker T-shirt. That was the difference between the have-nots and assholes like this wrinkled fuck in his cash-colored PJs and his motorized wheelchair. Those who had next to nothing appreciated what little they did have. Those who had never known what it was like to go without took their possessions for granted; too much was never enough, and the thrill of the hunt was like a drug to them. They were always searching for something that might impress them even though they had long ago passed the point of being impressed by anything.
Nick fought off the temptation to tear it all down right now, to flood the room with broken glass and formaldehyde and then light a fucking match.
Gotta keep your eye on the prize, he kept reminding himself. They’re gonna take you to Sophie...then and only then you can show your hand and bring this whole fucking thing to the ground...
Nick stopped in front of a jar containing a plump human fetus with two heads. His own gruesome reflection stared back at him, superimposed over the mutant floating in its liquid. He thought about a pair of conjoined twins born not far from here a half-century ago, twins sold by poverty-stricken parents to a filthy rich pervert who believed that his money gave him the right him to buy anything...even a human being. Maybe that had been the first time Hiram Balfour had purchased a person. Maybe not. But it certainly wasn’t the last time.
He wondered if Little Sister and Jeremy shared similar stories. Decided he didn’t give a damn if the duo were golems sculpted from the old fart’s toe-jam then conjured to life via black magic.
And then Nick found himself pondering who was the real monster here: this wrinkled fiend whose “family” was composed of people he had purchased as part of his peculiar obsession...or a deadbeat father who had ignored his own flesh and blood entirely lest it interfere with his wrestling career. At least those who called Hiram Balfour “Daddy” didn’t appear to want for anything. Nick couldn’t say the same for his own daughter, whom he had known was damaged from the moment he saw her sitting in that corner booth in Annie’s Country Diner (“somebody who was there for you, did the things fathers are supposed to do, he deserves to be called Daddy, not me”).
He snapped out of his reverie when he realized Mr. Balfour was rambling on again: “Alas, my fascination with human oddities and aberrations of nature withered and died. I grew bored with it all. And I moved on to...other things.”
They came to a heavy metal door painted the same forest-green as Mr. Balfour’s pajamas. Little Sister reached into a pocket of her suit, pulled out a small key. She stuck the key in the lock and opened the door.
She flicked another switch, and more fluorescent lights came on...this time exposing a room that stretched into forever. It appeared to be a converted garage, albeit a garage that must have housed thirty or forty vehicles once upon a time. The carpeting was a black-and-gray pattern, like an immense chessboard laid out before Nick and his hosts; it covered the floor as well as the walls. Huge air-conditioning vents blew frigid air down on them as they entered the room.
Balfour said, “As you can see, Mr. Bullman, the last forty years of my life I have been intrigued by the...cult of celebrity, if you will. I believe the stars of stage and screen are the freakshow of our modern age. But these ‘freaks’ have become our gods. Tabloid deities. I suppose what you see before you was a natural progression of my interest in those classic sideshow curiosities. The carnival conmen of yesteryear lured in their marks with promises that they would see ‘Bonnie and Clyde’s Death Car,’ or rust-eaten implements purported to be the tools of history’s most notorious murderers. Some men collect comic books or baseball cards; others decorate the walls of their private studies with the severed heads of wild game. This is my collection, Mr. Bullman.”
“What is all of this?” said Nick.
“See for yourself. But, please...I must insist you do not touch anything.”
Where the previous room full of pickled punks and stuffed curios had been disorganized, dusty, and abandoned years ago for different pursuits, the collection in this room was obviously a source of great pride for Mr. Balfour. Everything had been painstakingly situated beneath glass cases, or behind velvet ropes, or atop fancy pedestals illuminated by subtle track lighting...like the old man’s personal museum...
Here was an orange pill bottle, supposedly one of the very bottles that led to Elvis Presley’s demise, according to the brass plaque on its cylindrical base...there, stretched across a wooden frame, was the blanket upon which Marilyn Monroe’s body lay the night she died (the square of pink satin was discolored in the center, as if the material were stained to this day by the beauty queen’s bodily functions)...atop a thick velvet cushion, sat a pair of round hippie glasses with one shattered lens (“JOHN LENNON/DEC. 8, 1980”)...here was a cape that once belonged to TV’s first Superman, George Reeves, who had killed himself via a gunshot to the head...there, enclosed within a glass case, was a jar of white greasepaint supposedly worn by Brandon Lee the night he died on the set of The Crow...
Everywhere Nick looked was another morbid artifact, memorabilia once owned by a celebrity who was now six feet under.
Against one wall, behind a velvet rope, stood a twisted hunk of metal that resembled nothing so much as a large piece of abstract art. A plaque on a stand a few feet away from it read: “JAMES DEAN/SEPT. 30, 1955.”
“Impossible,” said Nick. “No way that’s the real thing...?”
“Maybe it is, maybe it isn’t,” Jeremy whispered in his ear. Nick had almost forgotten he was back there. “Daddy believes it’s authentic. To him, everything in this room is the real deal. That’s all that matters.”
Nick knew a lot about the power of belief. It made men do terrible things.
He shook his head as he stood there staring at the wreckage.
The old man rolled past the exhibit, the wheels on his chair leaving faint tracks on the carpet. But then he stopped, turned back toward Nick when he saw what had captured the former wrestler’s attention.
“Legend has it that when James Dean introduced himself to Sir Alec Guinness outside of a restaurant in Hollywood, Guinness took one look at Dean’s infamous Porsche Spyder and told the young man, ‘If you get in that car, you will be found dead in it this time next week.’ That conversation occurred one week before Dean’s death. For several years after the accident, what remained of the vehicle was displayed publicly. But in 1960, while en route from Florida to Hollywood, the wreckage disappeared. When the trailer reached its destination, it was empty. James Dean’s ‘Little Bastard’ was never seen again.”
“Every man has his price,” said Nick.
The senior citizen smiled his corpse’s smile. “And to some, money is no object.”
Nick wondered how many millions the crazy old coot had spent through the years. He stared up at a huge sliver of blackened steel bolted to one wall. According to the plaque beneath it, this was one of the helicopter rotors that had decapitated Vic Morrow during an accident on the set of a 1982 horror film.
“Oh, bullshit,” Nick mumbled to himself.
“Quiet, you,” said Jeremy.
“Did you know that the Roman guards gambled for possession of Christ’s robe when he was crucified?” The old man didn’t wait for Nick to answer. “Bystanders ripped a sleeve from President Lincoln’s coat after he was assassinated. When the FBI gunned down John Dillinger outside of the Biograph Theatre,
spectators dipped their handkerchiefs in the bank-robber’s blood.”
If he had a point, Mr. Balfour explained it no further. At last, he rolled to a stop. He turned in his chair to face Nick.
They had come to the far end of the room. Against that wall stood a tall, thin wooden shelf. Sitting on the shelf at Nick’s eye-level, backlit by a glowing green light, was a glass jar filled with clear liquid.
Something else was in the jar, too.
“NICHOLAS JAMES BULLMAN,” read the shiny gold plaque beneath it, “A.K.A ‘THE WIDOWMAKER’.”
“What the fuck?” said Nick.
It took him several seconds to figure out what he was looking at.
After all, it had been three long years since the last time he laid eyes on it.
†
When the truth finally hit him—like a sledgehammer upside the head—Nick stumbled backward, crashing into Jeremy behind him.
“I know this must be a shock,” said Mr. Balfour.
Nick didn’t hear him. His pulse pounded in his ears like a tympani drum.
“You...sent them. Rebel Yell and One-Arm. You sent them...”
“I assure you,” said the old man, “I know no one by those names.”
“Liar! You hired them! God damn you.”
Nick took a step toward the old man, his hands balled into fists, but Little Sister stepped between them.
Balfour said, “I have no reason to lie to you. I acquired this particular specimen...after. I heard about what happened that night in Amarillo, and my associates moved quickly. The cost, of course, was extravagant. But then, nothing in my collection has ever been cheap.”
Nick’s guts roiled as he stared at it...at that rubbery thing stretched taut between two vertical wire rods inside its green-glowing canister...like a silently-screaming phantasm trapped between the dimensions of the living and the dead.
His face. His fucking face.
He could even see a hint of stubble along its bottom half, where he had been in need of a shave the last time he had worn it. A few tiny bubbles were trapped within the hairs.
“They could have saved it. They could have sewed it back on. But they never found it. Because you paid...you twisted son of a bitch...you paid someone to—”
“If it is any consolation,” said Mr. Balfour, “I have taken very good care of my investment. I cherish it so.”
“Ah,” said Nick. “That makes it all better, then.”
“At one time, it was my most prized possession.”
Nick’s chest heaved in and out. Tears of rage filled his eyes. He could barely hold himself back. He imagined picking up the old man—wheelchair and all—and heaving him across the room as if he weighed nothing. But he was close...so close...for all he knew, Sophie was within shouting distance right now...
“Speaking of my most prized possession,” the old man said, almost as if he were reading Nick’s mind, “please take us to Sophie’s room now. Little Sister, Jeremy...I think it is time Mr. Bullman met his granddaughter.”
†
They exited Balfour’s “museum” through a side door. Crossed through an atrium filled with azalea bushes and dogwood trees. A stone angel watched them pass. Directly overhead, visible through a domed skylight, lurked a bright full moon.
Then they were inside again. At the end of another short hallway was a door that looked as if it had been painted recently. Hot pink.
“After you,” said Mr. Balfour.
Little Sister reached into her pocket for another key. She handed it to Nick, and gestured for him to lead the way.
The big man stepped forward, his heart thudding in his chest.
He stuck the key in the lock and turned it.
He opened the door.
The teenager lay on her side on a huge canopy bed, surrounded by pink. Pink blankets, pink pillows, pink wallpaper on all four sides of her. The only light in the room came from a small pink lamp with a pink lampshade, sitting on a pink nightstand. She was surrounded by chubby teddy bears and dolls with frilly pink dresses. It was as if this room had been decorated specifically for a little girl, and filled with everything a child could ask for...if the child who occupied these quarters were seven instead of fourteen.
Nick grew lightheaded when he saw his granddaughter for the first time.
She was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen.
Her skin was pale. She looked ten or fifteen pounds skinnier than any pictures he had seen of her, and there were dark bags under her eyes, as if living in captivity had taken its toll on her body. Her forehead was shiny with sweat. Her dark, curly hair was wet as if she had taken a shower right before bed. As she slept, one of her nostrils whistled softly. She wore only a thin pink nightshirt with the words DADDY’S GIRL across the chest; it had ridden up on her bottom to expose her thin white panties.
“Is she okay?” Nick asked. “What’s wrong with her?”
“Nothing’s wrong with her,” said Little Sister. “She has been treated like a princess from the moment she first arrived here.”
Nick couldn’t help sensing something envious in her tone. As if she had once been Daddy’s favorite but those days were a distant memory, and she wasn’t happy about that at all.
“Is she on something?”
“Of course not,” said Jeremy, with a condescending chuckle that made Nick want to turn and rip out his stomach through his mouth. “It’s one o’ clock in the morning. She’s sleeping.”
Nick stood there for at least another minute, staring at his granddaughter.
Finally, he swallowed a lump in his throat, and asked the old man, “Why? You already had my...my face. So...why Sophie? Why did you have to take her?”
“She is your blood, Mr. Bullman. You were a celebrity, once upon a time. Your story is a fascinating one. You suffered a terrible tragedy. That made Sophie a fine addition to my collection. The finest.”
A foul taste filled Nick’s mouth. “It wasn’t just about that, though. What did you plan to do with her?”
Daddy likes kids...always has...and she was just his type...
Sophie stirred then. She coughed gently, rubbed at her eyes. Sat up in bed.
Her jaw dropped when she saw Nick standing there.
“You. Oh my...it’s you.”
“Hello, Sophie,” said Nick. “Do you know who I am?”
“Of course I do. You’re my grandfather.”
“That’s right, baby.” His voice cracked. Tears blurred his vision. “I’m here now, Sophie. Everything’s gonna be okay.”
She ran to him, fell into his arms. No one tried to stop her.
She smelled like strawberry-scented shampoo. To Nick, it was the greatest smell in the world.
He cleared his throat, stepped back. His big hands gripped his granddaughter’s shoulders as he looked into her bright blue eyes—eyes that looked just like his own.
It was time to show his ace in the hole.
Softly, he said, “Sophie? I need to ask you something. I don’t want to know, but I need to know...”
“What?”
“Did he touch you?”
Her bottom lip quivered. A tear trickled down her cheek.
“He tried.” She shot Little Sister a look of hatred. “She held me down. They took pictures. But he couldn’t do what he wanted to do. He got mad. He called me names, and he gave up.”
“Christ,” said Nick, hanging his head. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so sorry...”
“It is a weakness of mine, I admit,” said Mr. Balfour. “I do love children so.”
“Sick fuck,” Nick growled at the old man.
“Watch it,” said Little Sister.
Nick ignored her. He kissed Sophie on her sweaty forehead and said, “Thank you for telling me that, baby. I needed to hear it. So I could be sure that what I’m about to do is the right thing...”
Little Sister and Jeremy exchanged puzzled looks. Mr. Balfour smiled up at Nick, as if he thought the big man might be about to offer him an
other piece of his body for his collection.
“You people are the monsters here,” said Nick. “You’re the ugly ones.”
He shoved Sophie back then—perhaps a bit too roughly, but he couldn’t take any chances—and he pulled the gun from beneath his shirt.
It was a gold-plated Beretta. Taken from a man who called himself Coko Puff. At the time, he hadn’t been sure why he took it with him. Just in case had seemed as good a reason as any. The weapon had been hidden in the waistline of his pants ever since he left the dealer’s house. He had almost pulled it at the ’Rim, but he had known then that if he killed the only people who could lead him to Sophie, he might never find her. Allowing the siblings to take him, on their terms, was the only way he would find his granddaughter.
His patience had paid off.
“Jeremy, you idiot!” Little Sister shouted. “You didn’t search him?”
Jeremy went for his own gun, in his jacket.
He was fast. Nick hadn’t expected him to be so fast. He fired once, and his shot caught Nick in his right thigh.
Nick grunted, stumbled back, and pulled the Beretta’s trigger twice.
Crimson blossoms opened up in Jeremy’s chest. The younger man dropped to his knees, and then his body hit the floor face-first.
Little Sister screamed—a hoarse, masculine roar. She went for Jeremy’s pistol.
Nick fired again.
Blood spurted from the woman’s throat, and she went down on top of her brother.
“No!” Mr. Balfour cried. “What have you done? What have you done?”
The old man fumbled around on his wheelchair. Found what he was looking for after a few seconds. He brought out his own weapon now, from a pocket under one of the armrests—a small, antique-looking handgun.
“Bastard,” he hissed at Nick, as he pulled back the hammer.
