In order to escape Dracula, Rachel and Jack had to dodge the giant bat that flew at them. Finally, they escaped, into a room featuring not just a king of the undead, but the King himself.
In a bizarrely humorous break from the wanton fright and carnage of the previous rooms, this chamber contained a shrine to Elvis Presley.
Before them, bloated and blue, Elvis hunched over a toilet. Pills littered the ground at his feet. There were no sounds of screaming or murder. Instead, the soundtrack played the gentle murmur of a Graceland crowd of tourists — and the constant sound of a toilet flushing.
"You're a weirdo," Rachel laughed.
"Ron's idea, actually," Jack told her. "He's the Elvis freak, in case you hadn't noticed."
Rachel had. "So why do you keep saying something's wrong? The party's going great, except for the scene with that Vanessa, and barely anyone saw that."
"That's not it," Jack replied, racking his brain. "It has nothing to do with her. It has to do with…" An idea seemed to come to him. "That caterer," he concluded uncertainly.
"Maria?" Rachel wondered, remembering that the girl had never had her picture taken with Jack and Vanessa.
Jack shook his head. "Not her. The guy. What's his name?"
"You mean RePete? Pete Peters?"
Suddenly, a lightbulb seemed to turn on in Jack's head.
"Peters! That's it!" It was all very clear to him now. But Rachel was stumped.
"What are you talking about?" she asked.
Jack turned to her excitedly. "Do you remember, back when I lived here, that something happened between my father and a former employee of his?"
Rachel thought back. At six or seven, reading the front page of the newspaper had not been a top priority. But she did recall something.
"Was there some sort of dispute over land?"
"This is what happened. This former employee of my father's goes into business for himself. Gets lucky with a few developments and starts to do well. But this guy doesn't really know what he's doing, so things start to go wrong. My father, who wants this guy to succeed, helps out."
"Why would he want a potential competitor to succeed?" Rachel wondered aloud.
"Lots of reasons. Competition is more interesting than always getting your way, which is how it was for my father back then. And he considered his employees sort of like family, so he wanted them to succeed. But there was a selfish reason, too. He felt that the failure of anyone associated with him, even if they no longer worked for him, was a reflection on himself. So, for everybody's sake, my father formed partnerships with this guy, trying to take him under his wing again, give him some pointers.
"But the ex-employee had gotten very proud, despite the fact that he was a screw-up. He wouldn't listen to a word my father said. When properties started failing and deals began to fall through, my father still tried to help, and he pumped a lot of money into this guy's business. The guy develops a drinking problem, things go totally to hell, and my father buys the guy out as the only way to salvage the business."
"That was Peter Peters father?" Something about the story resonated in Rachel's brain. It had been so long ago. And irrelevant to her young life. But something else had happened. "Your father was in the hospital once, I think. Right?"
Jack nodded gravely. "Yes. After it all came down, Mr. Peters went on a drinking binge. He told any and everyone who would listen — and by this time, there weren't many — that my father was a crook and had cheated him out of his business. He blamed my father for everything.
"Then, with the last of his dwindling money, Mr. Peters hired a couple of goons to jump my father and beat him within an inch of his life."
"He did that?" Rachel was horrified. "I remember he was in the hospital, but I was never told why."
"Yes, Pete Peter's dad," Jack told her. "But luckily, they were the best heavies Mr. Peters' money could buy. And he didn't have much money, so the thugs didn't do a very good job. My father didn't press charges, even though he could have very easily. Still, I think it's one of the reasons my parents decided to move to Los Angeles when I got the part on Nutt House. He figured, if you're going to live in a place where you're not safe, where your neighbors will hire people to beat you up or kill you, you might as well live in Los Angeles and at least be able to go to the beach every day."
Rachel laughed. "Your father was pretty cool. I always thought so."
Jack smiled sadly. "Yeah."
* * *
"What's… your… problem?" Todd screamed when he got Van's hand off his mouth.
"Gotcha!" Van giggled like a moron. "If I find some Depends in the house, I'll grab some for ya."
"Why aren't you upstairs?" Todd asked, out of breath and seething with anger. Embarrassment over letting his guard down put him in a sudden bad mood.
"Oh, I kept hearing everyone screaming and having a good time and I thought I'd see if you wanted to bag the operation for now and go through the Haunted Mansion."
"Are you nuts, Robin Hood?" Todd gasped. "We came here to steal from the rich and give to the poor. Which would be us! There isn't even any alcohol, and you call this a party?"
"Yeah, but Todd," whined Van, "the Haunted Mansion sounds so cool. C'mon, we may never get another chance to come back here."
"Right," Todd told him calmly. "Which is why we have to get what we can out of here now, tonight, because when this party's over, I have a feeling we're not exactly going to be on Jack Spyder's short list for invitations."
"We might if we just went out there and joined the party," Van mumbled in response.
Todd had had enough of Van's… wuss-ocity. "Go back upstairs and do the job you're supposed to do."
Van went reluctantly.
For a few minutes, Todd worried that Van had ditched the plan and rejoined the festivities. That would be insubordination, which was not in the Van McBride playbook. Whining definitely was one of Van's more popular plays, but ignoring orders hadn't been, until now.
It was no use checking on him, Todd had finally decided. It would just be more time wasted. If Van had resumed partying, then fine. He wouldn't get any cut of whatever loot Todd carried out of the mansion. And it would be the end of their friendship.
Todd's mood darkened further. In addition to everything else, he realized that he also wanted to rejoin the party.
Todd glanced around the room. It seemed depressingly devoid of anything lootable. The paintings seemed the most valuable, but they were the most difficult pieces to remove from the premises. The books might be valuable especially the old ones with the leather covers. But books were boring, even if they smelled nice. Eventually, they demanded to be read.
And who needs that kind of pressure? Todd asked himself.
Then his eyes traveled to the one object that seemed valuable and eminently stealable. This was a rifle mounted on the wall near the polar bear. According to the inscription, it was the very gun that had brought down the bear. Todd took it down off the wall to examine it. According to what he knew from trips to the firing range with his Uncle Beau, the gun seemed to be in working order. However, it was unloaded.
Placing the rifle on the desktop, Todd searched the drawers for ammunition.
* * *
Slammed to the ground, RePete expected the white boot of the Vegas Elvis to do to his head what the blue suede shoe of the young Elvis had done to his cassette recorder. But once that little piece of spy equipment was destroyed, Ron became almost solicitous.
"Hey, sorry buddy," Ron said, a smile on his face as he helped RePete to his feet. "I'm glad we're finally getting a chance to meet."
"What are you talking about," RePete groaned, his back aching.
"I've been looking for the tabloid mole all night," Ron explained. "Maria gave you away."
RePete groaned again.
"She's been one of my local spies since I arrived. She's got an obvious thing for Jack — wants to help him. She has no idea that she's just introduced me to the perfect accomplice." Re
Pete stared at him in silence. Slowly, it dawned on him that Ron was serious.
"I'll make you a deal," Ron offered. "I'll get you back into the party and help you get the photos you want. Sorry about your tape recorder, but it wouldn't do to have proof of what I was doing floating around. How about this? I'll replace the recorder, repair the broken-off car mirror and pay you a healthy bonus on top of the tabloid pay for a good story. But the story will be the one that I write."
RePete grinned and nodded. They shook hands.
"Wait ten minutes, then come to the kitchen door," Ron instructed. "I'll make sure it's unlocked."
* * *
Ten minutes later, a mummy shambled up to the kitchen entrance of the mansion. Reaching out a bandaged hand, it turned the knob. The door swung open.
He lumbered into the kitchen. His authentic, shambling walk was not due to any disciplined study of mummy movies. The bruise on his back from Ron's sucker punch was making him walk funny. And the way it felt, he'd be walking this way for many days to come.
Maria. Her name was a bitter echo in his head.
Now Jack was no longer the sole target of his wrath. Maria would be next. She would have to pay the price of betrayal. If not for the unfinished business here at the mansion — and the sizable bonus Ron had promised — dealing with her would have been RePete's first choice. But she would get hers soon enough. Right now it was Jack's turn. And eventually, Ron and Vanessa would be undone as well, because Ron had made a couple serious mistakes.
One, the sneak attack had been unnecessary — and unnecessarily rough. Had Ron just confronted him, they could have come to an agreement without any use of force.
And two, Ron had destroyed the recorder, but not the cassette containing him and Vanessa scheming. RePete had changed tapes before donning his costume. The tape in the recorder at the time had been blank, and the incriminating tape was safely locked in the Suburu's glove compartment. And when it came out, that would be the end of Ron's little scheme.
These Hollywood types with their arrogance. They made him sick. Fade to black on Ron, as they said in movie scripts. Fade to black on them all, RePete thought sinisterly.
That's when the kitchen went black — all at once.
Chapter 8
Elvis winked out of existence. At the same moment, the artificial Graceland crowds fell silent. Other voices, however, real voices, were heard mumbling in confusion and amusement at the blackout.
"I was afraid of this," Jack huffed angrily. "I wanted to hire a company that wires big amusement parks, but Ron talked me into going local. Idiot me. I thought helping out local business might be a nice gesture."
"It was," Rachel encouraged him. She felt a bit nervous, but not only because of the darkness. Jack seemed so agitated.
"But they obviously can't handle stuff like this," he said. She couldn't see him, but from the sound of his voice she could tell he was pacing.
"Stand still!" Rachel told him, reaching out a hand. She caught his arm. "And calm down." He stopped, but she could hear his rapid, heavy breathing. "We should get out of here and make sure everyone's all right."
Suddenly, the room fell absolutely silent. If she hadn't been touching him, she would have thought Jack had disappeared. When he finally sighed heavily, Rachel realized that he had caught his breath.
"Right," he said with resignation. "Let's get going before someone gets hurt and sues the hell out of me. That's all I…"
Rachel heard Jack's foot kick something solid. Then there was a large crash as he fell to the ground. The room fell silent again.
"Jack?" she cried, standing still. "Are you all right?"
There was no answer. She started forward again, then stopped herself. If Jack had tripped on something, she might, too. Lowering herself to a crouch, she reached her hands out along the floor in front of her.
"Jack?" she said loudly. Still no answer. And no sound of his breathing, either. "Can you hear me, Jack?"
Just then, Rachel's hand brushed up against some fabric. A cape. She had found Jack's cape. And underneath it, as if covered by a burial shroud, was Jack. Next to him, the floor rose about three inches. Apparently, Jack had tripped there.
His body felt warm. But at first, Rachel couldn't find his heartbeat. Then she realized that his costume was too thick. She found his neck and a pulse, albeit a weak one.
"Jack?" she said gently, once more as she touched his face. The skin was clammy, almost slick with sweat. The slickness continued up to his head. Something was very wrong. But it was too dark to see.
Then she remembered the safety lights of her costume. Finding the switch, she turned them on. In the dim lights, it appeared that someone had poured black paint over Jack's face. Then Rachel noticed the same stuff on her hands. She rubbed two fingers together; it was the same, slick feeling. This was not sweat, nor was it paint, she realized with a surge of panic.
"Jack!" she cried, leaning forward so the light was directly in his face. There, the substance showed the faintest trace of red. Blood. Jack had struck his head and was bleeding. Badly.
Rachel rose quickly.
"Help!" she cried, rushing toward the door. "Jack's hurt. Somebody help!"
Then her foot caught on Jack's splayed leg and she went down herself, screaming.
* * *
Ron Marchant started for the basement steps. He had stayed down there too long. Time to start helping people out of the house.
As much as he didn't want to.
It was important that he be witnessed assisting others. That way, in case of any other casualties — Oh, and there will be other casualties, he told himself — he would avoid blame. He clicked on the flashlight he had hidden next to the circuit breakers. It illuminated the stairs that led to the kitchen above.
Hot properties, these flashlights, he said to himself. Out loud, he whispered in a little singsong, "The party's over!"
"Yes it is," snarled an unexpected voice coming down the stairs.
Ron was just able to shine the flashlight on the figure when it was knocked from his hand. He caught a glimpse of bandages — and a knife.
* * *
Damn! Damn! Damn! Todd thought. The party's over. And I didn't find a damn cool thing.
'Cept this gun, of course.
He sighed. There was no use in searching through the dark. No doubt everybody would be leaving the party now. So he and Van had to make their move immediately. It wouldn't do to be stuck in this place after hours.
Todd just hoped that Van had the sense to get out while the getting was good. An early end to the party had not been among their contingencies.
Looking out the window, Todd could see a steady stream of guests heading for their cars. He noticed how the power outage seemed confined to the house. Ol' Jacko's finally blown a fuse then, he mused. This caused Todd to smile, despite his disappointment in the paucity of the night's take.
If I could get away with carting off that polar bear, I'd do it, he thought. Enough light came in from outside to make the polar bear appear to glow. He raised the rifle and sighted the bear.
"Pow!" he said pretending to squeeze the trigger. "Right between the eyes."
Then the door to the study creaked open again. This time, Todd did not spin around frantically. Instead, he ignored it, and pretended to shoot the bear one more time.
I know you're there, Van, old buddy old pal, he thought. You're not gonna catch me again. Maybe this time, I have a scare for you.
He could feel the presence in the room. No doubt Van was lurking, probably only a few steps behind Todd. A good magician only does a trick once, Todd's father used to say. But Van wasn't a good magician, or mathematician, or any kind of — tician. He was only a sort of idiot-savant burglar.
"Ha!" Todd yelled, and spun around, the gun at ready. He pulled the trigger, but since it was unloaded there was only a click. Even that would have been enough to unloose the most watertight of bladders.
Had anyone been in the rifle's sights.
<
br /> Van was not there. The room was empty. Todd had just psyched himself out. Feeling foolish, he turned back to the polar bear.
"Don't tell anyone," he confided, "but it appears I'm a wuss."
Amazingly, the bear seemed to nod in agreement.
"What the…?" he said, approaching the polar bear. Looking up, he saw the bear continuing to nod. Then he realized, it wasn't nodding at all, but rocking. Back and forth. Then the rocking movement became more pronounced. Todd tried to peer around the bear, but its bulk obscured whoever was behind it.
Because certainly someone must be behind the bear. How could it move otherwise?
"Van, quit it, you moron!" He moved closer despite the now-violent rocking. "You're gonna knock that thing over." No answer. "And in case you're wondering, I'm not a wuss… you wuss."
Todd looked down between the legs of the bear. As he did, the bear, with the groan of a redwood being felled, toppled forward. Todd looked up just in time to see the toothy mouth of a twelve-foot polar bear zooming in on his face.
He knew he should have jumped aside, but his instinct was to flee. He turned tail and ran like a scared rabbit.
Or at least, he meant to run. But his feet got caught up in the molasses of his own panic, and the bear slammed down mightily on top of him. As Todd hit the ground, the bear's teeth dug into the back of his neck, and the claws ripped through his arms, staking them to the ground.
As the life drained from him, Todd remembered a childhood conversation he'd shared with his father.
"You mean there's no Santa Claus?" little Todd had asked, after his crying had subsided. "What happened to him?"
"The polar bears got 'im," his father had said gruffly. "And ate the elves like they was popcorn."
* * *
Rachel carefully edged her way out of the guillotine room. When she had tripped over Jack, she had come only inches from braining herself on the door. So she steadied her breathing, stood carefully, and shifted herself into slow motion. Jack was hurt. But it wouldn't help him if she went too fast and incapacitated herself in the process.
Freddy Krueger's Tales of Terror #6: Deadly Disguise Page 5
