Lunatic's Game

by Margaret Lashley

  But there was no time to assess my wounds. I pushed myself up and turned around.

  Two glowing red eyes leered at me from the darkness.

  A guttural growl rumbled in the thick air. The creature lunged at me, jaws wide open. Hot spittle splatted against my forehead. I smelled the heat, the foulness of its breath, as a set of long, yellow claws ripped into the side of my head, tearing out my left eye. It fell to the ground and rolled into a divot a few feet away.

  Somehow, my only line of sight was through my detached eye. From its vantage in the dirt, I could make out a hairy, man-like beast in a black fedora. Its claws ripped into my throat. I tried to scream, but my larynx was already shredded. My howl fluttered out like a low, staccato moan.

  The beast looked at me, confused. “Wait a minute.” It stopped, as if a director had yelled, ‘Cut!’, and spoke to my detached eye. “Smelled the heat?”

  I woke with a start, still half-paralyzed with sleep. My heart thumped in my chest like a grounded boat motor. I turned my head a fraction of an inch and yelped in pain. My neck had been wedged against the armrest of the couch, and was now stiff as an Aquanet hairdo. I sat up and rubbed it.

  Thank God. It had all been a dream.

  I heaved a sigh, then hauled myself off the couch to check on Knickerbocker again.

  I un-wedged the chair from the bedroom door and cracked it open for a peek. He was still asleep. After checking on him around midnight, he’d settled down and slept peacefully through the rest of the night.

  Then I saw the fresh blood on his lip. A memory flashed across my mind. I’d thought it’d been another one of my crazy dreams. But maybe not ....

  One of the times I’d changed the washcloth on his forehead, Knickerbocker had grabbed my arm and pulled me to him. He’d kissed me hard on the mouth. The force had reopened his split lip. I’d been caught so off guard that it’d been over with before I could protest.

  Afterward, Knickerbocker had slumped back into a fitful slumber. I’d snuck out of the room and wedged the chair under the doorknob again.

  Had that kiss been a dream? Or was it another one of the odd illusions I’ve been having?

  His bloody lip said otherwise. So did the smear of blood I discovered on my chin when I looked in the bureau mirror. I was washing it away when my phone rang. I ran down the hall to catch it before it woke up Knickerbocker.

  “Hello?” I said breathlessly.

  “You’re still alive. Good!” It was Beth-Ann.

  “Uh ... is there a reason I shouldn’t be? Look, I haven’t had any coffee yet and—”

  “I googled Knickerbocker,” she said. “Obviously, you didn’t.”

  “No. Why would I?”

  “I thought you wanted to be a detective.”

  “Private Investigator,” I said sourly. “And unlike you, I believe in a person’s right to privacy.”

  I didn’t see any reason to mention to Beth-Ann that my cable had been cut off months ago. Or that I had a smartphone that was way smarter than me. I mean, who could see anything on that tiny screen anyway?

  “So I guess you don’t want to hear what I found out, then,” she teased.

  I nearly choked on a wayward yawn. “I didn’t say that.”

  “Get this, Bobbie. There’s no such guy as William Knickerbocker. At least, nobody alive in the US.”

  She suddenly had my full attention. “You’re kidding.”

  “Nope. Just some guy who invented some lightbulb thing back in the Dark Ages. He died, like, a million years ago.”

  Now I understood why Beth-Ann had failed high school history. And math. “You could’ve gotten the spelling wrong,” I said, trying to assuage the niggling sense of unease creeping up my spine.

  “I guess. But I doubt it.”

  “Listen. Thanks for the info, but I gotta go. I need coffee.”

  What I really needed was a weapon, in case Knickerbocker really was a psycho killer from planet Kill’emall.

  “Okay. But be careful, Bobbie.”

  “I will.” I hung up, sprinted out of my grandma’s apartment, and into my own. I got a pot of coffee brewing and called Earl. He answered on the sixth ring.

  “What?” he said grumpily.

  “I was just wondering when you’re coming in.” I didn’t want to tell him I was scared. Vulnerability was a synonym for weakness in our family thesaurus.

  “It’s Sunday, dingdong,” Earl groused. “My day off. Parts won’t be here till tomorrow anyway. What’s your problem?”

  I’ve got a twin-naveled space-alien, psycho-killer hiding out in my grandma’s bed like the big, bad, bald wolf.

  “Nothing, Earl. Have a nice day.”

  I clicked off the phone, made two cups of coffee, then went down to the service bay and retrieved Knickerbocker’s Glock from the RV’s glove compartment.

  It was time for Mr. William Knickerbocker to come clean.

  Chapter Fifteen

  KNICKERBOCKER, IF THAT was his real name, wasn’t in bed when I pried the chair free again and opened the bedroom door. He was in the shower. I could hear the water running, and I could see his black jeans laid out on the bed.

  Right next to his wallet.

  I set the coffee cups on the nightstand and patted my right hip pocket to reassure myself the Glock was still there. Then I did something totally against my nature.

  I rifled through his stuff.

  It didn’t take long. The wallet was nearly empty except for a few credit cards with the name Nick Grayson. Had he stolen another man’s wallet? Inside the billfold were five one-hundred-dollar bills so crisp and new they looked like Monopoly money.

  I unsnapped the flap to a pocket in the wallet. It fell open to reveal a tin-colored badge that could’ve come from a Cracker Jack box. The words Private Investigator ran along the top edge of a circle in the badge’s center. Inside the circle was a strange emblem made of three triangles, like an amped-up Star of David.

  I re-snapped the flap, folded the wallet, and carefully placed it back in the same exact spot by the jeans on the bed.

  When I turned around, a naked man was staring at me.

  “Do you usually rifle through your guests’ belongings?”

  Knickerbocker’s voice was strangely devoid of any distinguishable tone. Or maybe I was too distracted by his nakedness to notice.

  “Who are you?” I demanded.

  “Who are you?” he volleyed.

  Something indiscernible flickered across his green eyes, then they hardened to what appeared to be quiet resolve. He took the towel he was drying his head with and wrapped it high around his waist. I got the feeling he was keener to cover his twin navels than his privates. He glanced to his left, licked his bottom lip, and took a step toward me.

  I lurched backward and fumbled for the Glock in my pocket. I yanked it out and pointed the gun at him. “Tell me who you are. Now.”

  He considered me thoughtfully. “Who do you think I am?”

  “You said you’re William Knickerbocker. But there’s no such person. The name in the wallet says Nick Grayson.”

  “So why are you asking?”

  I wasn’t expecting a smartass rebuttal. “I ... I want to know why you’re using an alias. Are you on the run or something?”

  “Sort of. No. Not really. I only give my real name out on a need-to-know basis. You didn’t need to know. By the way, is that my gun?”

  “Shut up! I’m the one asking the questions!”

  “How am I supposed to answer them if you order me to shut up?”

  I blew out a tight, exasperated breath.

  This was not going to plan.

  “I’m a detective,” I lied. “Working undercover. What are you doing here? What’s with the rubber octopus? And the tentacle marks all over your head?” I thought about asking about his twin navels too, but I was afraid it might land me in one of those, “Now I’ll have to kill you,” kind of scenarios.

  “Hold on,” he said. “Rubber octopus? That’s a n
ew one.”

  “You kept saying it in your sleep. Octopi rubber. Something like that.”

  A glint of recognition flashed across his eyes. “Oh. Oculi rubere. It’s Latin. It means red eyes.”

  I relaxed my grip on the Glock one notch. “Why would you keep saying that?”

  He hesitated for a moment as he studied me. “Uh ... because my eyes were red.”

  I shook my head. “Over an over? I don’t think so. You were delirious. That term means something to you.”

  His face relaxed a notch. “Wait a second ... you took care of me last night, didn’t you.”

  “Yes.”

  He reached a hand toward me. I stiffened my stance and braced the Glock in both hands.

  Knickerbocker stepped back and held up his hands. “Sorry. I just wanted to say thank you.”

  I shifted uncomfortably. “Uh ... you’re welcome.”

  His eyes shifted over toward the nightstand. “You won’t shoot me if I reach for that coffee, will you? It smells great.”

  “No. Go ahead.”

  As he reached for a cup, a warning signal pinged in my brain.

  He could throw hot coffee in my face!

  “Stop!” I shouted. “I need a few answers first.”

  He eyed the coffee longingly, then looked back at me. “Okay, I guess I owe you that. Shoot.” His eyes widened. “I mean—don’t shoot, shoot. Just ask your questions.”

  “So who are you? Knickerbocker or Grayson?”

  “Grayson. Nick Grayson.”

  “How can I be sure?”

  He smiled charmingly. “Why would I lie to you? You’ve already seen my lizard.”

  He winked a green eye at me. I blushed. Then he glanced over at the terrarium. I blushed some more. Was it possible he remembered kissing me last night? Or maybe he didn’t. He had been delirious, after all.

  “May I ask your name?”

  “Bobbie ... I mean Roberta Drex.”

  “Nice to meet—”

  “What do you do for a living, Grayson?”

  He winced. “That’s a bit tricky.”

  I snorted. “You’re a private investigator. Like me.”

  He nodded. “True. I am a P.I. But I’m nothing like you.”

  Jerk!

  “No, you’re not,” I said sourly.

  Grayson grimaced. “I didn’t mean it like that. What I meant was ... I kind of investigate more ... uh ... esoteric things.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “In layman’s terms? The paranormal.”

  “Paranormal?”

  “Yes. Things that can’t be explained by normal, rational, sensible logic are therefore classified as paranormal.”

  “You mean like ghosts and stuff?”

  Grayson smirked ever so slightly. “Yeah. Sure. Ghosts and stuff.”

  “I don’t believe in all that.”

  Grayson smiled. “That’s okay. They still believe in you.”

  I adjusted my stance, a bit angry at being teased. “You’re full of crap, Grayson.”

  “Yes. And so are you, Drex. In fact, the average person walks around with over twenty-five pounds of feces clogging up their colon.”

  I grimaced with disgust. “Why would you know that? Why would you want to know that?”

  Grayson eyed me curiously, as if I were a fun, new toy. “As I said, I have unusual interests.”

  “I think you have a serious head injury.”

  Greyson glanced upward, as if to get a look at the bump on his forehead. “Yeah, that too. Look, I’m sorry if I’ve been a bother. Let me pay you for your troubles, and I’ll be on my way.”

  “I don’t think so.” I gripped the gun tighter. “I think I should call the cops. Or the FBI.”

  “Go ahead. But might I suggest Homeland Security? Be sure to tell them you’re holding a gun on a man for babbling about a rubber octopus. Don’t forget I’ve got a Bigfoot bite, a shaved head, two navels, and I’m traveling in an RV with an accomplice—a lizard named Gizzard. Just don’t be surprised when they haul you away instead of me.”

  He had a point.

  What am I supposed to do now?

  Grayson must have read my expression like an open comic book.

  “Right now, lady, the only person who’d believe your story is me. Listen, you can either let me go or shoot me. But if you choose option B, I would highly recommend taking the safety off my Glock first.”

  I looked down at the gun. Like a viper strike, Grayson snatched it from my hand. As I looked up, I heard a click. I winced, closed my eyes, and waited for the second bullet in less than a week to strike me between the eyes.

  It didn’t come.

  Flinching, I hazarded a peek out of one eye. Grayson was standing less than two feet away from me, holding the butt-end of the Glock toward me. He’d undone the safety and was offering me back the gun. I took it. He didn’t resist.

  “Why did you do that?” I asked, stunned.

  “Because I want you to trust me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because if we can’t trust each other, we can never be friends.”

  I swallowed against the dryness in my throat. “Friends?”

  “I’d hate to part as enemies after you’ve been so kind.”

  I suddenly felt undone with confusion. Was I the bad guy in all of this? My face blushed with heat. Southern guilt could do that to a person. Then I remembered that if he left, he’d take his wallet with him.

  “Parting?” I asked, my voice a notch nicer. “Why do you have to go? I mean, what’s the rush?”

  “It’s not safe to be around me. I try not to put my friends in harm’s way.”

  I looked at him sideways. “That sounds noble and all, but it smells like buffalo chips to me.”

  Grayson looked taken aback. “What do you mean?”

  “Around here, friends stick together through thick and thin.”

  Grayson cocked his head and smiled wistfully. “You have no idea how thin the ice can get when you skate near me.”

  “I was born and raised in Florida,” I quipped. “I don’t know how to ice skate. But I do recognize a cold shoulder when I see one.”

  Grayson laughed. “You’re an interesting woman, Bobbie Drex. If that is your real name.”

  “It is. Believe me. I wish it wasn’t.”

  I nodded toward the nightstand and the two steaming mugs atop it.

  “Now drink your coffee, Nick, before it gets cold.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  I SAT DOWN AT THE ROUND oak dining table where my parents had eaten three square meals a day for the past thirty years. Along the walls, pictures of relatives glared disapprovingly at me as I shared a meager breakfast of toast and coffee with the stranger who’d arrived yesterday in almost as bad a shape as his RV.

  Emboldened by a shot of caffeine, I braved a question I’d been itching to ask Grayson since he’d said the word paranormal. It wasn’t exactly a question I could’ve asked Earl, for cripes’ sake. Or even Beth-Ann. But given my two recent run-ins with otherworldly visions, I was dying for a little perspective from someone who perhaps knew something about the topic.

  “Do you believe in ghosts?” I asked casually as I topped off his cup of coffee.

  “Me?” Grayson’s brow furrowed. “Depends on what you mean by ghosts.”

  “The spirits of dead people.” I sat down and pulled my chair closer to the table. “Do you think they’re real, or simply hallucinations?”

  Grayson shrugged. “What’s the difference?”

  My back stiffened. “Well, one is real and the other’s ....” I trailed off, uncertain how to continue my argument.

  “My point exactly,” Grayson said with a light laugh. “Who could know for sure? Every person’s reality is different, Drex. We believe what we decide to believe, against all known intelligence to the contrary.”

  “What do you mean?” I frowned, unhappy with his answer, and took a giant, ripping bite from my slice of buttered toast.

/>   “Let’s face it. The so-called ‘facts’ are irrelevant to most people. Unless, of course, they happen to support their opinions.”

  “What are you saying? That people are blind to the truth?”

  He slathered butter on his toast. “Well, that depends on what you call truth.”

  I jabbed a knife into a jar of fig preserves. “I think I should warn you. I’m armed and you’re getting on my last nerve.”

  Grayson smiled. “It’s human nature to seek validation, Drex, not invalidation. A person’s point of view, no matter how soundly laid out, is still merely an opinion. It’s not an absolute.”

  My nose crinkled with annoyance and skepticism. “I’m still not following you. Give me an example.”

  “Okay. Let’s see ... how about everything you’ve ever read, said, or witnessed in this lifetime?”

  I nearly spewed my coffee. “What?”

  “Every book ... even history books, science books, the great philosophers ... they’re nothing more than limited interpretations of personal experiences. They’re simply the musings and opinions of the authors.”

  “Huh?”

  “Think about it. How many times has science declared something as absolute fact, then had to retract it? How many times has ‘recorded history’ proven to be nothing more than a self-flattering account from the winning side?”

  My lip jerked upward as if it had been yanked with a fishhook. “Lots of times, I guess.”

  Grayson seemed to take my concession with easy indifference. “Then again, maybe they weren’t wrong after all.”

  “Huh?” My mind screeched like a needle across a record. “If you’re trying to confuse me, Grayson, congratulations. You win.”

  Grayson sighed. “I’m not trying to be ambiguous. It’s just that I believe truth is merely a temporary construct.”

  I blew out a breath. “Okay, if I’m going to wrap my head around this, I’m going to need more coffee. Lots more coffee.” I got up to fetch the pot.

  Grayson drained his cup. “Some philosophers believe that at any given time, we’re only evolved enough as a species to embrace a certain level of social and scientific principle. So we decide what truth is, what reality is, based on a sort of bell curve of the intellectual collective.”