Dastardly Bastard (2 page)

The world went topsy-turvy. Lights flashed in his vision. He could hear the distant ringing of bells.

“Are you all right?” The pregnant woman filled his vision. Her face was a pool of concern.

And intact.

The gory visage was gone. She was just as pretty as she had been when he had first seen her.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Tripped.” He didn’t know what else to say. He might have explained that she’d suddenly turned into a vision from his past, a memory he wanted to forget, but decided against it.

The pregnant woman was a stranger, a person in passing. He had to remember that.

“Am I really that ugly?” Her laughter was small and nervous.

“No. I’m just that clumsy.” He managed to get himself into a sitting position.

One… two… three…

His heart slowed. Much better.

“Can I help you up?”

He just looked at her, wondering if she realized what a stupid offer that was. “I got it.” He rolled onto his side and pushed to his knees. For a second, he was in a very vulnerable position—ass in the air, balls to the wind—then he was up and on his feet.

He finished helping the woman load the van, then waited until she was inside and had started the engine. He felt protective and had no idea why. He assumed it could have been the hallucination, or perhaps the lack of a decent meal had clouded his head.

The van backed out, and the pregnant woman waved.

Blood ran from the hole in her head.

~ * * * ~

Mark squeezed himself into the small car, inching this way and that until he found a semi-comfortable position. Even then, his belly impeded his steering, but there wasn’t much he could do about that. The driver’s seat wouldn’t slide back any more. He’d have to write Hertz a wonderful little email about how pleased he was with their shitty “First come, first serve” policy.

He didn’t want to think about his imaginings. He’d decided it wasn’t a good idea to harp on past events. He had no idea why he should be thinking about her. Annabelle was over three months dead.

His cell phone went off,
Für Elise
on high volume, and he knocked his head on the roof of the sardine can in reaction. Grimacing in the rearview mirror, he pulled the Blackberry from his shirt pocket.

“Hello?”

“Smilin’ Mark Simmons! Welcome back to the States. How’s it feel to be home, buddy?” Willy Montgomery, Mark’s boss, bleated like a sheep on the other end.

“Tight,” Mark said, surveying his cramped confines. He started the car, then tried to start it again because he couldn’t tell if the tiny automobile was running or not after the first go.

“Better than loosey goosey! Eh, partner?” They were not partners, nowhere near it. Willy only acted as if they were when he had a job for Mark to do that he knew Mark wasn’t going to like. “Hope you got some sleep on that flight of yours.”

“Why’s that, Willy?” Mark put the Prius into reverse and began to pull out of the parking space.

“You up for a hike?” Mark could hear Willy trying to cover his amusement, and the full-out rip of laughter from someone else on Willy’s end. A female? He couldn’t be sure.

“What kind of
hike
?”

“Ever heard of Waverly Chasm?”

“Sure. It’s between Chestnut and Bay’s End, a little over four hours from here. A touristy type of place.” Mark felt his stomach drop. “Why?”

“‘Cause you’re doing a report on it this afternoon. Gotcha all set up for it. I’ll send the info to your email.” More laughter in the background.

“I haven’t even showered yet, Willy. Gimme a break.”

“You can shower when you’re dead.”

In the background, Mark heard a woman’s voice say, “It’s
sleep
. You can
sleep
when you’re dead.”

“Willy, who’s there with you? It better not be Julia. Please don’t tell me it’s—”

“Hi, Mark.”

Mark sighed. “Hi, Julia.” His archnemesis, the Joker to his Batman, Julia Pitts was a monster if Mark had ever known one on two feet. “Why am I going to Waverly Chasm, Julia?”

“Because you’ve been demoted, Hoss. You’re now rural press. I got the International stuff covered. Hurry home.”

“Hey, Julia?” Mark straightened the car and threw it into drive.

“Yes, Marky?”

Mark wished he could reach through the phone and rip out her pubic hair just so he could feed it to her to stop that patronizing tone. “How’s it taste?”

“What? Success?”

“No. Willy’s cock.”

2

MARSHA LAKE STIRRED, DREAMS MELTING like butter over a flame. She sat up and brushed sweat-slicked hair from her forehead. The air conditioner hissed, pushing cool air through the vents, but a warmth still enveloped her.

Through the darkness of her bedroom, she could see a single red eye blinking. From her vantage point, she couldn’t tell if the light was coming from the closet or the dresser.

Marsha swung her legs off the side of the bed and stood. Sleep came off of her in waves, making the room tilt. She walked across the room, her toes curling into the cool carpet.

She followed the pulsing red glow to the phone on her dresser. When she picked up the handset, the light died. She placed the cold plastic to the side of her face.

“Hello?”

“You weren’t supposed to answer.” Her son’s voice was soft, but unmistakable.

“Lyle, what are you doing?”

“I turned off the ringer. I didn’t think you would—”

“What time is it?” She rubbed her eye, straining to make sense of why she was on the phone with her son.

“Four thirty.”

“Why’d you turn the ringer off? You know what? Never mind. Go back to sleep. Don’t mess with my phone anymore. What if someone important had called?”

“Sorry.”

Marsha hung up, but didn’t set the phone back on its base. She turned on the lamp at the end of the dresser and waited for her eyes to adjust. Looking over at her disturbed sheets, she saw her body’s imprint on the right and the flat, unused space to the left. Closing her eyes, not wanting to think about it, she fought resurfacing memories still too painful to revisit.

She squeezed the phone tightly, depressed buttons beeping in the process. Before she realized it, she was crying. The phone hit the mattress with a dull
thwump
.

From the corner of her eye, she spotted her son standing in the doorway of her bedroom. Lyle’s frame appeared small under the too-large pajamas. His yellow hair, so much like Paul’s, shined in the light of the lamp. His eyes were bloodshot, set above dark bags that looked deeper in the shadows on his face than they probably were.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wanted to hear his voice. I didn’t mean to upset—”

“Come here.” Marsha’s heart shrank when he didn’t come to her. “Please?”

When he still didn’t move, she went over and wrapped her arms around him. Even though only twelve years old, he already came to her chin.

He kept his arms by his sides.

“You didn’t upset me.” She tousled his hair, letting him step back from her. “I’m still getting used to him not being here, Lyle. Just like you, it’s gonna take some time.”

He nodded and turned to leave.

“You don’t want to talk about it?”

He shrugged, his back to her. “Just wanted to make sure I didn’t piss you off.”

Lyle’s defenses were up. She’d get nothing else out of him. As he moved back down the hall to his room, a soft glow flashed in front of him. He had that cell phone out, playing some game. She didn’t know what to do with him. It had been two months, and nothing had changed.

Marsha wiped the leftover tears from her eyes and closed the door. Figuring her day had started—there was no going back to sleep after that—she decided to get dressed.

On the bed, the phone pulsed red. She had the thought to just let it go to voicemail, just let Lyle listen to his father’s voice play out over the message prompt, but things couldn’t keep going on as they were. She bent over the bed and snatched the handset, pressing TALK as she brought it to her ear.

“Please stop, Lyle.”

“Good morning to you, too, Marsha.”

“Bobbi?” She hadn’t expected to hear her mother-in-law’s throaty voice. “My God, it must be just after…” She quickly calculated the time difference between Ohio and California. “… one in the morning there. Is everything all right?”

“Here? Sure. Not so much where you are, though.”

“What do you mean?”

“Lyle’s been texting me all night. Not that I mind, Marsha, but the boy needs more than I can offer him from the other side of the country.”

“I’m trying, Bobbi.”

“I know you are. When Paul and I lost his father, things seemed to fall apart. My Randy wasn’t much different than Paul. Could say both men were cut from the same cloth.” Bobbi’s voice hitched on the last word. “Now, I have my own hang-ups about my son’s death, so I can’t just tell you to get over it, because I know that’s not entirely possible. But you must remember, you still have Lyle. He needs to be everything right now.”

“He won’t let me in.” Marsha didn’t like the whine in her voice.

“Is there anything you can do to take his mind off things for a while? Go see a movie? Play catch? I know that’s more of a father and son activity, but it’s worth a shot.”

“I can’t get him off that phone long enough to do anything. I want to just throw it away. Make him focus on his feelings. Focus on me. Something.” Marsha opened the top drawer of her dresser for some clean panties, but stopped when she realized she’d opened Paul’s side. His undershirts and boxers stared up at her.

“Throwing his phone away is just going to make him draw away from you even more. You need to keep him active. Paul used to take him hiking, right? What about that?”

“I’m not the nature type, Bobbi.” Marsha brought a T-shirt to her face and smelled it. She felt foolish, like a high school girl snuggling with her steady’s letterman jacket. Plus, the shirt smelled just like her own, of laundry detergent.

“This is not about you.”

“Right.” Marsha laid the shirt back down in the drawer and started sifting through the other garments.

“Is there anything he and Lyle were going to do before… Paul died?”

“He wanted to take Lyle out to that chasm thing down in Pointvilla. I thought it was too dangerous and talked him out of it. Maybe I should have let them go.”

“There you go. Are they open today?”

“I don’t know, Bobbi. Isn’t it just going to be like I’m trying to make up for the fact that Paul isn’t here?”

“Maybe that’s what Lyle needs. Just to know you want to do those same things with him. Think about it, Marsha. I need to get to sleep. Tell Lyle I love him, won’t you?”

“Sure. Good night, Bobbi.”

“Good night.”

“Are we going to go?” Lyle was back in the doorway.

“How long have you…? Never mind.” She offered him a smile, but let it die when she realized he had his face buried in the screen of his cell.

“You actually gonna take me out there?” He lifted his head and met her eyes.

“Do you want me to?”

He shrugged.

“You have to give me a little more than that… Brody.” Marsha wasn’t too fond of her son’s middle name, but Paul had chosen it, and while alive, had called Lyle by the moniker more often than not. Calling her son Brody was a last ditch effort at getting his attention.

It seemed to have worked.

The corner of Lyle’s mouth lifted into an almost smile. “Sure. Let’s go.”

“You going to leave that here?” She pointed at the phone.

“Yeah, right.” He actually laughed. She couldn’t remember the last time she’d heard his laughter.

3

DONALD ADAMS WOKE UP THAT morning just a little bit taller. His newest book,
eMurder
, had been announced as number one on the New York Times Best Seller List. The hotel room was colder than he would have liked, so his first order of business after checking his email was to adjust the thermostat.

It was almost seven o’clock in the morning, an hour later than his normal waking time. He’d set the alarm so he could catch the announcement about
eMurder
the minute the news dropped. Rumors had him at number one, but he wanted to make sure. Wondering why the alarm hadn’t gone off, he checked the settings on the clock. He’d set it for p.m., not a.m.. Honest mistake, but he wondered why his internal clock had let him sleep in. If nothing else, he would doze until a quarter past six. Never an entire hour over.

To the literary world, Donald Adams was H.R. Chatmon. His alter ego was a five-foot-nine model named Jeff Carter. Donald used Jeff for all publicity photos and book signings. Jeff’s pockets were amply lined for his services and appearances by Scribner, Donald’s publisher.

The decision to use Jeff had been Donald’s, not Scribner’s. Donald was three-foot-nine with dwarfish features—over-large forehead, stubby arms and legs—and he felt a taller, more attractive man would sell more books. Other little people would definitely take offense at Donald’s decision, but he couldn’t have cared less. He didn’t want to be known as the first dwarf to have made it to the bestseller list, because in the end, that’s all anyone would see. Most would even attribute his stature to the reason he was selling so many books. He would be the literary equivalent of a sympathy-fuck.

Donald had heard through the grapevine that Stephen King had published as Richard Bachman for an experiment. Could King publish under another name and receive the same success he’d enjoyed with
Carrie
? The prolific author had, and Donald envied the man that. One day, somewhere over the horizon, Donald would let the world in on his little secret and watch his own sales spike. For the moment, he would remain H.R. Chatmon, the five-nine, sexy version of himself. Thanks to Jeff.

His morning shower was hot, relaxing. Donald could hear his cell vibrating on the tile counter over the thrumming of water in his ears, but tried to ignore it. No doubt, it was Lars Stillstead, his agent, wanting to let him know the glorious information he’d received in his email.