Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee (10 page)

Westmore sat stunned, by the combination of the horrid
imagery and her sudden shift to slutty anatomical nouns.
He couldn't respond for several moments but the obvious
occurred to him rather quickly. "How did you know that?"
he asked very slowly.

"I was the one who discovered the bodies," Karen said.
She didn't flinch at the acknowledgment. "I drove into
work the next morning, like I always do. Right after sunup. I walk into the house, and there it was. Everyone dead, everyone butchered. There was blood everywhere, and it
was still wet."

Westmore's mind reeled. Hildreth turned the place into a
slaughter house, and I'm supposed to find out everything that happened that night. Kind of like being sent into a death camp
after all the prisoners had been incinerated. All of a sudden
this dream job was losing its luster, even in spite of the
money.

Silence. It was awkward, there in the dark bar, and all this
looming ahead of him. The barkeep stood at the other end,
talking to the oyster man. Westmore felt isolated from
everything, as though the few people around him existed in
a different plane of existence, and he was somewhere else
looking in. His eyes fell on the full glass of scotch-his
crystal ball-and in that gold-tinted ice he saw something
chaotic yet undefinable.

He shivered when Karen's hand touched his thigh. Her
fingers squeezed, then slid an inch toward his crotch.

"What are you-"

Her drunken gaze looked faraway yet very focused, burning. Of course she's drunk, he rationalized. Of Course she's
gonna be half out of her mind for a u+lhik. She's the one who discovered the bodies ...

"What's wrong?" she asked.

He was going to grab her hand, urge it away. He felt embarrassed, on edge ...

"Don't worry, no one can see." Fingers worked higher
on the inside of his thigh. Then she said, "Look."

Westmore looked down. She'd hitched the black skirt up,
parted her own thighs more. No panties down there.

Fantastic. A drunken nympho.

"Let me drive you home now. We'll do it at your place."

Finally words ground out of Westmore's mouth. "This is
crazy. What are you doing?"

"I'm coming on to you. This is Florida, remember? All
men are cockhounds, all women are sluts."

"I don't ever remember seeing that endorsement at the
Florida Department of Tourism." Again, his thoughts told
him to push her hand away but instead, he just sat there.
Now she was openly caressing his crotch. Westmore's gut
squirmed in a mad arousal.

"What's the matter? This defies your sense of morality?"
she joked, her voice a lulling whisper. "You've never picked
up a woman in a bar and fucked her?"

"Plenty of times, and it's always a mistake." Still embarrassed, he glanced over and saw the barkeep and oyster
shucker still too far away to see or hear.

"Let me blow you in the car ... "

Common sense propped up as fast as his erection. He
grabbed her hand, placed it on her own thigh, then hitched
the hem of her skirt down.

"We both work for the same person-"

"Moral turpitude?" she slurred a laugh.

"Yeah." He left money on the bar and rose, grabbed the
small attache case she'd brought. "I have some research to
do tonight."

"Of course. The dutiful reporter."

"And I'll grab the bus back. You're too drunk to drive
me or yourself anywhere." He pulled out his cell phone.
"Let me call you a cab."

"Not necessary." She looked idly at her drink, which was
almost done. "I'm staying in Vivica's guest room tonight.
I'll pick you up tomorrow and take you to the mansion."

"Great." The wake of the uncomfortable situation left
his words stilted, phony. He just wanted to get out. "See ya tomorrow," and then he shook her hand quickly and
walked out.

Unbelievable, he thought. I'm flypaper for whackos.

A gust of relief when he looked at his watch: the trolley
home only came once an hour down here but he'd only
have a five-minute wait. The city was cooling down as the
sun sunk. Very few cars could be seen. The streets seemed
pin-drop quiet.

The scene with Karen bothered him; in his drinking
days, he'd have been all over it. But all he was left with now
was the numb arousal and a primal regret. Bar pick-ups
weren't his style anymore; it seemed vapid, juvenile.

"Somebody else is gonna fuck her," a voice rattled.

It was the bum, still essentially collapsed in place by the
bus-stop garbage can.

"You a faggot or something? That bitch is a hot number.
You should'a seen her in the movies."

"How do you know she was in movies?" Westmore
blurted in irritation. Out here, the man couldn't possibly
have heard their conversation at the bar.

"I know lots of shit, man" His face was a shadow, below
the level of Westmore's waist. "Someone tells me things
sometimes."

"Yeah? Who?"

..Your father."

Westmore squeezed his eyes shut for a moment. "My father's dead."

"I know"

Sure you do. "I'm surprised my mother didn't tell youshe's dead too."

The bum paused. "I didn't know that."

Westmore let it pass. His mother was alive and well and
living in San Angelo, Texas. "Look, man. I know you need help. I'd be happy to call the county and find out where the
nearest shelter is."

"Fuck that. Gimme more money. You've got a shitload
on you."

The homeless crazies always seemed to pick Westmore
out-they always had. But there was nothing he could do
for this one. The downtown trolley squeaked up, its doors
flipping open. When Westmore stepped aboard, the bum
kept croaking, "Hey! Hey!" but it sounded more like a dog
barking.

Westmore got on and paid. The bum kept yelling.

"More and more of these crazy guys keep landing here,"
the driver said. "Each year there's more."

"Mmm," Westmore murmured. Now the bum was practically hysterical. "Can't even understand the poor guy."

"You're going to a house?"

Westmore stalled in the aisle, turned. "What?"

The driver was pulling away. "That crazy. He was yelling
`Have fun at the house."'

Westmore sat down, feeling sidetracked and ill. He
glanced back through the window, stared, and blinked.

In the shadow, the bum didn't appear to be the bum anymore. The face within the hood seemed highly angled--a
wedge-with a hole for a nose and teeth gleaming through
a lipless mouth. Darkness blacker than the shadow radiated
in eyes like knife-slits in meat. The arms rose, a taloned finger pointing back at Westmore as the bus rumbled away.

"Father Nyvysk?"

"Just ... Nyvysk," Nyvysk corrected.

"Oh, right. Thanks for coming. Most of the others are
already here.'

Nyvysk knew most of them, except for this much
younger man who'd shown him in.

"I'm Mack Colmes," came an enthused introduction.
"I'll be taking you to the South Atrium now. The mansion
is big, and confusing at first. But you'll get the hang of it.
I'll bet this whole thing turns out to be a blast."

A youngster, Nyvysk thought at once. Fire in the eyes. He
thinks this is afield trip. "You're a psychic?" he asked but seriously doubted it.

"No, sir. I'm just the security guy. I'll be staying at the
house with you guys, just to check the grounds, the alarm, stuff like that. I work for Vivica. The psychic stuff-that's
your turf." Short-haired, muscular, a fast bounce in his step.
The FLORIDA STATE muscle shirt, knee-length shorts,
and expensive sneakers with no socks made him look like a
typical spring-breaker. "You've got your equipment outside, right?"

"In the van, yes."

"And there's another truck coming?"

"Yes, hopefully within the hour. Bunks, partitions, supplies. I ordered it all with Mrs. Hildreth's permission, on
her account."

Mack nodded. "Yeah, Vivica said that you'd kind of been
appointed as the boss of the operation."

"Not the boss, the coordinator," Nyvysk corrected. He'd
been on jaunts like this before, and without someone supervising domestically, bedlam soon ensued. Especially with this
group, he realized. The craziest of the bunch, at least in this
country.

The inside of the mansion stunned him more than the
exorbitant exterior. Trimmings of a thousand-square-foot
black-marble foyer made him feel as though he'd just
stepped into a cross between a museum, art gallery, and antique exhibition. Handsewn Tablez throw rugs with Byzan-
tinesque patterns lay arranged around the foyer's perimeter,
while a dozen foot-tall granite statues stood in the center.
Nyvysk-a historian-didn't recognize the brooding, longcoated figure. "Who's the sculpture? Klinnrath?"

"Oh, I don't know," Mack answered. "I'm not into it."

• "It's Edward Kelly," a voice informed him from the short
banistered galleria overlooking them a story up. "Dr. John
Dee's apprentice in alchemy and sorcerial science."

"Willis," Nyvysk greeted when he raised his eyes. He
knew the tactionist from a previous outing and some docu mentary shows. The man was as real as they came-too
real, actually. Nyvysk was surprised Willis hadn't committed
suicide by now. "How have you been?"

"Lousy, until I got this invitation."

"It should be an interesting junket, or we can at least
hope so."

Willis' appearance had worsened since their last meeting- a secret appreciation of Nyvysk's-handsome but
haggard, older than his years, a man who'd seen too much
from the inside out. Yet he smiled down genuinely in spite
of the psychical corrosion that his talents had exacted on
him. He pointed to the statue. "If you're interested, Hildreth's main library has some Dee translations-originalsand some letters from Kelly."

"You're joking:'

"Nope. There's nothing fake in this house," and then
Willis glanced to Mack. "Right, Mack."

The young security man frowned, which Nyvysk found
interesting. The two couldn't possibly know each other.

"Yeah, that's right," Mack snapped back.

"We're down here," Willis redirected his attention to
Nyvysk. "Come on in."

Willis disappeared through an inlaid walnut door.

"I don't know where you want all your gear set up, but
let me know and I'll get it moved in," Mack offered.

"Thank you. I'm too old to do much lugging." Nyvysk
paused a moment. "You seem to be acquainted with Willis."

"Don't know him," Mack said, then walked on. "Follow me."

Before Nyvysk could speculate further, his curiosity was
hijacked by more of the mansion's nearly sinister splendor. Great arched doorways with wood-carven faces peered
down from each point. Most doorway transoms sported a small brass plaque: THE CAGLIOSTRO PARLOR, THE
BONNEVAULT SITTING ROOM, THE BRUHESSEN
HALL, each room named for some wizard, astrologer, or
metaphysical scientist. Rich veneered wood paneled most
rooms; a variety of dark imported carpets changed the tone
of each area they passed through: a vast dining room, some
sitting rooms, a smoking parlor, and then a brightly lit
morning room whose exterior wall was all bizarrely etched
with lead-seamed glass, some panes with tiny octagon inlays
of vermillion or amaranth crystal. Sideboards, armoires,
and ball-footed drop-leaf tables lined more walls, over
which hung dark oil paintings of solemn, intent faces,
centuries-old portraitures of the most famous, and infamous, figures of paranormal and occult arts. Obscure crystals looked back at him like unblinking eyes from
high-mounted trivets and gem-mounts: the rare ones such
as amethyst, white-lapis, Anpiel Stone. Ornately framed
mirrors, some occupying whole sections of wallspace, hung
in abundance, too, and more, smaller oculi and lunette windows shot narrow lengths of sunlight across walking areas,
an interesting effect. But even the well-windowed rooms
held on to spots and corners of murk that shouldn't be
there, as if refusing to release that darkness that this house
must be so used to.

Next, a long windowless hall-THE BUGUET WALK,
named for the French spirit photographer-and Nyvysk
was starting to get queasy from all the plush decor, like after
eating too much of a fine, rich dinner. More portraits, gemlike knickknacks, granite busts and sculpture-and expensive antiques. The walls of this corridor were covered in
leather and onyx-button studs.

The next inlaid door had no title, just SOUTH
ATRIUM. When Mack went to reach for the iron latch hasp knob, Nyvysk asked, "What's that?" and pointed to a
covered wood panel at the door's side.

Mack slid it open, revealing a small screen and some pushbuttons. "Videocom. They're all over the place. You'll need
to know how it works so I might as well show you now"

Nyvysk watched.

"East, north, south, west, in that order," the young man
said, and hit the #3 button. "Three is south and we're in the
south wing of the house. And because we're on the first
level ... ," he pushed #1. The small LCD screen lit up.
"Now, listen." He pushed another button which read
TRANSCEIVE and held it down. "There's microphones
in every room, and video cameras too."

"It seems excessive for inside. I take it Mr. Hildreth was
very security conscious ... or very paranoid."

"No, but he was a pervert and a voyeur," Mack responded without pause. "He liked to hear what people were
saying when they were f-" Mack's eyes stole a glance to
Nyvysk's cross. "Sorry, I keep forgeting you're a priest-"

"No, not anymore. Just a writer and researcher."

The security man seemed confused. "But anyway ...
Mr. Hildreth liked to listen to people when they wereyou know"

"Of course."

"And he liked to watch."

Nyvysk wasn't surprised, based on the little he'd learned
so far of the billionaire. "Well, I just hope that the bathrooms aren't similarly equipped," he joked.

"Actually, they are, but they're not accessible from the
door units, just the communications room, which I'll show
you later."