Tymber Dalton (21 page)

POISONIN’ WHORE!

He clamped a hand to his head and stopped halfway up the stairs. That voice again. The same one he heard the other night.

The one from his dreams.

His side hurt. Probably from sitting too long in one position and then climbing stairs. He should have let Sami make him a bed on the couch again tonight.

Too late now. He’d be lucky if she even spoke to him.

Maybe he should tell Dr. Raymond about the voice, but he’d probably recommend locking him up in a psych ward for a few weeks. Maybe he should try writing it down. That might help him make sense of it. Hell, maybe it would make a good scene for his next book.

He fell into bed and was asleep minutes later.

* * * *

Sami felt far too angry to go upstairs to bed. She snagged a glass of iced tea from the kitchen and returned to the basement. There were several dozen boxes of who knew what to sort through, and then there were the books. There were quite a few tomes from the early part of the century—classics like
Moby Dick
and
Tom Sawyer
. Old Dick and Jane books. A few math and reading primers.

The esoteric books caught her eye. Books about the Golden Dawn, Masonry, even black magic. A few dozen books of that kind.

The Nancy Drew and Hardy Boys books brought back childhood memories. The Bibles ranged in age from 1891, most likely left by the Simpsons, to 1975.

Who would go off and leave all this? And why didn’t later residents clear it out?

It was after midnight when she finally went upstairs. Steve was asleep. She quietly changed clothes and took her pillows and a blanket to the couch. She didn’t want to be in the same house with him, much less the same floor.

With the TV barely loud enough to hear, she curled up and fell asleep with Scooby-Doo distracting her.

She awoke before dawn and changed clothes. Coffee in hand, she walked out to the barn. It wasn’t quite false dawn yet, and the moon had already dropped beyond the trees. Unnaturally quiet for that time of day. She caught Jeff and hooked his halter to the crossties. Mutt reached over the corral fence to get his head scratched. “You’ll get your turn, too, greedy. Don’t worry.”

Suddenly, both horses stood at attention, their focus on the west pasture fence. Jeff, with his halter tethered, swung his hind end around, nearly stepping on Sami in his attempts to see.

Mutt let out a loud, frightened whinny and pawed the ground, crowding close to the fence by the barn.

“What is it?” A chilly wave enveloped her despite the morning’s warmth. There was something out there.

Then she heard it—leaves rustling, slow, steady footsteps, something moving through the brush.

Something large.

Looking around for a weapon, she grabbed the pitchfork from the hook on the wall. Mutt backed closer to the barn, and Jeff let out an anxious whinny.

“Who’s out there? Show yourself!”

The noise stopped for a moment, then started again.

Coming closer.

Never before had Sami wished she had a gun. In that moment, she realized why people carried them.

“Who’s out there? I’m warning you, if you don’t show yourself, I’m calling the police!” She calculated the distance from the barn to the house. They would have to climb through the barbed wire fence first to get to her. She could make it. She didn’t have the car keys with her or she’d lock herself in the truck.

The noise drew closer. A palmetto bush on the edge of the clearing rustled. The white-tailed doe had twin fawns with her.

Sami laughed, and while the geldings watched, her laughter turned to tears as she let out her stress and anxiety, leaning against Jeff’s rump.

“What’s going on?”

She screamed. Whirling around, she nearly impaled Steve with the pitchfork.

He threw up his hands defensively, dropping his full coffee mug. It shattered on the concrete floor.

“Jesus Christ, Steve!” she screamed. “I could have killed you!”

And this was why she didn’t need a gun.

Or, maybe it’s why she did.

He slowly reached out and carefully pushed the tines aside and took the pitchfork from her trembling hands. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to scare you.”

That’s when she collapsed, sobbing, first pulling away from him, then letting him hold her until she calmed down and finally relaxed, sniffling against his shoulder.

She turned Jeff loose and helped Steve pick up the shards of his shattered mug. Daylight made its way to their property as they walked silently back to the house. Her nerves were shot.

He tried to make small talk and she kept her answers short, trying to avoid him. He wanted to talk. The more he tried to draw her out of her protective shell, the more she withdrew.

He couldn’t blame her.

“I’ll be in my office.” Retreating with a fresh cup of coffee, he closed the door behind him.

It was a relief when he left. She ran a sink full of hot water and washed the dishes. The doe and fawns still grazed in the pasture while Mutt and Jeff warily eyed them.

Twenty minutes later she heard a loud crash and Steve swearing in his office.

“Oh, criminy, what now?” She shut off the water and wiped her hands. She found Steve on his knees on the floor by his desk, his head in his hands.

“Are you okay?” She knelt beside him.

He didn’t respond at first. She was about to go for the phone when he finally gasped and reached for the edge of the desk. “I’m—I’m okay. I had a…”

* * * *

A
what
? Blackout? Psychotic episode?
It reminded him of his early drinking days, except with a difference.

Then, there weren’t voices in his head screaming obscenities and other horrible things.

“Why don’t I call Dr. Smith?” Sami suggested.

“No, I’m okay,” he lied. “I think I pulled a stitch or something.” He sat in his chair and lifted his shirt. The incision looked okay. No blood around the bandage. “I’ll be okay.” He forced a smile.

“You were holding your head.”

“The drawer was open. I cracked my skull on it when I sat up.” That was, at least, a partial truth. He hated lying to her, but the truth would only scare her.

It scared
him
.

He didn’t know how he got on the floor. Or why his mouth tasted so foul.

“I’m okay.” He smiled again, doing a little better that time.

She studied him. “Do you want me to make you something to eat, or will you bite my head off for asking?”

“Yes, please. I mean, please make me something. I really appreciate it. Thank you.”

She returned to the kitchen. Steve took a deep breath, holding it and letting it out again. A few minutes later, Sami brought him a bagel and some juice. She left without a speaking a word, closing his office door behind her.

Maybe Matt will know what to do.
Steve looked forward to his friend’s arrival. It would be good for Sami to have someone to lean on.

Steve knew it wasn’t easy on her being alone with him in the middle of nowhere. She was used to being around people, volunteering, being active. He’d encouraged her to go to Tampa to visit friends and family, but she didn’t want to leave him alone without a car that long. Except for her trips to Brooksville and one afternoon when they drove to Tampa for dinner with some of Sami’s cousins, she’d been stuck here with him.

Matt could get a rental and Sami would have her car back. That would allow her the freedom to get out of the house and away from him.

Steve turned his attention to his computer. It was nearly eight and time to get back to work. He reread the last few pages of his last work and let his mind drift.

How long had he known Matt? Since before he met Sami. Matt introduced them at a party. Steve knew he wanted to marry her from the moment they met. He supposed he was lucky Matt didn’t date his clients. Sami and Matt were as close as brother and sister, with so much in common.

Then again, Steve didn’t know much about Matt’s love life. That was one area Matt kept private from everyone, even him.

Matt was his best man at their wedding, and the one who helped Sami with the intervention, worried he would drink himself to death. He’d known Matt since signing on with him at a writer’s conference in college. Had it been that long, nearly twenty years? Good grief.

Steve looked at the screen. He’d blanked out for a moment, long enough for the computer to drop into hibernate mode. He tapped the touchpad to wake the laptop, saved his file, and started a fresh document. He closed his eyes and let his fingers rest on the keyboard, felt for the ridges on the keys under each index finger, then started typing.

A moment later when he opened his eyes, the clock on his desktop read 12:15. That couldn’t be right!

He grabbed his cell from its charger. 12:16.

According to the computer, he was on page one eighty-two, but he’d started with a new, blank document file.

He was a fast typist, but not
that
fast. And he couldn’t remember what he’d written. He’d only closed his eyes for a minute, just to think. He didn’t even remember typing.

Jerking his hands from the keyboard, he looked at the last sentence. It was total garbage. Nonsensical jumbles of letters and numbers.

Tentatively tapping the
PgUp
button, he scrolled through the manuscript. It was mostly garbage until he reached page twenty.

He scrolled to the beginning of the section, everything before it also a jumble of meaningless nothing. As he started reading, his eyes widened in disbelief.

* * * *

Sami didn’t bother telling Steve she was leaving. She needed groceries, and didn’t want to disturb Boy Genius in his lair. Instead of going to the store near the house, she opted for a drive into Brooksville. She wanted to get extra sheets and towels for Matt’s visit, as well as some new pillows for the beds.

Why did
that
thought make her heart skip?

She shook it off. There was too much going on for her to do this to herself. She needed spare sheets and towels and pillows, and knew a little more retail therapy would help her feel less angry at Steve.

After the department store she spent a lot of time at Publix. She liked their meat department, and they had a huge produce section. She stocked up on some of Matt’s favorites and grabbed a four-pack of wine coolers.

Steve Corey be damned, I want one.

She’d wait to drink it until Matt arrived. Then, after Steve went to bed, the two of them could sit in the living room and talk. Matt would help her finish the four-pack.

She’d need alcohol to tell this story.

* * * *

Sami, Matt on the couch drinking wine and laughing. cuddling and kissing. he takes her to bed and makes love to her.

Steve didn’t understand exactly what he was reading, but he knew it came from his own fingers.

matt doesnt want kids so she breaks up with him. still loves him. they are still friends. stupid bitch. poisonous bitch. take her out back to the fire with the kids and get it over with. teach her to poison me. i didnt even cry when i shot them. burned them real good. no one will ever know. say she ran off with the kids.

There was more, but Steve didn’t have the stomach to read it—he barely made the garbage can. On his knees he hugged the cool metal against him, incredibly sick, trying to block out the images flooding his brain—

A dark room, with a rough-hewn table and oil lamp…

A sobbing, petite, auburn-haired woman, tied spread-eagled to a bed, her clothes cut off with a buck knife…

The smoldering bones of the children on the fire…

Steve puked again, crying now. He smelled the sickly sweet smoky aroma, like roasted pork but not quite, tasted the whiskey coming up from his stomach—

Sami and Matt together, before Matt’s hair went gray. Before Steve met Sami…

Matt making love to her…

Steve didn’t know how he knew this. It was like a demented TV in his brain and he couldn’t change the channel.

A young man hanging, swinging from a tree, his black feet covered in gray dust. Under the flour sack, Steve knew his tongue bulged from a slack mouth…

He held on to the garbage can with white knuckles, ready when the next wave hit—

A little girl, crying. “No, Daddy, please…”

Steve screamed and vomited black bile into the trashcan. He didn’t want to see any more. It was like channel surfing from Hell—

Sami and Matt sitting on a couch—the new one in the living room—sipping wine coolers and talking…

Running through the woods, through rain and mud, pushing branches and swatting spider webs out of his way…

The basement again. That smell—that horrible, smoky smell, as if flesh had been cooked…