Dastardly Bastard(3)

“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.