Dastardly Bastard(66)

“So what are we going to do for our honeymoon?” he asked.

“One thing’s for sure.” Justine slugged his arm playfully. “No camping and no tours. Deal?”

Trevor rubbed his shoulder and smiled. “Deal.”





53


“ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT to go ahead?” Lars Stillstead puffed his cheeks out, exhaling hard.

“Would you rather Jeff get rich off this?” Donald asked.

“You’re a better man than me, Don… oh, sorry, Donald. Gotta remember you don’t like being called Don. It’s gonna take me some time to—”

“It’s okay. You can call me Squirt, for all I care.”

“Really?” The shock in Lars’s eyes made Donald chuckle. “What happened to you? You actually look… happy.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

“You’re not going to start writing chick lit now, are you?”

That one slayed Donald. He patted Lars on the back. “Highly unlikely, old man.”

“Thank God. I can’t stand that fu—”

“Mister Adams?” A young man with a headset broke in and waved at Donald. “They’re ready for you.”

“Thanks.” Donald turned back to Lars. “Wish me luck.”

“You’re going to need it.”

Donald walked out of the wings and crossed the stage with proud steps. The guy with the headset lowered the microphone to his level, but Donald still had to adjust it. He gazed out over the crowd in the conference room.

Newsweek had shown up, so had The New Yorker and The Times. Even journalists—if you could call them that—from the trash mags were present and accounted for. The crowd seethed, a living mass. He didn’t care.

Straightening his shoulders, he leaned into the microphone. “Hello, everybody. My name is Donald Adams. I have been writing under the penname H.R. Chatmon for the past ten years. I am here to answer all questions you might have about that.”

The mass erupted in shouted voices and raised hands. Up and over the crowd, Donald found a center of interest on the back wall. She stood, hands clasped in front of her, the overhead lights making her eyes twinkle, a broad smile about her face.

You good man, Donald Adams.

I know that, Donald returned. Now.

She began to fade, until finally, Donald could no longer see her. Sunne was gone. But not forgotten.

“Yes.” Donald pointed at one of the anxious reporters in the front row. “You first.”





54


MARK SIMMONS QUIT HIS JOB. The look on Willy Montgomery’s face was thoroughly worth it. Mark’s nemesis, Julia, had decided to sue the company for sexual harassment, and the newspaper was going to take a serious hit. Mark had always known not to shit where he ate. Willy had not taken that into consideration. Julia looked to ruin everything, and for the first time ever, Mark hoped the bitch succeeded.

He sat in that same plastic seat at the airport, mulling over his plans. The USO had taken him on as a publicity photographer. He would spend the rest of his career helping an organization that gave back to the troops. The idea put a warm spot in the middle of his chest.

Annabelle was a distant memory, but he thought about her from time to time, not the version missing half her skull, but the pretty one who had helped him find reality back in that house. She would stay with him forever. One of the good ones.

Mark pulled his carryon into his lap. He had an entire hour to kill before boarding. Unzipping his bag, Mark grabbed the book from under his pile of snacks and toiletries.

The cover had a bloody laptop on it. Above the computer, in bold italic horror script, was the title, eMurder. The author’s name was listed as H.R. Chatmon. The flyleaf description made it sound like a hell of a good story. Mark had never really cared too much for horror, but he figured nothing could be more terrifying than what he’d lived through back at the chasm. Plus, it had been on sale at the gift shop, so he figured he would give a new author a chance.

He flipped to the first page and was about to turn to the first chapter, but the dedication stopped him.

For Sunne. Gone but not forgotten.

“You little sonuvabitch.”

Mark Simmons laughed, probably too hard, but he didn’t care.

He began to read.



THE END