Flesh Gothic by Edward Lee (15 page)

The third floor seemed darker and more cramped, less space in the hallway. Darker portraits of obscure men and
women glowered from meticulous frames. Tasseled drapes
adorned narrow stained-glass windows that allowed very
little light to pass. The atmosphere, which Westmore at first
found interesting in its novelty, now aggravated him.

"Mr. Westmore. Come in here a moment. You might
want to see this."

Westmore hadn't even noticed Nyvysk in the corridor's
dimness. From that distance he looked like a tall, shaggy
shadow, and as a silhouette from the stained-glass at the end
of the hall, he looked momentarily menacing. Westmore followed him into a room blossoming in white fluorescent light.

"Man, this is some shift away from the Gothic," he said.

"Yes, clashes with everything else, but perhaps that's a
sign of more of Hildreth's falsehood; he kept his materialisms secret."

The room was full of computers and monitors, and all
manner of audio-visual equipment. A central console allowed one to observe multiple camera displays, plus audio
transmissions from the intercom. But the small room was
made more cramped by a flank of packing boxes stacked
behind them. "What's all that?" Westmore asked.

"That's my equipment," Nyvysk explained. "From a
technical standpoint, this mansion is a dream; every room is
wired for camera and audio. All of my detection devices can
be piggybacked into any room I want, through the wiring
that already exists. And the digital camera system is ideal; I
can connect some of my sensors to them from this central
location."

Westmore was already confused. "Sensors? Detection
equipment? To detect what? You're going to try to take pictures of ghosts?"

"I'm going to try to make photographic and audio read ings of various atmospheric signatures of presences that may
be thought of as ghosts."

Westmore frowned. "Like what? Temperature?"

"Drastic fluctuations of temperature, yes, barometric discrepancies, gauss readings for divergences in trace radiation
levels and electromagnetic field configurations, ion-field
conversity. One of the simplest detection measures is one of
the most useful: electronic-voice phenomena. I'll be able to
monitor most of these things from this room. I'll be able to
pinpoint times and locations of high activity, even when I'm
not here." Then he pointed to a rank of digital recorders.

"Oh," Westmore said. Everything he'd been told was almost instantly over his journalist- and English-major head.
"When are you going to start taking readings?"

"I already have."

I can't wait to see what happens here, Westmore thought.
"Knock yourself out. I'm gonna go find a place where I can
write."

"See you at dinner," Nyvysk said, busy reaching into a
panel access with a screwdriver.

Westmore left, confounded as ever, and getting used to
that state of mind. Back in the dark hall he checked more
ornate doors only to find that most of them weren't to bedrooms or parlors but to offices, supply rooms, and utility
rooms. Westmore guessed that these served as T&T's administrative facilities. A larger door was more declarative; STUDIO A, its plaque read. The walls must've been knocked out
of the rest of the rooms on the floor from this point on.
Several sets could be seen, with various fake backdrops; another set was a bedroom, another a living room, all equipped
with lights. Oh, Christ, he thought when further back he
discovered a padded GYN table on which rested a sceneclapper that read GABRIELLE'S GONZO GANGBANG (SCENE IV, DAY TWO). I guess that one wasn't a print, Westmore concluded. She got butchered before she could make it to
Day Three. Supply shelves housed dozens of different types
of vibrators and other sexual aides, rubber phalluses that
looked distressingly real, and bottles of lubricant. Westmore's
nose crinkled; the place stank. "I don't think I'll be using
this smut-hole for a workroom," he muttered and left. He
felt dirty just being there ... and knowing what the room's
original purpose had been. Maybe he'd go back to the big
library downstairs, even though he didn't like the idea of being in such close proximity to the others-and he didn't
want them snooping either. He sighed with relief, though,
when he opened the last door on the wing and found a plush
office with a big teak desk, a quality leather armchair, and
french doors leading to a sunny veranda. This narks ...

He set his laptop up on the desk, adjusted the light, absorbed the creative atmosphere, finding it acceptable. He
turned the computer on and started a new file entitled
VIVICA HILDRETH JOB, and when he was ready to
start, he did what most writers do on the first day of a writing job: he turned the computer off and decided not to
write. IT start tomorrow, he decided and got up to look
around. He went out of the veranda and smoked a solitary
cigarette, enjoying the sunlit view of the woodline and the
estate's west end. At a great distance he thought he saw a
woman coming out of the woods, staggering a bit. Maybe
that's the other woman, but he couldn't remember what
Nyvysk had said her name was. He squinted until she disappeared and decided that she was indeed staggering, as if
fatigued.

Back in. the office, he browsed around more. He didn't
need to mind his own business now; Hildreth was dead and
so was his company and his employees. He looked through some file cabinets, eyed tax records and supply invoices.
Nothing of much interest there, but maybe later a closer
look at the books would produce some information Vivica
might find useful. He had to keep reminding himself that
he was working for her and not necessarily with the others.
I guess I'm her paid spy ...

A little framed picture on the desk displayed a picture of
Karen and Hildreth, both smiling at the mansion's entrance
pillars. I guess this used to be Karen's office, he reasoned. He
looked in the desk drawers and found them relatively uncluttered, but in a multidrawered Windsor highboy he
found stacks and stacks of adult DVD's, all T&T productions, and only then, on the desk blotter, did he notice yet
another DVD--classily entitled GOO-GUZZLING GOGO GIRLS-that Karen had used as a coffee coaster. Now
that's what I call respect for the company's product.

He opened a plain door next to the highboy, expecting a
closet, but found another, even posher office. Oddly windowless and full of half-burned-down candles. Behind the
desk occupying much of the paneled wall hung a grandly
framed oil portrait of Vivica Hildreth, posing in a period
depiction: hair in a jeweled bun, fan in one hand, dressed in
a Victorian bustle dress and a sashed bodice. The image was
jarring, after meeting her for real in the pop-trash fashion
she'd worn at her penthouse. Westmore opened the desk's
drawers and immediately found-

Oh, terrific.

-a small revolver.

Not that big a deal, really, especially not in Florida where
handguns were not taboo; it just shocked him, that first sight
of a gun sitting there. He picked it up, sniffed it, and only
detected machine oil. Probably never beenfired. But Hildreth's
weapon of choice had already been made clear: an ax.

You've got to be shitting me, he thought next when he
pulled the drawer out further and found a banded stack of
$100 bills. Most people have paper clips and staples in their desk.
Hildreth's got ten grand. Maybe it was a test-because he
knew the room had a camera in it somewhere. But Westmore's corruptions had never involved dishonesty anyway-just alcohol. He put the money in his pocket,
knowing he'd turn it over to Mack immediately, and report
the discovery to Vivica.

The top drawer on the other side of the desk was empty
save for one item: a small framed picture face down. Westmore flipped it over and found himself looking at what
must be a high school yearbook picture.

Pretty girl, he thought at once. The ultimate girl-nextdoor, big white smile, big innocent eyes, a sweep of shining
brunette hair. Did Hildreth have a daughter? But, no. Karen
had told him he and Vivica were childless.

So who's this?

It seemed that his work was being cut out for him on its
own. He left the picture and searched more drawers, these at
the other side of the room in a Chippendale roll-top, just as
the door opened.

"Everything all right in here?"

It was Mack, leaning in.

"Yeah, I was-"

"Nyvysk said you were looking for a place to write, and
it looks like you picked the right place. This was Hildreth's
office."

"Yeah, I kind of figured. Any objections to me using it?"

"None at all. Feel free to use the computers or anything
else you want, and lemme know if you need anything."

"Thanks-" Then Westmore remembered. "Oh, wait. I did find this. I guess you should secure it or turn it over to
Vivica." He passed Mack the band of bills.

Mack laughed. "Not surprising. That's pocket change to
Hildreth."

The comment spurred Westmore. "How did he become
so successful?"

"Mainly international bond merchandising, global municipal bonds, stuff like that."

"A Wall Street wizard?"

"That or he ripped a lot of people off. He never talked
much about it. He made a billion dollars by the time he was
fifty"

"Who managed his personal accounts? Karen?"

Mack laughed harder. "No, no, she just kept the books
for T&T, small-time. T&T wasn't a business to him, it was a
hobby. IT be the first to tell you, Hildreth was a perv."

"The proverbial dirty old man?"

"The proverbial rich dirty old man, I guess. But he was
also a very, very smart guy. It's hard to really peg him
quickly. Somebody could write a whole book about the
man, and it couldn't possibly tell the whole story." The security man paused. "For all I know, that's what you're doing."

Westmore shook his head. "I'm just writing up a
chronology for Vivica, an account of what goes on with all
these-"

"Psychic whackjobs?"

"I guess that term could apply."

Mack leaned against the doorframe. "You believe in any
of that stuff?"

"I don't know," Westmore said.

"Me either. I guess we'll see. Well, I gotta run, see ya
later."

"Sure-oh, and Mack? One more question."

"Yeah?"

"Did Hildreth have any kids, with Vivica, or anyone
else?"

"No way. He couldn't stand kids. He was a real curmudgeon when it came to children."

"He have any relatives with kids?"

"Nope. Hildreth was an only child."

Mack rushed off after that, obviously in a hurry, but
Westmore felt satisfied by his answers and good nature. Oh,
shit, I should've given him the gun, too, he remembered. If
these "psychics" were whackjobs, a pistol sitting around
might not be a good thing, but then he knew he was overcautious. Best to just leave it there, and it was best, he knew,
not to make judgments about any of the others at least before he'd gotten to know them.

Instead, he went back to snooping.

He thought of Poe's "Purloined Letter" when he saw it
right there in front of him. The broad, leather-cornered
blotter on Hildreth's desk. It was an April calendar, the sort
that was intended for people to jot notes on, appointments
on certain dates, etc. But there was no writing on this one"Wait a minute," he muttered, squinting.

-save for one pen-mark and a scribble.

A red X on the box for April 3rd.

A shudder trickled up his spine. The date of the
murders ...

None of this was very telling, yet it seemed utterly
macabre. It definitely wasn't spur-of-the-moment, Westmore
realized. He knew he was going to kill those people on April 3rd.
He even wrote it down.

More to contemplate. I justgot here, he reminded himself.
He had a tendency to project questions faster than he could think. Be a journalist. Accrue facts, and assimilate them when
you've got enough to make a conclusion. And he knew this: he
had very little in the way of facts just yet.

He browsed around, opening another highboy cabinet.
No. money this time, just several stacks of DVD's, a hundred
perhaps. He flipped through a handful, expecting to see
more vivid, sexual cover photography but instead found
dates for the past year handwritten on each disk's label. At
first he was surprised the police hadn't confiscated these,
along with the gun in the desk and the money and much
else, but then he recalled what Vivica had mentioned. She'd
paid a lot of money to jink Hildreth's death-report, and had
probably paid a lot more to the proper sources to ensure
that the house wasn't searched. He dreaded what lay ahead,
though, an obvious task: I'm gonna have to sit and watch all
these DVD's, at least scan over them. It didn't matter how attractive the women were; porn was essentially the same
thing over and over again. Gee, I can't unit, he thought and
dragged the stacks out, then promptly dropped one. "What
a putz!" he yelled at himself. The discs lay like a dropped
deck of cards. But when he got down to his knees and began picking them up, one caught his eye.

The was no date but scribbled on it was HALLOWEEN
PARTY.

This one might be VERY interesting ...

He made a mental note to watch that one first, then, before he could get back up, he noticed something else.

Four indentations in the carpet, right next to the highboy, which seemed to match the length and width of the
highboy's legs. It was too obvious when he took a second
glance.

Someone moved the highboy from there to there. Recently.

When Westmore tried to muscle the large piece of furni ture aside, his exertion reminded him of one reason he'd
chosen to be a writer instead of a manual laborer; he wasn't
exactly a physical specimen. His long hair dangled annoyingly in his face as he shoved and shoved, thinking God
damn! This big piece of skit weighs more than a fucking piano!
But after some sweat and what would undoubtedly result in
a sore back tomorrow, he managed to nudge the highboy
back to its original position, and that's when he saw-