Spore (19 page)

And, oh, they offered to renew our contract, but I told them we’ll have to think about it. Let the bastards sweat a while. Maybe it’ll bring us more money? It’d better. They’ve paid us peanuts and we all know it, but we’ve hit, we’ve finally HIT!!

Holy fucking shit, Sean, get drawing!!

While the email and updated script printed, Sean sighed and turned to frown at his drafting table. He clenched his hands into his hair and muttered, “Fuck.” The previous revamped sketches remained unfinished and untouched since Mare’d interrupted him for breakfast.
All that work, now useless. I am so sick of this issue,
he thought, sagging.
Maybe even sick of Ghoulie.

Muttering to himself to suck it up because they needed the money, Sean retrieved a glass of ice water and a couple of Mindy’s amazing cupcakes from the kitchen while hollering at teenagers burying something in his backyard.

Frustrated and grumbly—
Goddammit. Can’t they at least ask first?
—he drew the shades and cranked his hardcore tunes into a screaming frenzy before forcing himself to work. Murph’s notes had been restructured, crossed out, rearranged, and scribbled over, leaving the narrative a confused and clambering mess.

Panel by panel, page by page, Sean ignored the random knocks on the door as he made sense of the madness and blocked out the story in loose-sketched thumbnails. That done, he began his full-size pencil roughs for character and dialogue placement, thankful for the lack of mental intrusion from footless children in the dark.

Afternoon gave way to evening and he focused in, muttering along with lyrics screaming from his iPod as the story took shape under his hand. Three spreads fully sketched, he stood and stretched then shuffled across the hall to piss, mind lost to the comic and his voice mumbling along with Killswitch as if it were a Zen prayer.

The bathroom door was closed so he opened it, his brain focused on Ghoulie and getting page seven to flow smoothly. Habit had long since burned into his brain that he and Mare lived alone and she was at work. His home, his castle, his spare bathroom.

He’d already pushed the door open when the gears in his mind locked at the sight of Paul standing naked at the vanity, shaving, a red and black horror sprawled over his right forearm. The Minotaur lingered in the mirror as he had all day, but instead of taunting Sean, he drew a razor over his hairy cheeks.

“Crawled out of your cave, eh?” Paul asked, glancing over. “Bad enough I have to cross a gauntlet of crazies to enter my own house, but you playing that screaming shit you call music ‘bout pushes me over the edge.” He shook his razor under running water and resumed his task while cold terror flooded over Sean.

The brutish head of the Chicago Bulls tainted Paul’s pink, enflamed skin, a massive tat that covered the full width of his forearm and incorporated his mole into the bull’s brow and nose.

Head swimming, Sean took a quick step back.
The tattoo, the reflection! It’s him. Has to be. Oh, God. What do I do?

“You can quit staring any time now,” Paul muttered as he tidied up the edge of his sideburns. In the mirror, the Minotaur glared at Sean, then resumed shaving. “In my day, we kicked the shit out of gay guys, so quit your fucking gawking. ‘Kay?”

“You…you got a tattoo,” Sean managed to choke out despite his bowels clenching.
Oh fuck, oh God. He’s in my house!

“Yeah,” Paul said, rotating his arm to show the new artwork. “Not as good as the one I had before, but it’ll do.” He gave Sean a suspicious glance. “Didn’t think you liked basketball.”

“I don’t,” Sean said. “Just had to piss. Sorry to bother you.” He backed away and closed the door.

He wanted to flee; his feet demanded he grab his car keys, bolt for safety, and never return, but he forced himself to walk calmly to his own bathroom instead.

No Minotaur watched him from that mirror. He urinated, hearing Paul shower beyond the wall to the left of his elbow.

I have to act like everything’s fine,
he thought while cold sweat trickled down the back of his neck. He flushed without thinking, then hollered, “Sorry, habit!” after Paul thumped the wall in protest.

The house thrummed with his music as he stuffed the .38 into his jeans and walked quickly from the bathroom to the laundry. Mare’s aluminum bat lay on the floor beside the dryer. He grabbed it and continued on to his studio, barely able to hear the shower over Five Finger Death Punch.

Bat tucked hidden yet handy behind his file cabinet and gun in his waistband but under his shirt, Sean sat again at his drawing board. He held the pencil poised and trembling over the page, his ears struggling to hear the bathroom over the familiar blare of death metal.

The shower stopped and the bathroom door opened a few moments later. Sean hunched over his drawing and laid down a series of crappy lines as he heard Paul walk into the hall.

“Can’t you turn that shit down for ten fucking minutes?” Paul asked from the studio doorway.

Sean jumped and turned, pencil clutched like a weapon in his hand. “Oh, sure, sorry,” he said. He plucked up the iPod remote and adjusted the music to a saner level. “Better?”

“Much,” Paul said as he turned away. “I thought Nirvana sucked ass, but that shit’s awful.”

Sean tossed aside the pencil and stood.
Could a .38 easily kill in one shot?
Memories of skeletons and muscles from Life Drawing flashed in his mind, suggesting openings to vital organs and quick death.

I could do it,
Sean thought.
Kidneys, lungs, back of his fucking head. Hell, grab the bat and bash his brains in. Make him pay for what he did to me, to all those other—

He blinked, his throat tight and his skin clammy, as he stood taut beside his chair.
But Todd said it wasn’t him, couldn’t be him. My dreams are just that. Dreams. A dog never ate my guts. I have both my feet. It’s just me being paranoid again.

He took a shaky breath, his heart thudding fast and loud.
I could leave Mare alone. Ruin her future. For what could be no more than coincidence and paranoia. I have to be sure.

Instinct demanded he kill the fucker right now. Instead he sat, pistol gouging into his belly while he listened to Paul rattle around the basement, then climb the stairs. A few more footsteps, then the front door banged closed and he was gone.

Sean jolted off his chair and ran to the kitchen for the phone.

Chapter Twenty

Todd left the briefing with the others, his ears still ringing from the ass chewing they’d received over the lack of leads. They’d made no progress on the kidnapped and murdered kids, or Evelyn Fischer’s murder. Petty crimes had gone unsolved with almost all of their focus on the kids and murders, while the federal authorities in the area showed little interest in anything beyond the spore fungus in ground and river water. Their lack of assistance only increased the sheriff’s frustration and fury.

“Anderson, wait,” he heard from behind and stepped aside to let other deputies pass. The sergeant nodded his head toward the meeting room and Todd returned, closing the door behind him.

“I sent your notes on the Melinda Howard case up the line this afternoon. The attorney general and the Iowa Insurance Division have both been in a froth over the lawsuit, and their breath is only getting hotter on my ass since the death threats and vandalism.”

“Yes, sir,” Todd said, thankful the higher-ups had noticed. “If he’ll hire someone to kill a cat, he’ll hire someone to kill her.”

“Exactly,” the sergeant said. “And you’re going to make sure it doesn’t happen twice.”

Todd swallowed his surprise. “Sarge?”

“You’re assigned to her case, full time, at least until the insurance fraud case is resolved. I don’t care what it takes, you make sure she gets to testify at the trial.” He gave Todd a single nod then turned to leave the room.

“But, Sarge! Kids are getting killed. You can’t just put me on guard duty like this.”
Someone else, okay, but not her. That smile, those eyes. Shit.

“I damn well can,” the sergeant said, glaring. “The governor’s mentioned replacing our entire staff if we don’t make headway somewhere, immediately. The attorney general called the sheriff not an hour ago to tell him if that girl gets hurt, he’ll be replaced. That moved her to the top of our priority list. Since you’ve interviewed Mrs. Howard twice now, it’s your case. Focus on it above everything else.”

Which means I’ll be cooped up with a woman I’m already attracted to. Great.
“Yes, sir,” Todd said, feeling anything but agreeable as he accepted the file from his superior.

The sergeant left the briefing room and Todd followed, silently fuming as he flipped through the folder. Other than a couple of printed emails from the attorney general and the insurance division, he’d written everything in it.

Not starting with much,
he thought, sighing. He left the briefing room and walked to archives to request a copy of the original accident file for her death, any notes from her autopsy and inquest, plus whatever else a legal records search of her and her ex husband’s names dug up. The archive clerk promised to get him the paperwork as quickly as possible, hopefully by morning.

Momentarily appeased, he walked to the parking lot and called his mother to tell her he was on his way.

“She’s still up,” his mother said. “We’ve been watching movies and eating brownies.”

Todd grinned. “Save a couple for me, willya?” Then his phone beeped.
Sean. Shit.
“Got a call, Mom. If you don’t hear back from me right away, I’m on my way there.”

He clicked over to the other call. “Hey, Sean. What’s up?” he asked as he unlocked his SUV. Damned thing still smelled like puke from the drunk driver he’d dragged in around seven thirty.

Sean sounded panicked. “It’s him! My Uncle Paul! He’s snatching and killing those kids! You have to stop him!”

Todd nodded good night to another deputy and entered the vehicle. “I told you, it can’t be him. He died in ninety-five but the kidnappings didn’t stop.”

“You don’t understand!” Sean said, voice rising. “He got a tattoo! I just saw it! Chicago Bulls, right on his arm.”

Todd started his truck. “Sean. Relax. It’s just a tattoo.”

“No. He’s the Minotaur! He has to be, can’t you see? He’s the one who hurt me back when I was a kid!”

Todd let out a tired breath and rubbed his eyes.
I do not need this madness right now.
“No, he’s not. He died before you went missing.”

“No he didn’t,” Sean snapped. “My mom always told me I was gone when he got killed. So maybe I found a way to escape his lair or wherever he’d hidden me, and now he’s back hurting more kids.”

Todd rubbed his tired eyes.
I just want to go home. See my daughter.
Despite fatigue and frustration, he managed to keep his voice level and reassuring. “I checked the dates after our talk yesterday. Paul Allen Casey was found dead on the side of the road, a victim of a hit and run, on October 13th, 1995. Your parents reported you missing on the 16th, three days later. He couldn’t have kidnapped you. He was already dead.”

Silence filled the phone.

“Sean?”

“That’s not possible,” Sean said, sounding deflated. “I know my mom said it was a horrific couple of weeks. I was gone then her brother-in-law killed. It’s why Dad started drinking. It’s why their marriage fell apart. Me
then
Paul.”

“Maybe she just got the order mixed up,” Todd suggested as he pulled out of the lot. “It happens, especially if she was dealing with a drunk, too.”

“But the tattoo! The Minotaur!”

“Sean, buddy, it was a fucked-up time for you, we all know that. But calendars don’t lie. Our records don’t lie. Your uncle died then you disappeared. Other kids were taken after you. There’s no way it was him. It’s not possible, okay?”

“Fine. Sorry to bother you,” Sean said, then the call disconnected.

“I see the zombie folks are back,” Mare said when she finally came home.

“Yep. Least it’s just them.”

She leaned over to kiss his brow and examine the day’s work, her hand stiffening on the back of his neck. “These aren’t the same layouts as this morning.”

“Nope.”

She pulled away and sighed. “What the hell?
More
changes?”

“Email’s on the desk.” Sean tightened the line for Ghoulie’s lower back and thigh as he wrestled a child kidnapper out of a black SUV.
Only three pages to go. Might get the base pencil art done tonight after all. If Murph thinks I can turn out a full issue of drawings and inks in one day, he’s been smoking crack.

Mare read, slumping onto the chair. “Wow. Every issue? This can’t be real.”

Sean erased out the scraggly bits and moved on to the next cell. “Apparently it is.”

She stood and walked to him. “You don’t sound happy.”

“Not sure what I am,” he said, glancing up at her. “I don’t know whether to be excited or pissed over this issue. Shit, this is my fourth freaking batch of pencils, every set rush-rush, only to have me toss them two days later and do something entirely different. Yeah, it means more money, but I’m so sick of it, I just want to walk away from the whole thing, ya know?”

“I know,” she sighed. “But Ghoulie’s your baby.”

“Was my baby,” he corrected. “Murph has him acting more like an undead super hero than a troubled ghoul seeking revenge, and I can’t do shit about it. Big issue! Just draw it! Rush, rush!”

She gave him a commiserating nod, but said nothing.

He flung his pencil onto the table. “And Paul. Fucking goddamn Paul.”

She grimaced and rolled her eyes. “What’d he do now?”

“Got a tattoo.”

“A tattoo?”

“Yeah,” Sean said, then tried to explain how the Bulls tat made him certain Paul had been his abuser. “It all adds up, ya know? How I’ve been messed up since first meeting him in the backyard, and it’s gotten worse since he moved in. The nightmares, hallucinations, and why I keep fixating on his fucking mole, a mole that’s now a bull, like my Minotaur’s head.”

“Sean, babe…” Mare soothed, running her fingers through his hair.

“But it’s not him. It can’t be,” Sean sighed, looking up at her. “Was about to just shoot him and be done with it, but I found some sense and called Todd instead. He said Paul died a few days before I was taken.” Sean huffed out an aggravated breath. “I almost killed the guy, for nothing. Nothing but my stupid fears.”

“He is an ass,” she reminded him. “And he keeps bitching that we haven’t kept his house up like we should.”

Yeah, some days he can’t take two steps without reminding us about missing bathroom molding or the crack in the kitchen ceiling.
Sean chuckled and shook his head. “I don’t think being an ass about home maintenance is a killing offense.”

She sat on his lap and draped her arms over his shoulders. “I think he’s just one of those people who rub folks like us the wrong way. Mindy fits in fine, he doesn’t, and we’re all tiptoeing around him because he makes us edgy. Family or not, he needs to go.”

She smiled into Sean’s eyes and kissed him. “So who gets to tell him? You or me?”

“I’ll do it,” Sean sighed as Mare slid off his lap. “Soon as he gets home.”

“He out on another pub crawl for poontang?”

Sean stood and stretched. “Didn’t say. Just showed off his tattoo, showered, bitched about my music, and left.”

“You nasty puke!” Mindy snapped. “Why?
Why!?
Arrgh!”

Sean and Mare glanced at each other and shrugged as the bathroom door was flung open and Mindy marched through.

“I don’t want to be a…a
bitch
,” she muttered, lowering her voice at the last word, “but I cannot see one single reason to have three—
three!
—filthy piles of clothes lying on the floor for me to trip over when I’m taking a shower. I just can’t.”

She huffed, arms crossing over her chest, and glared at Sean. “He leaves his nasty stuff just lying there. Stinky socks, muddy jeans, grimy shirts, you name it, but his underwear is freaking disgusting. You need to talk to him.”

“Okay,” Sean said, shrugging.

“Okay? Just okay?” Mindy asked, leaning forward. “Have you seen what he leaves lying around? Skid-marked underwear! It looks like he lives on gas station burritos and beer and never wipes his ass. Ever. Except by scratching himself through his undies. It’s gross and I’m sick of walking on it.”

“I don’t blame you,” Mare said.

Mindy took a breath and continued. “Twice now I’ve gathered up his nasties and washed them, but he’s supposedly an adult and I’m not doing it anymore.” She took a breath and stood a little taller. “I’m not even
touching
it anymore. It’s just too dang gross.”

“I’ll get it out of there,” Sean sighed, ducking toward the bathroom.

With his attention riveted on the mole, he hadn’t noticed the mess on the floor, but Mindy was right. Filthy clothes lay all over, including skid-marked Jockeys. Sean grimaced.
I wouldn’t want to walk over that, either.

He retrieved a laundry basket from the laundry room—no Minotaur in the mirror—and returned to gather up the mess. Mare had remained in the studio, scowling at Murph’s tangle of notes.

“So they’re exploiting you and the spores because ‘drawn by famous, crazy artist’ sells more comics?”

“Basically,” Sean said, tossing sticky, stinky clothing into the basket. “And he’s added some of my neuroses. Check Murph’s notes for page eleven through fourteen. Kidnapped kids ravaged by a dog. I never should’ve told him how I came up with Ghoulie.”

Mare flipped to the next page and grimaced. “Lousy fucker. That’s low, even for Murph.” She tossed aside the pages and picked up his article about Lotus Labs. “You need a different writer.”

“Starting to wonder that myself. Be nice to not have to scramble all the time, at least,” he said, gingerly picking up a particularly disgusting pair of briefs. Bloody smears of shit stained a swath that ran nearly to the opening in front.
Urgh. That’s some severe digestive issues.
Sean grimaced and flung them into the basket.
It must run right through him. No wonder he eats like a horse.

“Wow, this does sound like the place, doesn’t it?” Mare said, pointing to the article about the lab.

Sean stood and hefted the basket. “That’s what I thought. Maybe I’ll be able to track down some of the people in the employee pic. Surely a lot of them are still around.”

Mare stared at him, one incredulous eyebrow raised. “You could start with your mother,” she said, pointing at the last image. “Pretty sure that’s her.”

Sean dropped the basket in the hall and stepped over it. “What?”

“Look at it, Sherlock.” As Sean pored over the picture, she said, “Do you remember back, waaay back, when she still liked me and you took me over there for supper that first time?”

“Yeah,” he said, squinting.
Might be her. Looks like her, but it’s awful grainy.
“We’d only been dating a month or so and she was thrilled I wasn’t gay. With all the paranoia and crap, I’d barely left the house except for school.”

“Yeah, that’s the time. Well, while you were off doing whatever it was she sent you to do so we could have our ‘special girl talk’, she showed me a scrapbook she’d made.”

He handed the paper back to Mare and rolled his eyes. “Gak, that fugly flower-fabric thing with the puffy heart on the front?”
Last time I looked through it, I was four, maybe five, but she showed it to everyone. Was always awkward as hell.

“Cheap fabric, hot glue, pillow fluff, and buttons? That’s the one. Anyway, I got to sit through her childhood pictures, school pictures, and wedding pictures.
And
tales of her life as a secretary, then being pregnant with you…”

“My condolences,” he said, returning to the basket in the hall. “No one should be forced to sit through all that.”

“Yeah, well, before she got to your kindergarten award for coloring inside the lines, she flipped past a color copy of that same article, least I think it was, with barely a comment. I don’t remember the headline, but I know I’ve seen that picture of everyone standing in the lab before. It’s her, I know it is.”

Sean carried the basket toward the living room. “I dunno. When I asked her if she’d heard of the lab. She said no.”

Mare followed. “Can you blame her, with all the hubbub? She is the queen of denial.”

“That’s true,” Sean said, hesitating in the archway.
Do I wash his filthy clothes or leave them for him?
One glance down at the bloody-feces briefs, and he flipped on the light for the basement stairs. “I’ll take the article to her and ask her again.”