Ultimate Supernatural Horror Box Set (52 page)

Just one sip. To make the fear go away.

She released the bottle. Sara knew she used alcohol to cope. But she refused to believe she was dependent on it. Also, she was starting to like the odd, soft-spoken Dr. Belgium, and wanted to stay relatively clear-headed because she enjoyed his company.

It had been a long time since she enjoyed anyone’s company. After what happened on Plincer’s Island, Sara was certain she’d never trust a man again. But there was something about Frank that was, well…
frank.
He seemed kind, sincere, and even kind of cute. She didn’t even mind the odd way he spoke, repeating words.

But most important of all, he made Sara feel safe. If she’d been alone in the cab when they hit the cardinal, she would have been hysterical and drinking SoCo like water. But Frank’s presence soothed her. Maybe because he lived through a hellish experience, like she had. Or maybe it was just chemistry.

Sara took her hand out of her purse, and tried to seem nonchalant about it when she placed it in Frank’s. He glanced at her, his eyes widening. But his fingers clasped softly around hers, and all thoughts of drinking slipped from Sara’s mind.

“Thanks for doing that,” she said.

“I could, um, step on it a few more times, if you want.”

“That’s okay. This is really forward of me, Frank, but are you seeing anyone?”

“No. I haven’t… I… it’s been a very long time, Sara.”

“For me, too.”

As Sara stared at him, it occurred to her she’d forgotten how to flirt. She wondered how she looked, no make-up, hair probably a fright. She also wondered how Frank would react to the fact she had a child. Sara hadn’t tried to date anyone recently, but she guessed most men wouldn’t be interested in a pre-made family.

“I have a son,” she blurted out. “Jack. Would you like to see a picture?”

She watched his eyes, searching for any hint of rejection.

“Of course,” he said.

Sara reached into her purse with her free hand, took out her wallet. The only picture in it was of Jack, in his high chair, smiling and eating strained peaches.

“He’s adorable. And his father?”

Sara shook her head.

“I don’t mean to pry, but that painting on the wall behind him,” Frank said. “Is that Van Gogh’s
Portrait of a Woman in Blue
?”

“It’s a fake. Long story. I thought it was real. But the real one is in a museum in Amsterdam.”

“I’d like to hear that story someday.”

“I’d like to tell it someday. Maybe when we’re done with the weekend. Where do you live, Frank?”

“Pittsburgh. You?”

“Michigan. Near the coast.”

“Which coast?” Frank asked, holding up his left hand with his fingers together and his thumb slightly out.

Sara smiled. Because Michigan looked like a mitten, that was how residents showed where they lived. She touched the base of his index finger.

“So who is taking care of Jack while Mom is off visiting haunted houses?”

“After… what happened to me, I was having some trouble coping. Jack was taken by social services. I haven’t seen him in six months.”

“I’m sorry.” Frank gave her hand a squeeze. “I can’t even imagine what that must be like.”

“That’s why I’m here. If I get the money, I can hire a lawyer, get my son back.”

“Are you well enough to care for him?”

The question pinned Sara there as surely as if she’d been staked to the ground. Was she well enough? Her recent behavior didn’t indicate she was. If anything, she’d gotten worse since they took Jack away.

So how do I respond? Bravado? Lie so I don’t look like a bad person?

Or the truth?

Frank seemed patient. Understanding. Sara didn’t know if anything would become of this chance meeting, but she didn’t want to start their relationship with lies. Even if it made her look weak.

“I don’t think I am well enough, Frank. But right now, my hope is gone, because it isn’t possible to get him back. If I had some hope again, I think I could pull myself together.”

Frank nodded, slowly. “I don’t know you at all. But—and this is odd—I I I feel I do. You remind me of a woman I know named Sunshine Jones.”

Sara raised an eyebrow. “Former girlfriend?”

“No. I worked with her, every day, and never had a chance to tell her how much I thought of her. Bright. Tough. Pretty. She had this indefatigable spirit. I think you do, too.”

“That’s kind of you to say.”

“I wouldn’t say it if I didn’t believe it.”

“What happened to Ms. Jones?”

“She married someone else. It was best. He’s a good man. But I always wonder what might have happened if I just just just… tried.”

“Sometimes trying is the hardest thing in the world.”

“I know a little something about hope, Sara. But I don’t think you’ve given up yet. I think you’ve just been kicked really hard.”

Sara really wished that was true. “Why do you think that, Frank?”

“Because I’ve been kicked pretty hard, too.”

She moved a little closer to him, trying to read his eyes. Frank Belgium had the kindest eyes Sara had ever seen.

Then a car pulled up next to them, and a guy yelled through the window.

“Everyone okay?”

“Yeah,” the cabbie said. He was leaning up against the crumpled trunk of the car, smoking a cheap stogie.

“Does anyone need any help?”

“No no no,” Frank said, smiling at Sara. “We’re doing fine.”

The man began to pull away when Sara yelled, “Wait!”

The car stopped, then backed up.

“Do you have a crowbar?” Sara asked.

“It’s a rental. There’s probably one.”

“Our luggage is stuck in the trunk. Can you give us a hand?”

He continued backing up until he was behind them, then pulled over to the side of the road. When he exited the vehicle, Sara saw he was tall, over six feet, moderate build with longish light brown hair streaked with gray. He opened his trunk, poked around for a bit, and found a crowbar.

The taxi driver spat on the street. “Hey buddy, you touch my cab with that, I’ll call the police.”

“I am the police,” the man said, producing a badge.

The cabbie shrugged.

“Thanks so much,” Frank said. “Several cars have passed, but you’re the first one to stop.”

“What happened?”

“Bird flew into the windshield.”

The cop eyed the dented trunk. “Must have been one helluva bird.”

“I’m Frank,” he offered his hand, which the cop shook. “This is Sara.”

“Tom. Nice to meet you both.”

Tom pressed the flat end of the crowbar between the trunk lid and the fender, and gave it a fierce twist. It instantly popped open.

“Thanks, Tom.” Sara reached into the grab her bag, grateful it was dry. She had two more bottles of Southern Comfort in it, and a leak would have been both embarrassing, and worrying. If she was going to be involved with a fear experiment, she wanted to have liquor nearby.

“I know it’s a lot to ask,” Frank said. “But would you mind taking us back to the airport to rent a car? I’ll pay you for your time.”

“I’m kind of running late,” Tom said. “Can’t you call a cab?”

“We’re going to a place cabs are afraid to go,” Sara chimed in. “It’s called Butler House.”

“In Solidarity?”

“You know it?” Frank asked.

“No. But that’s where I’m headed. Some kind of fear study.”

“So are we,” Frank said. “Would you mind if we tagged along?”

“Not at all.”

“Sara?” Frank turned to her.

She really liked that he asked her opinion. “Can I see your badge again?”

Tom offered his star.

“Chicago,” she said.

“The Windy City. I’m a detective.”

Frank appraised him. “Did anyone ever tell you that you look like Thomas Jefferson?”

“I may have heard that once or twice. You guys coming along?”

Sara handed his badge back. “Thanks, Tom. I think we will.”

Tom held out his hand to take Sara’s bag, and he placed it and Frank’s in his trunk along with the crowbar.

“Would you like the front front front seat, Sara?” Frank asked.

He was doing the nice thing by offering, but still looked slightly disappointed. Sara thought it was adorable.

“Thank you, Frank. But would it be okay if I sat in the back with you?”

Frank nodded several times in rapid succession. “Of course.”

Sara looked at Tom’s rental car. It was a compact. Which meant it would be cramped in the back.

She was looking forward to it.

Deb

“You gotta be fucking me with a wet noodle.”

The woman in the rental car line ahead of Deb and Mal had pink and green hair, a mouth that would make a trucker blush, and an apparent problem with her credit card.

“I ran the card twice, Ms. Draper. I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to ask you to get out of line.”

“I’ve got a five hundred dollar limit on that goddamn card, pencil dick. And a zero fucking balance. The car is only fifty bucks a day, and I’m returning it tomorrow.”

“The deposit is five hundred dollars, Ms. Draper. Unfortunately, that maxes out your credit card and leaves you nothing to pay for the rental.”

Deb felt bad for the woman. She’d been in a situation like that before.

“I’ve only got thirty bucks on me. I’m running cash poor today. Can’t you help a fucking lady out?”

“I’m sorry, Ms. Draper.”

“I’ll blow you.”

The clerk did a double-take. “Excuse me?”

“I’ll take you in the guy’s shitter and suck your Slim Jim if you get me this car.”

“Uh… as romantic as that sounds, I’m married.”

“Which probably means you need head more than most.”

Mal, who had been sullen and inconsolable on the airplane, actually snickered at that and gave Deb a nudge.

She whispered to Mal, smiling. “What? I give you head all the time.”

“Once a week is not
all the time
, Deb,” he whispered back.

“If it were up to you, it would be every two hours.”

The rental car clerk raised his voice. “If you don’t leave the line right now, Ms. Draper, I’m calling airport security.”

Ms. Draper was seemingly unperturbed. “If you’re shy because you have a micropenis, don’t be. I’ve seen all types. It actually makes it easier for me to deep throat. And if you got a problem getting it up, I can stick my finger up your ass, work that prostate.”

The rental car guy reached for the phone on the counter.

“You know what, assbag?” Ms. Draper said. “Tomorrow I’m going to be a million dollars richer. And I’m going to buy your goddamn little car rental business here, and make you clean toilets with your tongue for six bucks an hour.”

She threw up her hands in a dismissive matter and spun around, facing Mal and Deb.

Several things flashed through Deb’s mind at once. The first was Draper’s million dollar comment. Obviously she had been invited to Butler House as well. The second was that this green and pink haired woman had pocked scars covering her face, as if she’d had a severe case of acne as a teen. But these also covered her neck, and as Deb’s eyes travelled down her low-cut blouse, her cleavage as well.

Those weren’t acne scars. They were man-made.

“Enjoy the show?” she asked Deb, a sneer on her face.

“Very much so,” Deb replied. “You want to ride with us? We’re heading to Butler House.”

The woman raised an eyebrow. “No shit. Really?”

“Sure,” Mal said. “And you don’t have to suck my Slim Jim.”

“But if you want to stick your finger up his ass,” Deb said, “be my guest.”

“Please don’t stick your finger up my ass,” her husband said. “I’m cool.”

Ms. Draper eyed each of them up and down, apparently taking notice of Deb’s prosthetic legs and Mal’s rubber hand. Then she smiled.

“I’m Moni Draper. Pleased ta meetcha both.”

There was a round of hand shaking, and Mal approached the clerk at the desk.

“Would you really have blown the rental car guy?” Deb asked.

“Girlfriend, I’ve done a lot more for a lot less, back when I was strung out.” She dug into her shoulder bag and took out a pack of cigarettes, even though there were No Smoking signs posted everywhere throughout the airport. She lit up with one of those jet lighters, where the flame was blue-green and hissed. Deb noticed her hands were also covered with pock marks.

“So what do you do?” Moni asked.

“I’m an athlete.”

“With no legs? No shit. Good for you, babe. What sport?”

“Marathons. Triathlons.”

“You can make money like that?”

“I’ve got sponsors,” Deb answered.

“Wait a sec. Were you that bitch in that energy drink commercial?”

Moni used the word
bitch
like she used the word
babe
, with obvious affection.

“That was a while ago.”

“I used to drink that stuff all the time. I remember you, on that bicycle and shit. In those cute little biking pants.”

Deb still had those biking pants, and they were, indeed, cute.

“What do you do?” Deb asked.

“Model.”

Deb wasn’t sure what to say to that, then Moni winked.

“Kidding, of course. I’m actually an escort. Topping. Domme stuff.”

“Like a prostitute?”

“Back in the day I was. Streetwalker. But I had a close encounter with a maniac who cut me up pretty good, as you can plainly see. So now I only do in house calls to select clients. The scars are actually a plus, because they make me look scarier.”

“So a domme is a dominatrix?”

“You betcha. Money is better, and I don’t have to fuck them.”

Deb was curious. “So what do you actually do to guys if you aren’t sleeping with them?

“All kinds of crazy shit. Tie ‘em up. Slap them around. Spank them. Make them lick my boots. Pee on them. Figging.”

“Figging?”

“You don’t want to know. Point is, I’m in control, the bottoms love it, and the money is good. At least, it used to be good. I’ve been semi-retired for a while.” Moni took a big draw on her cigarette, then blew the smoke out of her nostrils. “Went back to school. But I’m almost out of money, and I figured I’d have to start scheduling clients again. Then I got the invite to this fear thing, and I was like, holy shit, I finally got a lucky break. Hopefully I’ll never have to fig a guy again.”