Wicked Game (4 page)

My timer beeps, and I flip onto my stomach and reset it with an extra ten minutes, since my back always tans
more slowly than my front. At least I don’t turn red and freckly like most Gaelic girls. My dad once said I have Gypsy blood, but there’s no reason why that one statement out of all his others would have been true.

I slide the next book in my stack across the concrete. “The
Encyclopedia of Rock and Roll
?”

“How are you supposed to read an encyclopedia?” Lori asks from the next lounge chair.

“He said to skim.” I thumb the pages as fast as a flip book. “I’m skimming.”

“Ow.” Lori sits up and rubs the back of her neck. “I think I’m getting burned.”

“Slop on more of that SPF 40. You keep forgetting you’re Nordic.”

“Finnish.”

“But I’ve barely started.”

She groans and squirts her squeeze bottle at me. I jerk a corner of my towel to protect the
Encyclopedia
from flying iced tea. “Hey, watch out.”

“Puns make you a legally justifiable target.”

I turn back to the book, but the sun’s glare against the white page tightens the corners of my eyes. I lower my face into the darkness of my crossed hands.

To keep myself awake, I ask Lori, “How’s the ghost tracking?”

“SPIT’s going to help raise funds for the Battle of Sherwood monument. The town officially thinks we’re nuts, but they’re happy to take our money. Besides, if we find out that Sherwood is haunted, it’ll bring in more tourists. Everybody wins.”

“Except the ghosts. Maybe they’d rather be left alone.”

She laughs. “Don’t patronize me, Skeptical Girl.” She says it like it’s the name of a supervillain.

Despite the constant urge to roll my eyes, I support Lori’s obsession with Civil War ghosts—after all, she has to do something with that history degree. Besides, it’s kept my best friend in town two years after graduation, here with me and SPIT, the Sherwood Paranormal Investigation Team, who really need a new name.

I remember my encounter in the parking lot last night. It feels silly in the bright afternoon light, but I have to ask. “Let’s say there really are ghosts in Sherwood.”

“There really are ghosts in Sherwood.”

“Okay. But what would one feel like?”

Lori shades her eyes at me. “Is this a joke?”

As I tell her about the cold presence, her mouth falls open like her jaw has lost all muscle tone.

“I am so jealous.” She picks up her iced tea as if to fire it at me again. “You don’t even believe, and you get an apparitional experience. The most I’ve ever felt is a tingly elbow, and that turned out to be nerve damage.”

“Come on. There must be an explanation. If you were investigating, what other causes would you rule out?”

She taps the tip of her squeeze bottle against her chin. “With the trees around it, the parking lot might have natural temperature fluctuations, which would explain the cold spot. That whisper could have been the wind in the leaves. And everyone knows radio towers are massive electromagnetic sources. Sounds like a perfect recipe for false creepiness.”

“Good.”

“I could get SPIT to check it out for you.”

“No no. I don’t want my boss
to think I’m crazy
.”
I don’t want
myself to
think I’m crazy
.

Lori picks up her watch and whimpers. “Time for work.” She stands and folds her towel. It’s good she’s getting out of the sun—her face is the red of a marathoner who just crossed the finish line. “Stop by the bar later?”

“Definitely. Thanks for the ghostly insights.”

“You
will
belieeeeve.” She hums the
XFiles
theme music as she flip-flops away.

I skim the mega-lopedia’s highlighted entries. No unusual facts yet, nothing that clues me in to the grand purpose of Wimp-FM.

My beach bag bulges with unread volumes—two books on the history of radio, one on women in rock ’n’ roll, and a battered coffee-table book on American roots music.

The last one has a lump, something stuck inside the front cover, something almost big enough to be a book of its own.

I pull it out, a thick pamphlet. The back is yellowed and contains nothing but the copyright date of 1954. I flip it over.

“Oh, that’s cute.”

The title reads, in poorly typeset block letters,
The Truth about Vampires
. It looks like a public service brochure, part of a government-sponsored scaremongering series including titles such as
Marihuana: Stepping-Stone to Despair
and
It’s Not Just Big Dandruff: How to Spot Head Lice
.

It contains thirty pages of thin sheets, gathered into short chapters. I lean back on the lounge chair to read it. Not part of David’s curriculum, I’m sure, but it’ll take me ten minutes, tops.

Yeah yeah, feed on blood, okay, can’t go out during the day, yada yada yada, super-seductive, whatever. Sounds like rehashed cliches to me, warmed-over Anne Rice, but hey, I scarf those trendy vampire novels like they were heroin-soaked potato chips, so I’ll play along for entertainment’s sake.

I page ahead, looking for the big bad “Truth about Vampires.” Given the period, the “truth” probably means Communist infiltration of blood banks. This thing reeks of McCarthyism.

One heading says, “Temporal Adhesions.” Hmm, that’s a new phrase. I reach for my iced tea.

Which never gets to my mouth, because all my muscles have frozen. The words reverberate through my head in a documentary-style voiceover.

Vampires become “stuck” in the cultural period in which they died, what they refer to as their “Life Time.” To maintain cognitive comfort, a vampire will continue to dress and speak in the conventions of his or her Life Time. For example, a female vampire from the 1920s will often display “flappers-style clothing and claim that “makin’ whoopee” with multiple partners is “copacetic.”

As modern life intrudes on a vampire’s carefully constructed reality, he or she may rebel against these feelings of powerlessness. A benign response may take the form of obsessive-compulsive behaviors, which grant the illusion of control.

Every effort should be made to provide the law-abiding vampire with a means to connect simultaneously with the past and present, thus extending their
lives and preventing potentially disastrous unrest. Many vampires of a certain age utilize our network of protective custody homes, where they can “fade” without posing a threat to themselves or others.

Typed in red ink, on a sidebar:

NOTE: Vampires with certain characteristics— including mental instability as a human, extreme youth or old age at the time of “turning,” as well as several unknown factors—are likely to react to their changing world in a violent manner. Since an agent’s primary duty is the protection of human life, he should take all precautions, including preemptive action (see Field Manual Chapter Sixteen, “Disposal”).

Huh?

This must be what David wanted me to read. He thinks the DJs are vampires.
They
think they’re vampires.

No, nobody’s that delusional outside a mental hospital. It must be an act. A joke. A joke without the funny.

I examine the pamphlet again. The paper doesn’t just
look
old—it feels brittle and smells musty as an attic. So they used old paper—and a typewriter, since these sheets would disintegrate in a printer or copier.

Why so much trouble just to trick the new girl? Did they put on this farce for the other candidates?

My fist clenches, crumpling the booklet. Maybe there were no other candidates. David called
me
for the interview, not the other way around. Why? Because of my past, he said. But how much can he really know about my past?

And what the fuck does it all have to do with vampires?

Doesn’t matter. If it smells like a fish, swims like a fish, quacks like a—well, it’s just really damn fishy. We’ve skipped Code Orange and gone straight to stoplight Red.

I retrieve my cell phone and dial David, whose name and number are neatly printed inside the book’s cover.

No answer. Easier that way.

“David, I’m sorry to leave this message on your voice mail, but I’ve found an employment opportunity elsewhere.” Here’s where I should say something nice. “Thank you for your consideration.” Ugh. Try again. “I mean, thanks for the offer. I think it would’ve been fun.”

I slap the phone shut before my voice reveals my ambivalence. Time to check the want ads again.

On the way out of the pool area, I stuff
The Truth about Vampires
into the trash where it belongs.

The Smoking Pig is filled with the usual Friday night bar crowd—mostly college kids who stuck around town to take summer classes or avoid their parents. The Pig is made out of pieces of old mills, which apparently used to dot the local countryside like spots on a Dalmatian. To add ambience, rusty machinery parts lie wedged in the dark wooden ceiling beams.

After an afternoon perusing the Help Wanted section (flipping burgers versus driving a cement mixer), I need a drink. I squeeze through the crowd to the brass rail and wave to Lori at the cash register. She holds up a finger, her lips reciting the drink order to herself as she rings it in. Then she trots over, pale ponytail bobbing.

“Your tan looks amazing,” she shouts over the din of the crowd and the blare of the latest Killers song. She lifts her bangs and tilts her chin toward the light. “Can you tell I was wearing sunglasses?”

“A little.” Her face looks like a negative version of the
Hamburglar. I shouldn’t let her go out during the day. The thought reminds me of vampires, so I shove it aside.

Lori slides a napkin across the polished wood surface of the bar. “What can I getcha?”

“Something strong and straight up.”

She scrutinizes my eyes, which I know are bloodshot from too many job ads. “Strong, yeah, but definitely not straight. You need more than booze.” She grabs bottles of Kahlua and vanilla vodka. “Chocolate martini’ll cheer you up.”

“How’d you know I need cheering up?”

“Bartender’s sixth sense.” Her hands trickle over the bottles in front of her before pulling out Grand Marnier, Frangelico, and Bailey’s Irish Cream.

“Looks expensive.”

“My boss is out sick, so it’s free. But it means we’re short-handed, so I’m totally in the weeds tonight. It’s crazy—two bachelorette parties.” She shakes the martini, then pours it into a glass in front of me. “After the crowd thins out, you can tell me what’s wrong.” She winks and hurries away.

I scan the crowd for anyone I know—or anyone I’d like to know. A familiar face appears in my peripheral vision at the end of the bar. Before I can get a better look, a brawny brunette in a wedding veil lurches into view.

“Oh. My God. Ciara Griffin?”

And I thought my day couldn’t get worse. I force a smile and snap my fingers, pretending to search for my old hallmate’s name. “Joanne, right?”

She slaps my shoulder. “It’s Jolene! How can you forget? We only had like every business class together.” She snickers. “When you were there, I mean.”

I rub my shoulder and remember how during sophomore
year she and her sorority sisters would shove Kmart sales fliers under my door every Sunday to show their opinion of my clothes. In return, I would soak their towels in the toilet while they were in the shower. “So how are you?”

“Awesome! I just got promoted and assigned to a huge market research project. Plus I’m getting married.” She points her chest at me, and I see that her white tank top has
BRIDE IB
stenciled in black letters.

“I’m so ... happy for you.” Her designer shoes and tight leatherette pants make me feel like a schlub in my knockoffs and last year’s miniskirt.

“What are you doing now?” she asks me.

“I’m—” Still in college, six years later. Unemployed and unemployable. No fiance, boyfriend, or so much as a hamster to keep me company two nights in a row.

One of Bride 2B’s gold half-hoop earrings catches in her veil. As she tilts her head to release it, the familiar face reappears.

Shane.

Suddenly I have an answer. “I work with him.”

She peeks and gives a low whistle. “He’s cute. Mysterious.”

It’s true—Shane seems to sit alone inside an orb of silence. The woman on the next bar stool rolls her shoulders and preens in his direction, but he ignores her until she gives up and turns back to her friend.

My former classmate examines Shane’s appearance. His charmingly disheveled hair gleams almost blond in the overhead bar light. He wears a similar getup as last night, but with a different flannel shirt over a different T-shirt.

Jolene turns back to me. “So you work for a logging company?”

I pretend not to get her joke. “Radio station. He’s a DJ at WMMP, where I’m the head of marketing.”

Her bleary drunken look is replaced by a sly grin. “Introduce me.”

“I thought you were engaged.”

“And this is my bachelorette party. I’m entitled.” With a deliberate gesture, she twists her engagement ring to face her palm.

“I think he has a girlfriend.”

“Is she here?”

The thought of Regina hanging out at the hopelessly bourgeois Smoking Pig makes me smile. “I doubt it.”

“Neither is my fiance. How conveeeeenient.”

The Bride lets out a braying laugh and drags me toward the end of the bar. Her marquise-cut ring digs into the tender webbing between my fingers. She’s stronger than she looks, and she looks like she could bench-press a Buick.

Just before we reach Shane, Jolene holds out her index finger and pinky in a salute to her bridesmaids across the bar. The women hurl a group catcall worthy of the skankiest strip joint.

“Hi there!” she says to Shane’s left shoulder. It tenses at the sound, but he makes no other movement. She fans her face with his bar napkin. “Woo! Is it hot in here, or is it just you?”

Still no response. She reaches to touch him, but at the last inch her hand jerks back, as if disobeying a direct order from her brain. Smart hand.