Bad Things Page 7

"Carol. I'm here to confess a crime. I'd like to turn myself in."

  One eyelid flips open. Carol rubs the other open with the back of her hand.

  The man nods.

  “Who the hell are you?” she finally says, smacking the taste back into her mouth. She looks him up and down, thinking he looks like a creepy Jesus and, perhaps, a little like that smokehouse of a dude from the covers of her favorite romance books who she sincerely wants to break like a naughty pony.

  “You can call me…” The man looks around the station. He scans the magazines on a table but doesn’t see anything he likes. There’s an old, battered paperback resting in a chair. A classic horror tale by a famous author.

  "King. Please call me Mr. King." He smiles, holding his wrists out as if asking for handcuffs. "I've committed a few killings this evening and I'd like to turn myself in."

  Chapter Eighteen

  Voss Ranch is a sprawling property with virtually no animals on it.

  More of a gentleman’s ranch than an actual working facility.

  The house is impressive, that much Dibs has to admit. The place looks like the Playboy Mansion of Stagstone. At least that’s what he heard someone at Big Maria's say about it. More hotel than a home. More statement than a place to live. The massive home sits high on a ridgeline with a jaw-dropping view to die for out of every window. The best, of course, coming from the living room.

  The large, circular drive that surrounds a Vegas-style, naked-people water fountain is packed with a host of cars being moved and parked by valets dressed in full-on black tie and sneakers. Dibs recognizes a few of the racing valets from around town. One works at the oil change place, and another is a checker at the store. The checker holds his hand out for the keys of Dibs's Blazer.

  Dibs thinks of punching him in the throat but stops. Not his fault. Probably making a nice bit of side change at this gig. Dibs refuses to give him the keys, however, and good luck getting a tip out of Dibs. Not that he's cheap, just not in the mood.

  “Not going to be here long.” He sighs. Hating himself for the not tipping thing, Dibs hands the kid a couple of ones.

  The checker nods and scurries away, a little terrified by the look in the good chief’s eyes.

  The house is lit up incredibly bright both inside and out. Dibs thinks of some of the off-duty galas he used to work in New York. There were a few at the New York Public Library on 5th and 42nd street. Those were fun. An excellent chance to boss around and tell the Manhattan elite what to do and where to go. The one at the American Museum of Natural History right off Central Park was a good one too. It was an after-party for some hedge fund or some shit. Good money, but man they were assholes.

  Inside, Voss's massive home booms with music and waves of laughter. Most of it forced. Fake as hell. Dibs knows the difference between real, genuine laughter and the bullshit brand. Loves the real. Hates the fake. Fake laughter, false promises, fake people, all of it makes his skin crawl. He'd prefer the hardness of silence and truth than to have someone, anyone, try and shine him.

  A woman sitting at a small table inside the front door greets him with an iPad resting on a clipboard, a finger raised, ready to tap him into whatever system she’s got going.

  “Name?” she asks.

  “There.” Dibs slams his badge down on the screen. “My damn invitation to the party.”

  She looks at it, then him, then back to the hunk of metal between her and her system.

  “Is your name on that?”

  Dibs shakes his head, scanning the party.

  Larson is dressed in an ill-fitting suit that’s about a size too small and way past its prime. He’s performing a miserable job at seductive conversation with a waitress. She stares blankly at him, as if he’s explaining how he cuts his toenails. This waitress is the most bored woman in the history of bored waitresses.

  Dibs picks up his badge from the iPad screen, squints hard at the clipboard woman—she couldn’t care less—then barks out, “Larson, get your skinny-fat ass over here.”

  Larson almost drops his drink, scrambling to find a place to inconspicuously set it down. He hands it to the waitress, who gladly snatches it up and hauls ass in the other direction, fleeing like a deer into the safety of the woods. Officer Larson stumble-walks over to Dibs, buzzed and not so bright looking.

  “What. The. Hell?” Dibs asks, holding back his flooding hostility.

  “I’m… I’m…” Larson adjusts his crap tie. “I’m working, boss.”

  “What did you just call me?”

  Larson blinks. Thinks. Decides it’s a trick question.

  Dibs says, “You called me boss in the same sentence where you said you are working. That sound about right?”

  Larson nods, not liking the direction this is taking.

  “If I’m your boss, and I am, and you say you’re working, then shouldn’t you be working for me?”

  Dibs realizes the math on that statement might cause something to ooze out from his deputy’s ears, but he hopes for the best. Larson blinks again, then nods. Dibs pinches the bridge of his nose.

  "What are you doing here?" Dibs sighs through his words. “The town is going nuts, and you're sipping cocktails and repulsing women."

  “But, Chief,” Larson stammers. “I am working for the city. Darius said it was all cool.”

  Dibs cocks his head at the words all cool.

  “Something wrong, Chief Dibs?”

  The voice behind him makes Dibs want to open fire. It’s a thick voice trying hard to sound highly educated. It’s drenched in condescension. The voice and tone of a man who has more money than you and wants to make damn sure you know it with every syllable that leaves his thin, weasel lips.

  Dibs slow-turns to find the current source of his pain.

  Darius Voss is a tall, lanky man in his early forties. His hair is cut close to the skull with a beard full and flowing like he's letting his aging, tech-money, hipster flag fly. Voss's suit is perfect, as are his freshly whitened teeth. Teeth Dibs would like to remove with a set of pliers. People like this have always pissed Dibs off.

  Sure, some of it is envy. Of course it is. To have the kind of money these people have. To remove the worries that so many people carry around about personal finances. But it's more the attitude that grinds away at Dibs. The one that Voss has on full display at the moment. The belief that they somehow own you. Voss has never said anything in so many words, but make no mistake, it's there in his voice. It's even in the way he holds his drink.

  Dibs knows he might be projecting a bit, but he doesn’t care. Voss isn’t a member of the Manhattan elite. More to the point, Voss isn’t Louis Cody, Dibs tells himself. Voss doesn’t have the balls to be Louis Cody.

  “Chief Dibs.” Voss extends a hand. “Welcome to my home. To my party. Drink?”

  Dibs tightens his fists. He wants to lay this dickhole out on his own polished, hand-carved wood floor imported from wherever-the-hell starving country. He can see his punch sending Voss sliding down the middle of the dance floor. The screams. The shock. The music would stop and eyes would pop open wide. Dibs unclenches his fists, letting the tingle of returning blood work through his fingers.

  "Larson here is still on duty, Voss," Dibs says, waving off a cocktail. He wants that sauce so badly. Looks like whiskey, probably the good stuff, but he won't give Voss the satisfaction. "Pretty sure you know that he's a member of the town's law enforcement and doesn't do balloon animals for parties."

  Voss smiles, shows off those damn white teeth, and gives a fake laugh. Oh, how Dibs hates the fake laugh. Almost as much as the fake teeth.

  “Chief Dibs.” Voss leans in close. “This is town business.” Voss takes a drink of the good whiskey. He swishes it around, letting it wash over his tongue before swallowing it down. Never losing eye contact with Dibs as he does. “You see, I pay a lot of money in taxes to the city of Stagstone. The most. I’ve checked. And when I need something? Make no mistake, it is, by all accounts, official town business.” />
  Dibs’s fists tighten again.

  Larson takes a step back.

  “Mr. Voss.” Dibs grinds his teeth. “You are vastly overestimating what your taxes pay for.”

  “Am I?”

  “They don’t pay for him. Or me.”

  “Really?” Voss leans in to Dibs ear. “Should I talk to the mayor about it?”

  "It'll be hard to understand him with your dick in his mouth."

  Larson snickers.

  "You're a funny one," Voss says.

  “Yeah, I’m hysterical.”

  Something in Dibs snaps, just a bit, but in a very unexpected way. Dibs grabs the sides of Voss’s face and plants his lips, giving Voss a hard kiss, then pulls off fast, chuckling like a crazy person. He turns to Larson, giving him a light slap to the face to shake him loose from his stunned expression.

  "Go take care of Mrs. Vandercleef's rose bushes," Dibs says to Larson as he moves toward the bar. "Like right damn now."

  Dibs grabs a bottle of the best whiskey he can recognize.

  “You pissed, Dibs?” Larson asks, his voice shaking.

  “Sure as shit am.” Dibs chugs from the bottle on his way out the door.

  Voss stands frozen. Seething.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Daniels sits at a small desk inside his quarters deep inside the USAF outpost.

  He's poring over the speech that he wants to give his people about the horrors of methamphetamine usage. He wasn't going to say anything about it, but Dibs got to him. The chief was being a little weird, Daniels thinks. All that crap about seeing something out of the ordinary and is there something up or whatever—it got to him. Daniels shakes his head. When he has coffee with Dibs in a few days, he'll have to let him know that he did his duty, warned the troops, and Dibs can stop giving him shit about it.

  The problem Daniels is having is that he isn't much of a speechwriter. After dicking around with social media, various video games and a solid hour of flipping around the TV, he has a total of two words: Hello, everyone. He rewrote that gem at least four times, trying out various intros, but he felt this one set the opening tone the best. Sipping his coffee, he reviews his excellent work and decides he should get up and stretch his legs a bit. Survey the area, as it were. Maybe grab a bite to eat. Fairly sure he saw some Rice Krispies treats somewhere this afternoon.

  There’s a pounding at his door.

  Daniels spits coffee from his mouth, spraying it all over his precious two words.

  “Crap fire.” He jumps up, opening the door. “What? What’s going on?”

  PFC Johnson stands at the door with sweat beading just below his hairline.

  "Something's going on," Johnson says, pointing down the hall.

  Daniels and Johnson sprint down the hallway toward the command room. It’s a long, dark room lined with computers, monitors, radar screens and classified tech. It’s somewhat late, most of the personnel are in bed, but Johnson rallied a few people from their beds to come in for a much-needed consult. A what the hell is this? style consultation.

  Daniels and four other members of the outpost all watch as Johnson points frantically toward an old-school radar screen. Green blips pop in and out. One comes up, then another, then they disappear for only a moment before popping back up on the screen. They are all circling the center of the radar screen. All circling the outpost.

  “How long has it been doing this?” Daniels asks, clearing his throat.

  "Minute or two tops," Johnson replies. "But they're moving in fast—"

  “Okay.” Daniels places a hand on the young PFC’s shoulder, attempting to bring him down. Panic never helps. “You checked the cameras, right? Is it wildlife checking us out? That kind of thing? Remember when you left that tub of chili out by the door?”

  “You ever gonna let that go?” Johnson asks.

  A sound cracks over the speaker. It’s loud. Metallic. Like a crunch mixed with a strange, soft sound layered over the top of it. Almost like a young child mixed in with heavy machinery violently destroying something.

  Daniels looks to his people, concern all over their faces.

  "Okay, easy, everybody." Daniels looks to the rack of weapons near the door. A buffet of US-certified assault rifles along with vests, headgear, and handguns waiting at the ready. "Johnson, let's get everybody up and in here with us. This room is designed for anything."

  Johnson nods.

  For a flash of moment Daniels thinks of his talk with Chief Dibs—Have you seen anything strange? "We have just hit strange," Daniels whispers to himself.

  The sounds from the speaker are growing louder. The crunching has taken on a rhythm, mixing along with the childlike voices. There is variation in pitches now, as if they are different voices. Some higher in tone and some lower. They pause and wait for the other to finish, then bark out in short bursts. Like angry angels trapped in machines screaming at one another.

  “Are they…” Daniels stops himself, but he can’t hold back. “Are they talking to each other?”

  The green blips are getting closer to the center.

  Johnson nods. “Is it Al-Qaeda? Some terrorist shit?” he asks.

  “Highly doubtful.” Daniels listens closer to the speaker.

  The sounds are more apparent now. This is indeed communication happening between people. These are words being spoken. Undoubtedly not English, that's for sure. Daniels has been from one end of the planet to the other during his years of service, and he's never heard anything like this. “It’s nuts, but it’s almost like—”

  The screens go black. The speakers go quiet. Communication comes to a jarred halt. The room goes still. Eyes dance around. Hearts pound. Booming silence. As if all the air was sucked out, pause pressed on the world, like the chilling peace after a violent car crash.

  "Johnson," Daniels says as softly and calmly as possible.

  “Yeah.”

  “Go get everyone in here. Now.”

  Johnson stands up from his chair, turns toward the door, but stops.

  A lone sound rolls out from the speaker.

  Daniels leans in closer. It's faint at first, almost an inaudible whisper. As the volume grows, it's all too clear what the sound is. Laughter. Metallic, machinelike laughter. The manic laughter of an insane child. Giggles of young girls.

  “Weapons, people!” Daniels screams out, slamming his palm down on the alarm.

  The room flashes with a slow red strobe. The alarm sound wails.

  Daniels runs full tilt to the rack of guns along the wall, shoving assault rifles into the hands of the men and women of his command. Johnson rushes toward the door.

  “Hey!” Daniels calls out, tossing a rifle toward him.

  Johnson catches the gun in midstride as he hits the hallway in a dead sprint. Magazines slam in. Weapons lock and load. Daniels checks his favorite .45, putting one in the chamber as he moves back over to the screens.

  They’ve all gone dark. Dead glass staring back with squares of black. Not a single blip. Daniels presses the control override to shut off the alarm so he can try and listen to the speaker. Sound is all he has to go on at the moment. Hopefully, Johnson will get the rest of his command in here soon.

  The speaker ekes out the now familiar muffled metallic childlike sounds, creating a bone-chilling hum to the room as the red light pulses off and on.

  “Spread out,” he tells the room. “You two, on the door.”

  A woman presses her weapon to her shoulder, moving closer to the door. She remembers being upset for about a month that this room has no window. Now she couldn't be happier. A fellow PFC follows her, taking the other side with his rifle locked on the door.

  The door thumps.

  Daniels puts up a hand, letting everyone know to stand their ground. That door was explicitly built to keep the bad out. To hold the line. Reinforced steel, bulletproof, tested again and again against hurricanes and wrath-of-God type stuff.

  “Johnson?” he calls out, raising his .45.

  Th
e door pounds harder. The room shakes. The maniacal, childlike laughs now come from behind the door. Louder than ever. The beating at the door grows in intensity. The force behind it is gaining strength as well. The door jumps. It barely hangs on to its hinges.

  Everyone in the room readies their assault rifles, aimed at the door. Daniels considers his options. He reaches for the red phone on the desk. The holy shit phone, they call it in meetings. As his fingers touch the red plastic phone, the side wall thumps as if a wrecking ball was coming through.

  Daniels whips around toward the wall.

  The steel door explodes open. The twirling slab of metal is sent spinning over Daniels's head, crashing into a row of monitors, taking them down like bowling pins. Half of PFC Johnson's body flops on the floor. The other half is thrown like a sloppy rag doll, hitting the woman at the door and sending her hurtling down to the floor.

  Blood still sprays from where Johnson’s been cut in half. Red spits up over the walls like a sprinkler, covering the men and women of Daniels’s command.

  "Open up," Daniels screams out, blasting a flurry of bullets into the doorway, trying to cut down an enemy he can't see.

  The wall behind him bursts open. The room goes blinding white. Ripping. Tearing. A blur of bloody pulp mixed with screams. Then nothing. A sudden, dead silence leaves an echo as the last body part flops down to the floor.

  The sound of a metallic giggle of little girls rolls.

  Chapter Twenty

  Dibs feels bad.

  Well, not too bad.

  He called Kate. Okay, more like he called her thirty-three times to wake her up. He'll make it up to her. Or, more likely, she'll make him pay at a later date. Either way, he’s good.

  He parks his Blazer, but before he can even get out and knock on the door Kate opens it up wide. Stepping back, she reveals a house that’s ready for him. She’s been waiting. Preparing, again.

  Dibs can't help but feel touched by the effort made. Not only is Kate still dressed for seduction, but there's more. Candles are lit throughout the small house, with the sweet smell of something. He has no idea what, but he likes it. All of it. The only electric light on is in the bedroom. The soothing sounds of Billie Holiday tickle the air. Dibs had never listened to that kind of music before Kate. He's a classic Monsters of Rock fella, but that voice is difficult to argue with. Besides, getting it on to the Scorpions seems a little freshman year, even to Dibs.