Lovely Death Page 11

  “It was my father’s,” she said. “It’s the only thing of his I ever kept. Used to open every lock in this place. But now it’s about as useful here as I am. Maybe it can be of better service to you.”

  “Delilah, I can’t.”

  She put a finger to his lips and before he could stop her she kissed him. It was passionate, full of heat and intensity. And then it was over. Delilah backed away from him. Nick sputtered as she touched his eyes with her departing fingertips.

  His eyes closed. The world faded to black.

  Fifteen

  Nick awoke to the sound of rapping knuckles on wood. Sunlight streamed through the window, washing over half of the bed. At some point in the night he must have found his way beneath the blankets because that was where he woke. His head was buried in a down feather pillow that was slightly wet with drool.

  Again came the knocks. Nick leaned upright with a groan. Not only did he not recall putting himself properly to bed; he didn’t remember switching off the light either. A yawn forced its way out and Nick licked his dry lips. He looked around the room, the events of the evening prior drifting to the surface of his memory. He thought of the pretty young lass in the blue dress, the one with the morose history and penchant for bourbon.

  The bottle was still next to the bed, mostly drained. The glasses were there too.

  Nick straightened his back in a stretch, thinking of the fascinating possibility of the situation. And as he rubbed his crusty but refreshed eyes he realized why. He had just had the first decent night’s sleep since Laura’s death. He remembered everything in vivid detail. Not just of the evening prior, but of the entire situation in general. There was a clarity and presence of mind in him that he had not felt fully since this whole mess had begun.

  In that moment, as he sat there in bed, he began to process the reality of his situation with startlingly clear perspective. Coupled with the revelations of his chat with the spectral female, his freshly limbered mind showed him exactly what he needed to do. Whatever the cost, it was imperative that Nick find out who the Black Tar Man was, and what role he played in bringing Nick and Laura together after her death. He also knew that he had to come clean with Layla. After all the shit he’d put her through he owed her the truth, at the very least.

  “Dammit, Nick. Wake up!” This was followed by further knocking.

  He slid the latch off the door and opened it.

  Layla looked freshly scrubbed. Her hair was messy, but clean, and her cheeks had better color. She looked him over, and brought a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh.

  “Jesus Christ, Nick. This is a family show.”

  He looked down and saw that the head of his penis was poking out of the little cotton trapdoor of his boxers.

  “Sorry about that.” He said it more out of amusement than embarrassment. “Shit, I overslept. Give me a few minutes to shower?”

  Layla snorted, watching him fumble with his shorts. She forked over Nick’s travel bag. “You already missed the free continental breakfast. Which is a shame because the stale muffins were to die for.”

  “You want to come in?” He held the door wide, but Layla waved him off.

  “I’m going to go get another cup of burned coffee before they finish putting things away. I’ll meet you downstairs.”

  With that, she left. Nick shut the door, smiling when he looked down and realized he was wearing Delilah’s skeleton key around his neck. The dark piece of steel sat nestled against his chest, warmed by his skin. For the first time in days Nick felt like he was confidently in control of himself again. Sure, that didn’t solve any of his actual problems at hand, but in the grand scheme, it was a hell of a good start.

  Nick showered quickly, like he always did. And after shaving, he wasted damn little time in front of the mirror. He checked his pants pockets and was disappointed—but not surprised—to find the bullet still waiting there for him. He knew that whatever supernatural force kept returning the thing would no doubt do it once again, but that still didn’t deter him from tossing it into the plastic wastebasket before he left the room.

  With his jacket and travel case in hand, he met Layla on the third floor. She was seated at the same table they’d eaten at last night, reading a newspaper. Somewhere in the distance, the bleeps and blops of a slot machine sounded, followed by the tinkle of falling money. Indeed, if there had been free breakfast, any evidence of it had already been cleared from the room.

  Layla handed Nick a paper travel cup full of coffee.

  “I wasn’t sure, so I opted for cream.”

  “Perfect. Thanks. You ready to make tracks?”

  She set the newspaper aside, picked up her puffy coat, and the two of them went downstairs to the parking lot.

  Nick unlocked the doors and they got into the car. The white leather was stiff and about as warm as sitting on a block of ice. Fortunately, the big block motor didn’t take long to heat up.

  “I thought this was still Fall,” Nick said.

  “Welcome to the great North,” Layla replied through chattering teeth. She blew into her hands and vigorously rubbed them together in front of the heater vent. Her relief was audible when hot air began pushing through it.

  Nick backed out of the lot and parked in front of the hotel. As the motor warmed, Nick eyed the four-story building. The light of day showed its true age. Bricks the color of dried blood composed the outer framework, all chipped and rounded at the edges from exposure to the elements. In contrast, the front of the place was a nicely kept wood-siding façade, painted navy blue. The railings, trim, and banisters were all painted the same hue. Suspended at the center of the face, between the third and fourth floors, hung a giant painted sign. It proclaimed the proud name of The Blue Belle, along with the smiling portrait of the casino’s buxom blonde mascot.

  Nick bit his lip. The nose was a little different, but it was undoubtedly the face of Delilah looking back at him. He thought of her woeful tale and nodded at the sign as if it were actually her staring back at him. He half expected to see her standing in a window, watching him with those sad eyes. But it did not happen. When he glanced down at the silvery key hanging on the outside of his tee shirt it blinked back at him in the sunlight. He decided that was sign enough. Nick offered up a silent bit of thanks, slipped the transmission into gear, and rumbled off down the street.

  After stopping for gas and some more coffee, the pair of misbegotten travelers was back on the highway by nine-thirty.

  From the dashboard, the GPS unit declared that Chicago, Illinois was now within 1000 miles. If they followed the legal speed limit, they were destined to arrive in thirteen hours. Nick thought they could do it in eleven. While the pinpoint bleeped back at them from a digital relief map, Nick found himself considering Layla’s question from the day before. What did he hope to find in the Windy City? Sure, he knew he would find Sandra, but with a headful of clear logic, he began to wonder what else he was hoping for. Before, his heart had been his compass, pointing him in her direction out of instinct and desperation. But what would she say when he just showed up at her doorstep? Would she forgive him? Better yet, would he forgive her?

  They hadn’t spoken in months, not since the incident. But, if not Chicago, where else was he supposed to go? At least it was a destination. And though he couldn’t explain it, Nick knew he had to keep moving. He had to keep on the road.

  “You’re quiet this morning,” Layla said. “How’d you sleep?”

  Nick sipped from his Styrofoam gas station cup.

  “Really well. I feel about a hundred times better. How about you?”

  Layla shrugged. “Not the best, but not the worst. I always have weird dreams when I sleep in hotel rooms.”

  “I’ve been doing some thinking,” Nick said, “and it’s time I come clean with you.”

  “How’s that?”

  “I mean, not that I’ve been lying to you, but I just think there are some things you ought to know. Hopefully it will help me look less crazy.
Actually, now that I think about it, it’ll probably make me look more crazy.”

  Layla arched an eyebrow at him.

  “But I guess that’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  “According to the GPS, we’ve got a lot of time to kill.”

  Nick flexed his fingers on the wheel, relaxing himself and gathering his thoughts.

  “It all started on the night Laura Scranton died.” He paused, then corrected himself. “On the night that I killed her.”

  He was aware of Layla shifting minutely in her seat. The plainness of the fact clearly troubled her, but she said nothing. But that was fine. Because this was a story that needed no secondary commentary. It too was cold and factual, just like the police report that had been filed after Laura had been hauled off in the back of the Coroner’s van.

  “That was the night I started to lose my mind. At that point, I didn’t know it was serious. It started as a series of terrible nightmares I began having for the following week. And to call them terrible is being kind. I dreamed of her, dying over and over at my hand, in a thousand different angles and perspectives. I saw myself as the bullet, tearing apart her insides and spilling hot blood like a fountain through the entry wound in her skin. I saw our first meeting. It was in a bar. Like you and me.”

  Like all of them.

  “She came to me in my dreams, scaring the living shit out of me, making me relive the guilt and the horror over and over again. And I would wake up, somehow manage to drink myself to sleep again, and it would start all over. I hardly slept at all. All the while, I was trying to dodge the scumbag paparazzi, the bloodsucking reporters all looking for an exclusive interview. Even though the police report cleared me, and an eyewitness, the tabloids just couldn’t let me be an innocent man. Could they? But you know all of that, already. And it’s beside the point.”

  Nick took another sip of coffee, recharged his vocal cords.

  “The dreams got worse. By the second week, Laura had started talking to me in them. And it wasn’t just the product of a guilty conscience. She wanted something. She expected something from me. And even though I couldn’t bring myself to believe it, the deepest part of my heart knew that what was happening was unnatural. Supernatural.”

  He didn’t realize he was doing it, but Nick was fondling the skeleton key with his right hand. Layla noticed it, however.

  “The pressure was too much. I was already swamped with wrapping up final edits on the new film, but with this...I had to go. I was suffocating. I needed to get out of town. And my Assistant Director agreed. He said I couldn’t run away from my problems, but that a change of scenery would do me good. He suggested I visit Laura’s grave.”

  Nick bit his lip.

  “No, that’s not right. The trip to her grave was my idea. He just agreed with me, told me that it might help provide some closure. Shit, how did I forget that? It was never his idea at all.”

  Layla pulled her own coffee cup out of the cup holder. The motion brought Nick back to reality.

  “Anyway, that was when things got really bad. After the graveyard. That was the day I started seeing things. Hallucinations. I saw Leonard Harrow walk right into my life plain as day. He’s the main antagonist from my first movie—”

  “I know who he is,” Layla interrupted softly. “Everybody does.”

  “He—he sat down right next to me at the bar. Your bar. He threatened me. A fictional fucking psychopath threatened my life. It was unreal. And I drank myself stupid trying to forget it. Trying to forget all of it. That was the night I met you.”

  “I’m sorry, Nick.”

  “No, I’m sorry. I almost killed you that night and I think I know why. Laura Scranton is haunting me, Layla. She’s haunting my soul. She wants me to kill myself so that we can be together forever.”

  Layla whispered as if her words were made of fine china. “Nick, that’s not possible.”

  “It’s possible. And it’s true. She’s bound herself to me. I don’t know how, but she’s done it. And she’s not going to rest until I’m dead and in the ground. But somewhere out there is a man who can help me undo it.”

  “Do you realize how—”

  “Impossible this sounds? Yeah, I do. Here, look at this.”

  Nick leaned back, maneuvering the wheel with one hand while plucking the again reappeared bullet out of his pocket.

  “I’ve thrown this bullet away fifteen times in the past few days. You even watched me do it yesterday after I almost drove off the road.”

  He rolled down the window, held the bullet up so that she could read the inscription, and tossed it out into the wind. A second later, he reached into his pocket once more and dug out the exact same, engraved round. He did it again, watching her as she watched his pocket. It was clearly empty, flat against his skin.

  He reached in and pulled out the very same bullet. He threw it out the window and repeated the process once more.

  “I swear to God, Layla. I’m no magician. This is real.”

  “How?”

  “I don’t know,” Nick said. “But I’m going to find out.”

  “Let me see that,” she demanded in a quiet tone. She reached across the length of the bench seat and took the brass-cased hunk of lead from his fingers. “How?”

  “I already told you,” Nick said. “I don’t know how it’s happening, but it is.”

  Layla shook her head resolutely. She held the bullet up to her eyes, inspecting the inscription writ upon the casing. “No. I mean…I don’t get it. I’ve seen this before.”

  “What do you mean?” Nick asked. She had captured his full attention.

  The raven-haired girl shifted in the passenger seat. She put a hand to her temple, shook her head again.

  “Last night,” Layla said. “It’s completely impossible, but I dreamed about this bullet. A man kept trying to give it to me. He was dressed in bones. And his eyes were like balls of blue fire. He wanted me to have it.”

  Interlude II: Through The Past, Darkly

  The editing room was a thing of stark beauty. The overhead lights were dimmed to quarter power, leaving the six matte flat screen monitors to provide the majority of the sleek room’s lighting. Below the wall of screens rested a fifteen-foot-long bank of mixer boards. Hand dials, flashing buttons, and rows of sliding switches adorned its surface. The walls were wrapped with thick black soundproof material. Two wide windows sat at the rear of the room, looking out into a dark, untraveled hallway.

  At the foot of the mixing table sat two swiveling office chairs. Both were occupied, with their owners staring intently at the giant center screen. On its crystal clear display was a radiantly pretty blonde, standing in a tattered and dirty white wedding dress, a dripping wet axe hoisted defiantly toward the camera. A splattered mess of blood coated half of her body in a sanguine tattoo. Her chest rose and fell sharply, ample breasts heaving forward with every breath. She stared at the fallen body of her offscreen enemy, unfathomable relief washing over her face. The muscles in her face began to slacken as her defensive snarl faded. Her struggle was over. She had not only survived, but found bloody triumph.

  The ravishing, wounded victor stared a few tense seconds longer. Her dark eyes flicked to the camera, staring directly into the souls of the viewers. That stare was chilling.

  The screen cut to black. The credits began to roll.

  Nick Aragon leaned back in his chair, ran a hand down his short, unkempt beard. A faded Colorado Rockies baseball cap was tipped back over his scraggly black hair and he righted it after lowering the headphones from his ears. He looked over to Lewis to witness his reaction.

  Lewis Reed, the film’s Assistant Director, was dressed in a blue zip-up hoodie and square-framed black spectacles. He sat with his chin rested against his steepled fingers, like an intensely invested NASA engineer at the command deck in Houston, watching his astronaut pals navigate a particularly serious situation. He stared at the steadily rolling names for a full thirty seconds before realizing he was bein
g watched. Lewis leaned back, slid his own headphones from atop his clean-shaven dome, and smiled.

  “It’s fucking brilliant,” Lewis said quietly.

  Nick stroked his beard, smiling. He knew Lewis well enough to know that he was neither an ass-kisser nor a sugar-coater. He tipped his head back, reached his arms toward the ceiling, and did a momentary impression of a triumphant Rocky Balboa, pumping his fists in the air and holding them there.

  “Sweet Jesus. It’s finally done.”

  There was a slim, black mini refrigerator at his feet and Nick opened it. He produced a magnum bottle of craft Avery Brewing beer called The Reverend and two chilled glasses. “And most importantly, it’s not a piece of flaming dogshit.”

  Lewis chuckled. He gestured to the fridge, which the studio always kept well stocked with alcoholic refreshments. “Was there a bottle of cyanide in there just in case it was?”

  Nick gave a tight-lipped grin as he pried the bottle cap off with his keychain opener. “I knew it was decent, brother. I just wanted to hear you say it.”

  A glass was proffered and Lewis took it graciously as Nick began to pour. The Assistant Director took a sip, scanned his mental notepad, and spoke. “My only complaint is that the sound still needs tweaking, particularly in the second Harrow scene. His voice grates so much it’s almost not understandable. Like Nolan’s Batman. I think if we can cut about ten percent of the lower end bass out of it, it will really sharpen up the dialogue.”

  Nick nodded. “Agreed. I don’t want him to sound like a wuss, but the creepiness factor definitely drops if you can’t understand what the fucker’s saying.” He took a long draught of his honey sweet ale. “Let’s slate that for some time in the next couple weeks. I’ll have Linda call over and check to see the next time the Mastering Suite is available.”