Lovely Death Read online

  Troy lost his balance and fell to the ground again, landing on his ass. He cupped his head in his hands, bleeding freely onto the floor.

  Nick lay there on the expanse of white carpet, staring at the pristine canvas of the rectangular ceiling. Only a few minutes ago that alabaster slate had been his life, perfectly aligned and smooth. And now, as he painfully caught his breath, he saw that his world had become little more than the blood-spattered rug upon which his head rested. He slowly lifted himself onto his elbows and surveyed the room.

  Thanks to Troy’s gushing nose, the place looked like a murder scene. In a way, Nick supposed it was.

  While he sat there, alone, Sandra was attending to Troy’s bleeding face. At some point she’d stopped screeching and had gotten towels from the bathroom. One was pressed firmly against Troy’s head. The other was thrown across his lap. Nick exhaled slowly. He and Sandra had picked those towels out together at the mall. Like normal people. When they had been madly in love and without a care in the world. That had only been a few months ago. A knot of emotion lodged itself in Nick’s throat as he questioned the fact of whether or not she’d ever really loved him, whether this whole relationship had been a one-way street. Doubt gripped his guts and twisted them like a sopping, bloody bandage.

  In that moment Nick hated her. He hated Sandra more than any human being he had ever hated before. Because he had loved her, had trusted her more than any other person he’d known before. He imagined punching her in the face, of pounding her even harder than he had done to her dickhead ex-boyfriend.

  The rage began to ebb once more, but when Nick stood, he watched the two of them huddled together in a pathetic glob beside the dresser. It was a pitiful thing to see. And though he would have been happy to see the man dead, he knew that Troy was beaten. Any further damage would probably earn him a surefire ticket to jail.

  “Hey dickface, it’s different when you fight a man, isn’t it? We punch back. Good luck with that, Sandy.”

  Troy tried to stand, but Sandra pressed him back down. He coughed into the bloody towel and glowered at Nick.

  “Fuck you, faggot.”

  Sandra increased the pressure of the towel on his face. She might as well have been tightening the fit of a dagger into Nick’s still beating heart.

  Nick looked at her imploringly. “Why?” It was only one word, but when it was directed at his cheating woman there was no question as to its intention.

  “Because you weren’t here,” she said timidly. Her eyes were red. Her cheeks, puffy and wet. “You’re never fucking here. Not anymore.”

  “But, honey,” Nick said, “I love you.” Tears had crept into the corners of his eyes too.

  Silence hung in the air as Nick stared at his one true love, who, only moments ago had been taking the cock of another man. She would not meet his stare. His heart was a gaping gunshot wound and he could barely think straight enough to process what was going on.

  “You should go,” she said.

  “Go? I fucking live here. This is my home, goddammit!”

  “No, it’s not,” Sandra said. “It’s mine.”

  When she stroked Troy’s hair, it was like a sledgehammer being driven into Nick’s stomach.

  “Just get out of here, bro,” sniveled Troy. “Before we call the cops.”

  Nick didn’t remember leaving. He didn’t recall blindly snaring an armful of his clothes from the closet, nor the elevator ride down to the garage level. He did not register the drive to his home across town, and had no recollection of stopping at the liquor store along the way.

  And that was just the start. Nick didn’t remember much of the ensuing three months. He spent most of it drunk, wallowing in his own self-loathing and avoiding the outside world. He would have been hard pressed to recall a single name of one of the various women he brought home from bars. But that was just it; he didn’t want to remember. He wanted to forget. He wanted to forget it all.

  Lewis handled the remainder of the Return to the Grindstone finalizing. And eventually, his agent took over handling his phone calls.

  In fact, the next time Nick was jolted back to reality, it was when he was staring down the barrel of a smoking gun, watching Laura Scranton die.

  Sixteen

  The road was the only constant factor in Nick’s life. It was the single thing that could be relied upon with unwavering confidence. It was an eternal presence: sprawling, endlessly interconnected, and unashamedly brutal. The road was life. Stripped down bare, it was a symbolic map of all that had come before, and all paths yet waiting to be traveled. And even across the same stretch of sun-baked asphalt, no two journeys could ever be the same.

  Nick was a traveler, both in his mind and in life, and the road suited him fine. It was little wonder that when shit had truly begun to unravel back in Los Angeles he had taken to the highway. It had not been an act of cowardice, or of fearful abandonment. It had been the eventual reaction of a man who had only for the briefest moment of his life ever been at peace with his surroundings. It was a return to his home. Only now, looking back in retrospect, could he see that this was the case.

  It was amazing what a good night’s sleep could do for a man’s mental clarity. It had been six hours since Nick had awoken in his bed at the Blue Belle. Deadwood was a quarter of a day in the rearview mirror and Nick had had plenty of time to do some thinking while he guided the Cougar east along the thickening traffic of I-90 in the early afternoon. He and Layla had blown through the entire state of South Dakota in six hours and were well into the geographical terrain of southern Minnesota. While the elevation had rapidly decreased, the temperature had conversely risen over twenty degrees. There was no longer any trace of snow and the sun had left behind the tent of cloud cover ever since they’d gotten through the mountains.

  Nick cast a glance into the backseat, where Layla snoozed. She was sprawled across the ample bench seat, with her head rested atop her folded jacket.

  Layla looked at peace. But Nick still worried.

  After their conversation, in which Nick had confessed the true nature of his haunting by Laura Scranton, he had been shaken by her insistence that she had seen the inscribed bullet in her dreams. Nick had of course assured her that it was a mistaken case of déjà vu, that she must have seen it when he’d dropped it on the ground after letting her out of the trunk, or that she’d witnessed him with it at some point after that and then forgotten about it. But he wasn’t sure. How could he be? It was impossible for Layla to be affected by any of this, wasn’t it? She had never met Laura in her life. She was a random addition in all of this. Surely the Black Tar Man could have no sway over her the way he had over Nick. Could he?

  Layla had not said much after that, succumbing to the ever growing pain of her headache.

  Nick eyed her sleeping form and was reminded painfully of Sandra. He could not count the number of times he had seen her tucked away helplessly in their darkened bedroom, cowering in pain at the unmerciful persistence of a migraine. It was a weekly occurrence, had even interrupted the shooting schedule of some major scenes during the shooting of the sequel.

  He remembered bringing her hot packs, and cool packs, and compresses of all shape and size. It was a psychosomatic manifestation. Nick knew that. Much like his bout with severe back pain had been in his early twenties. But it still hurt like hell.

  At the last filling station Nick had picked up a bottle of ibuprofen and a few bottles of cold water. Layla had been sleeping in the back for over two hours now. He hoped that when she woke she would be back to her usual self. His thoughts had taken a turn for the darker, as they usually did when he thought about Sandra, and even the background noise of the radio was not enough of a distraction for him anymore.

  He touched the skeleton key dangling from his neck, which served to calm him some. He had no doubt that the charm had been his ticket to a solid night of sleep, and therefore his mental clarity. But there was no way of telling how long it would last. As the ghostly visage of Th
e Blue Belle had intimated, his condition was a chronic one, and not something to be neglected.

  Through the speakers the Black Rebel Motorcycle Club blazed psychedelic guitar riffs, the sound of which Nick kept time with by tapping his fingers against the steering wheel. He gunned the motor a half step to pass a minivan that had bumbled its way into the fast lane like a confused sloth. Once past it, Nick regained his place on the left and switched on the cruise control. Traffic was intermittent and strange. It was a wasteland compared to any major highway in L.A., which was a godsend. Because they were making great time. At this rate they would reach Wisconsin within the next hour and a half. From there, Chicago was only a few hours further. Fatigue was not an issue, at least not yet. Nick felt that he could keep them safely on the road for the remainder of the trip.

  It was the termination point of the journey he did not want to think about.

  Nick drank from the half-empty water bottle in his lap and looked into the rearview mirror. There was no telling for certain what vast landscapes Layla’s sleeping mind was projecting into her unconsciousness. Whatever dreams may have come, he hoped they took her far away from the pain in her head and helped her to feel better.

  He dug the inscribed .45 caliber round from his pocket and held it in his hand. He squeezed the thing, feeling hatred pour from him, which he pressed into the bullet as hard as he could. He thought of Laura, clenched his jaw, and squeezed harder. When the muscles in his fist ached, he was forced to relax his grip. The fully jacketed slug sat dead in his hand, dead as the woman who had put it there. Knowing full well the inevitability of the act, Nick rolled the window down just enough to hurl the bullet out onto the road.

  When the wind was cut off and quiet returned to the cabin, Nick put his focus again on his sleeping passenger.

  Judging by the docile tranquility of Layla’s face he surmised that she was probably not dreaming of bullets possessed by magical properties. At least he hoped not.

  Seventeen

  Layla woke up screaming.

  Her body twisted in the backseat, arms grabbing at air while her boots connected solidly with the back of the driver’s seat.

  Nick was not prepared for it. By that point in the journey he had been lost to the Zen-like trance induced by the monotonous, endless roll of road stripes. He had been at the wheel for a total of nine hours and had finally begun to feel the weight of travel, both in his head and in his ass. Sanity reclaimed or not, Nick was not a machine. And when Layla’s terrified cry ripped him back to the real world he was less than ready for it.

  John Lennon had been approaching the crescendo of Hey Jude on the radio, when the shrill scream cut him off.

  At once, Nick squeezed the wheel. His surprise caused him to jerk the car halfway into the neighboring lane. Thankfully there had been no car positioned immediately beside them, lest they would have been driven off the road. Instead, the Cougar dove most of the way into the right lane before Nick corrected and applied the brakes. The tires screeched under the sudden duress, but the car remained glued to the road.

  Nick slowed the vehicle down the rest of the way and guided it to the shoulder. Two passing cars honked angrily, evidence that the likelihood of a multi-vehicle collision had been much closer than originally thought.

  Inside the car at least, the screaming had ceased. Layla sat with her head in her hands, weeping hard. Violent, wracking sobs made her body shudder. With the sun now down, Nick could only see her figure lit by the soft azure glow of the instrument panel. He put his hand to his chest and winced. Something tugged uncomfortably beneath his breastbone. It came from the vicinity of his rapidly beating heart. And then an inexplicable surge of rage overtook him. He seized the steering wheel in a steely grip, twisting until his knuckles went white. The pain in his chest tightened, as if pure hatred was being wrung from his body’s most important muscle. That anger, that boiling fury bolted through him, electrifying every one of his nerves as if he’d touched a live wire.

  And then it was gone. The wrathful tide burned out just as quickly as it had started. It was over. A dull ache in his chest persisted and for the briefest moment he wondered if he hadn’t almost given himself a heart attack. After a moment, the ache too faded and Nick was left staring back at himself in the mirror.

  When she shifted in the reflection behind him, Nick’s attention was drawn back to Layla, who sniffled loudly into her hands and wiped a stream of tears from her cheeks. She saw his stunned face looking back at her in the mirror and seemed to only just realize that he’d been there all along. Relief sparked in her stare and she lunged forward to wrap her arms around his neck.

  At first Nick was taken aback, but when he felt her fingers dig fearfully into the muscles of his chest, he realized that she was not trying to attack him, but was rather giving him an embrace from behind. It was an awkward thing, the way she wrapped herself around the seat, pinning him to it, but after a moment she pushed herself clumsily (but forcefully) over the center console and into Nick’s lap.

  The motor growled in a sudden spike when Layla’s leg forced Nick’s foot into the gas pedal. He reached around her and twisted the key to the off position.

  “Hey, hey, it’s alright. Come here. What’s the matter, huh?”

  Layla buried her face into Nick’s neck while her chest rose and fell in sharp, shallow gasps. He pulled her close, ran his hands through her inky Tinkerbell haircut. He could not help but notice that she still smelled shower fresh, like whatever flowery flavor of soap they had provided back at the Blue Belle. She had not eaten a thing since breakfast and Nick was simply relieved to see her awake. He had tried to rouse her at the last stop a few hours back, and had become more than a little concerned at her almost catatonic unresponsiveness.

  Layla sobbed into his tee shirt, soaking the collar.

  “Talk to me, darling,” Nick said, holding her close. “I was starting to get worried about you. You slept all day long.”

  At the sound of his voice she calmed a bit, her breaths becoming slower and more even.

  “Oh God,” she said. She tried to say more but spluttered into a coughing fit.

  “Hey, easy now,” Nick said, reaching across the seat. “Here, have a sip of water. You’re probably dehydrated.”

  Layla took the offered bottle and tilted it up to her lips. She swallowed gratefully, relishing the refreshment. A slow sip turned into hearty gulping, and in less than thirty seconds the upended bottle was empty. She let it fall to the seat and tilted her head back to take a deep breath.

  When she looked into Nick’s eyes he saw that their pale blue corneas had been surrounded and overrun by irritated redness. Her cheeks were puffy and wet, and she frowned at him.

  “I—I didn’t think I’d ever get out.” That was all she could manage at first. Layla took a few sturdier breaths, found her mental footing.

  “Hey, it’s okay. You just had a bad dream. You’re alright now. You’re with me.”

  “No,” she said in a firm tone. Layla shook her head gravely. “No, it wasn’t just a bad dream. Not at all. I was trapped, Nick. He had me in that…that dungeon of his, beneath the city in the subway. The place with all of the…human skins on the walls.”

  Nick recognized the description immediately. Layla had just described the subterranean lair of Leonard Harrow, the South Side Skinner. It was the place he lived, the place he killed. At least it had been in the movies.

  “You had a nightmare,” Nick assured her. “I think you must have taken too many of those pain meds and they fucked up your sleep. Gave you some bad juju. You’ve been out cold all day long. But we’re in Chicago now. See, there’s the Sears Tower—er, Willis Tower. We’re only ten minutes from downtown. We’re here. It’s all okay now. See?”

  “No!” Layla shouted, right into his face. “You’re not fucking listening to me. He had me in a cage. It was real! He jabbed at me through the bars with a machete. And he laughed while I screamed. Jesus, I wished I was dead, Nick. I never, ever, want t
o go back there. It smelled like death. That man is death.”

  “That man…”

  “Isn’t real,” Layla finished for him. “I know it. I’m not a fucking lunatic. But it wasn’t just Leonard Harrow. He was him…but at the same time he wasn’t. He was someone else. He was darkness. A man made of shadows.”

  A tingle ran up the back of Nick’s neck. He had never mentioned the Black Tar Man to Layla.

  “And he’s mad at you, Nick. No, he’s furious. He said that if you don’t take that goddamned key off he’s going to—”

  Clearly, Layla did not wish to repeat the message. She shuddered, hugged her thin body against Nick’s torso.

  “What? He’s going to what?”

  “He—he said he’s going to boil me alive and peel off my skin.” She took Nick by the shoulders, roughly, and gave him a pleading look. She gripped the side of her head, wincing. “And I believe him. He’s the one who did this to me, Nick. The pain…I can hardly stand it.”

  Layla looked to the necklace, frowning, and could not help herself from bursting into tears again.

  Nick reeled. His surprise came in bittersweet twofold. The Black Tar Man, the being that had bound his and Laura’s hearts together, was not only capable of reaching out and manipulating people beyond Nick, but he had made it abundantly clear that he would do so at will, in order to gain Nick’s compliance.

  The second part of his surprise was more of a confirmation than a revelation. The protective charm worked. The skeleton key was a successful ward against whatever dark arts were clawing for his soul. And for that, Nick was cursed.

  As he stroked Layla’s short, thick hair, Nick knew that he was the cause of her torture. Her mental anguish was on his head, caused by his wearing of the key. It made him sick with himself. He had been at the top of his game, at peak comfort and mental clarity all day long. And it had come at a steep price.