Released:
Hacksaw
Ruthless gangsters and unscrupulous federal agents collide with Houston PI Eva Baum's hunt for a serial murderer in this exciting detective novel.
Chapter One
“All right, Eva, let me get this straight. You want me to pay this … woman twenty dollars so she will ‘read’ me and tell you whether I’m a ‘putz’ or not.”
I looked at Crazy Wilma, standing there in the harsh glare of the streetlight, trying to see her through Norman’s eyes. Norman the surgeon with his crisp white linen shirt and conservatively striped tie. Norman with the tassels on his impeccably polished leather loafers and the gold Rolex on his wrist. Would he see the genuine affection for me in Wilma’s bulging constantly darting walleyes? Would he have noticed how she had deliberately circled us to put herself down breeze so as not to offend us with her admittedly horrendous stench? Would he see how frail she was beneath her tattered clothes?
I found that I couldn’t see Wilma through his eyes. My vision was modified by what I knew. I remembered bringing her grandson to the park one day so that she could watch him playing on the jungle gym, her standing like a statue half-hidden by a tree for two hours. She must have memorized every detail because she would regale me with retellings of the momentous day every chance I gave her. And Wilma would take no charity. So I paid her for her infallible ability to judge people. Or actually I had my dates pay her. She had never been wrong yet. She invariably declared them putzes, and they invariably turned out to be just that. Only Eddie had gotten a tentative “half-putz,” and she had been dead on there.
Norman looked down at me, lowering his head to see me through the proper part of his bifocals. He’s six feet two inches tall, and I’m only four feet eleven inches—though my killer stiletto heels added some to my total. I gave him an encouraging smile. He must have liked what he saw. From his height, he was getting a great view down the cleavage of my summer frock. I hate bras. He grudgingly pulled a pair of sawbucks from his Italian leather billfold and passed them gingerly to Wilma.
Wilma gave him a thorough going over with her less clouded eye, then gave a decisive shake of her head. “He’s a putz.”
“Don’t take it too hard Norman. Wilma is our local Cassandra. Her evaluations never seem to affect my behavior in any way.” I gave him a coquettish smile that seemed to cheer him immensely.
“Ain’t you going to have Shade draw you and the putz?” Wilma gestured over to where Shade had set up a small easel and drawing pad. It took her a while to register that Shade was not there. “He was here just a minute ago. I told him that you told me you was bringing a sucker here. I hope the aliens hasn’t got him.”
I glanced up at Norman. He looked annoyed. I could only manage a sheepish grin this time. “I’m sure the aliens haven’t got him, Wilma. I’m sure he’ll be back in a little while—he wouldn’t leave his things for long. Tell him that we’ll see him after we’ve eaten.”
Wilma was nodding and mumbling about aliens as I took Norman’s hand and dragged him into Gino’s. The bell over Gino’s door smacked him in the head. I heard him mumbling just like Wilma. I couldn’t quite make out what he was saying, though I think it had something to do with “scams”, “tiny trollop”, and “better be worth it.” Heck, what was he complaining about? Even with the twenty for Wilma and the twenty he was going to give Shade for sketching a memento of our wonderful first date he was going to come out ahead of the game. After all, I had insisted on Gino’s where the food is both plentiful and very cheap instead of the expensive restaurant to which he had wanted to take me. He’d probably only drop another forty dollars in Gino’s, even with wine. He would easily have spent two hundred dollars at that pretentious place, especially the way I eat. And if he had any knowledge of my past dating history his chances were darned good of getting very lucky indeed.
The only other patrons in Gino’s were Mr. and Mrs. Kim from the Golden Dragon next door. Gino invariably ate at their establishment and they invariably ate at Gino’s. The Kim’s ate sparingly and Gino did not, so it worked out roughly equitably. Gino himself led us to a booth. The red vinyl bench was cracked; the red and white checked plastic tablecloth had a tear down the middle; and the candle in the Chianti bottle was sputtering in the last few minutes of life before it fell inside the bottle. But within a few minutes we had a bottle of a very sweet wine-like liquid, focaccia bread to dip in little plates of olive oil, and some goat cheese covered with slivers of sun-dried tomato. I had also taken off one of my stilettos and was exploring the skin just above Norman’s sock with my toes. He seemed considerably more at ease. Almost calm enough for me to introduce the topic of my profession. Surprisingly, few men react positively when they learn I’m a licensed PI.
It was at this moment that Mrs. Kim screamed. I turned to see Crazy Wilma staggering towards our table. She had an ugly gash across her forehead and blood was flowing copiously down her face.
"He hurt me. And now he's hurting Shade. Hurry, Eva.” Wilma’s voice was a harsh whisper and slurred. She just reached our table when she collapsed. Norman instinctively drew back—I had to throw myself across the table to keep Wilma’s head from smashing into the corner. Wilma’s weight carried me on across and I ended up tangled with an unconscious Wilma on the floor. Norman helped me to my feet. I could barely stand with one barefoot and one six-inch heel, so I quickly took off my other shoe, trying not to slip in the olive oil I had all over myself and spilled on the floor.
“Come on Norman, we’ve got to help Shade.” I ran/slid for the door but Norman didn’t follow. He had at least bent down to examine Wilma’s wound. He looked up just as I reached the door.
“Don’t be a fool, Eva. Wait for the cops.” He gestured towards Mr. Kim who was already on the phone near the cash register. Putz.
The street outside Gino’s was empty. It was fully dark now though the sidewalk was garishly bright—lit by the sodium light above and the various shades of neon from Gino’s and the Golden Dragon on one side, and The Happy Sailor tattoo parlor on the other side. Neither Shade nor his attacker was visible. Shade’s easel was now on the ground, smashed. A trail of art pencils, gum erasers, and oddly shaped remnants of charcoal led off towards the alley between Gino’s and the tattoo parlor.
From somewhere behind the buildings I heard Shade scream. I ran into the pitch-black alley at full speed tripping over trash bags and bouncing off dumpsters. Sharp things gouged at my bare feet and I winced at the thought of the needles that might lie on the filthy pavement back there. I made it to the back door of Gino’s where there was light from a bare bulb. The back door opened bathing the alley in more light. Gino emerged covered in flour. He had a large marble rolling pin in his hand. He stepped out to block my way.
“Eva, wait. The police will be here soon.”
“Come with me Gino. Shade’s in trouble.” Gino could only shake his head. Whatever expression he saw on my face made his eyes well up with tears. I held out my hand for Gino's rolling pin. I was unarmed and it would have to do. He hesitated a moment and then handed it over. The damn thing must have weighed ten pounds.
I tore off without another word. It was ten more steps down the alley to a T. I took the right fork leading further away from the street. After another few steps, I listened and heard whimpering from somewhere ahead. For another twenty paces I was in utter darkness again. A dumpster nearly blocked the exit. I squeezed past on the right to emerge into a dismal courtyard full of trash.
The only light was from a powerful flashlight in the left hand of the figure standing over Shade. Shade was illuminated on the ground beside his overturned shopping cart clutching at his mangled right hand. The man standing over him was a dark silhouette. All I could see clearly was the huge revolver pressed to Shade's head.
"Police. Throw down your weapon. Now.” I was not the police and I had no weapon, but I think I got the voice right. Suddenly the light turned on me. I was blinded. I dove back the way I had come, behind the dumpster. The bastard shot at me, twice. He must've had a .44 magnum. Both rounds went completely through the steel dumpster making it sound like a gigantic bell. The whole thing rocked back into me, throwing me to the filthy cement. I picked myself up, took a step to my left, and saw two small circles of light from his flash shining right through the bullet holes onto the front of my now filthy dress. I had missed death by a step.
When the dumpster had rocked back, it had jammed against the alley walls on both sides. There was no way around. I backed away, then took a running start and jumped. I was barely able to clamber onto the lid of the dumpster, especially trying to hold on to that rolling pin with one hand. The gunman's light tracked wildly to the left and then the right of the dumpster. He didn't see me standing on the lid. I hurled the heavy rolling pin directly at the light. There was a satisfying grunt of pain and the flash fell to the cement. When it smashed, the courtyard returned to near total darkness. I heard the gunman running away across the courtyard and through the continuation of the alley on the other side. I made no attempt to follow.
I found Shade by his sobs. I could already hear sirens approaching. I got down and held him while the cops and EMT's made their way through the alley maze to find us.
Coming soon:
Dodger (working title)
In Dodger , Eva Baum has once again landed herself in a mess. How does a simple search for a runaway rich girl turn into battles with cyber-terrorists, child martial artists, blackmailers, and a particularly unsympathetic Homeland Security agent? And somewhere in the shadows manipulating all the players lurks the mysterious mastermind called Dodger.
Chapter One
“What’s gotten into you, Eva? If you don’t want to go out with the guy, just tell him. And don’t even try to tell me you’re afraid of hurting his feelings. I know you better than that.” My good friend Beth was rightfully appalled that I expected a handful of my closest friends to spend their Friday evening chaperoning a date I didn’t want to be on the first place.
“Maybe I just don’t want to be alone with a man I hardly know.”
“Uh huh. You just told me you’ve talked to him several times and he’s an employed accountant. Do you know his name?
“An accountant with a law degree, and his name is Bill”, I couldn’t help bragging.
“So you know more about him than your last three, um, ‘dates’ put together. Are you turning over a new leaf? Please tell me you found your inner lesbian and are ready to come out.” Beth was teasing me of course. We’d already tried that kind of friendship and learned I am 100% hetero. Too bad, because Beth would be quite a catch. Obviously she wasn’t going to agree to help unless I gave her the whole story.
“Okay, okay. I didn’t want to turn him down because he is the guy who decides if I get my 2nd mortgage or not. And, I don’t want to be alone with him because he seems like the relationship sort and I just don’t have the energy right now.”
“You mean you’re just not ready to step away from the buffet table. But if this guy is withholding approval until you sleep with him, we need to show him a very interesting time.”
“No, Beth. He’s not like that. I think. He’s just a nice guy who thinks he’s attracted to me. I need to change his mind without making him angry.” The words sounded pitiful even to me.
“You want him to like you enough to approve the loan, but not enough to ask for a second date?”
“Yes.”
“Does that mean you’re willing to sleep with him to get the loan?”
“No way! And I arranged the logistics so he knows that isn’t happening. I told him that once a quarter a group of us goes out to dinner and a show. We take turns being the designated driver of the party van and the DD, who isn’t allowed a single drink, picks us up and drops us off.”
“Party van?”
“Yes. I can get a van. And I’m pretty sure Shade’s new friend, Frieda, will be happy to drive it. All we need is a date for you and a plan.”
“Don’t you think it would be easier to go back to work?”
“I’m not ready.”
“Eva, you’ve got to earn a living. If you’re too scared to do your PI work, you might have to get a normal job like the rest of us.”
My dear lesbian cop friend was making a tactless reference to the fact that I hadn’t taken on any new work of substance since my last case ended with Shade and I barely escaping certain death. I may have been a little anxious. A little more aware of my mortality. But I wasn’t scared. At least that’s what I kept telling myself.
“I’m not scared and being a cop is not a normal job. We need a plan for Friday night.”
“Oh, I’ve got a plan.” I knew I could count on Beth. “We go to the Vaqueros’ Bar and Grill, get rip-roaring drunk, then go see “The Vagina Monologues” performed by the Tranie Players.”
“Aren’t you supposed to have a vagina to have a part in that play?” I asked.
“Apparently that’s not a requirement at the Montrose Playhouse.”
“Do you think it’s cruel to take a nice guy to Montrose? What if he’s homophobic and freaks out?”
“Then we’ll no he’s not for you. Look, you want the guy to like you, so you just be yourself – enjoying yourself with your friends in an environment where you’re comfortable. He’ll like you. If he has a good time, you may have misjudged him. If he spends the evening feeling out of place, he’ll see the error of his ways. And, he will have experienced a part of Houston that he may not know exists. He’ll have an adventure story for years. Come on, Eva. If we’re going to do this, let’s have some fun.”
And that’s how I ended up in an old, rusty van with two overly affectionate lesbians, my friend Shade who is trying hard to re-enter main-stream society after years of living on the street, Shade’s introverted friend Frieda, and my date – Bill the accountant. Everyone was dressed comfortably in jeans and button-down shirts. Everyone except Shade and Bill. Shade, of course, had an excuse. With his history of drug abuse and mental illness, it’s easy to understand why he would wear jeans, a tee-shirt, a sport coat and a tie. A wide tie that was obviously left over from the sixties. I don’t have an excuse for Bill. I’m sure I told him to dress casually. He looked very much like an accountant in his three-piece suit and shiny shoes. I was beginning to feel sorry for him. We picked him up last, of course. This meant that he and I got the back seat, complete with torn vinyl, numerous stains and the lovely scent of spilled beer. His face showed panic when he saw the van. I thought my date would be over before it began. But, he pulled himself together and got in.
Beth’s man-hating date, Katrina – Kat for short, decided to reward Bill for his courage by making a rude remark about his attire and calling him Mr. Armani. This left all the sane members of our happy group speechless. Luckily we had Shade along. He filled the silence by telling a joke he’d heard earlier in the day. For a change, he remembered the punch line. Everyone laughed except Shade and Bill. Shade admitted that he didn’t know why the joke is funny. Bill agreed – which caused more laughter from Beth and Kat. I, of course, behaved better – barely.
So off we went to the Vaqueros’ Bar and Grill. Beth and Kat decided to declare their Lesbian Pride by necking and pawing each other during the ride. This made Bill squirm. He didn’t even try to talk to me – just stared out the side window. It also meant the ride was longer than necessary as Beth was the only one who knew where the place was and our shy driver never asked for directions. She just drove in a straight line until someone suggested a turn. Every now and then, Beth would come up for air, suggest a course change and return her attention to Kat. When I couldn’t stand it any more, I told Beth I was starving and if she didn’t get us to the restaurant soon I’d direct Frieda to the nearest McD’s and we could eat there. This earned be a grateful smile from Bill. Beth abhors fast food, so she sat up and paid attention until we were safely parked a block away from our destination.
Visiting the Vaqueros’ Bar and Grill is a bit of a right of passage in Houston. I’d heard many stories, but never had the pleasure myself, so I was curious to see how many of the tales were true. The first was confirmed as soon as we entered. Several scantily clad women wearing bandoliers full of shot glasses and carrying bottles of tequila in holsters, salt shakers between their breasts, and sliced lemon (you’ll have to visit yourself to find the sliced lemon) roamed among the diners. One of them was obviously expecting us. She pranced right over, greeted Beth by name and escorted us to a corner table. She proceeded to pour a round of shots and pass them out. Beth reached for Frieda’s at the same time as I helped myself to Shade’s. With both of us now two-fisted, we clinked right hand glasses and downed the stuff, then clinked left-hand glasses and downed that, slammed the glasses on the table and high-fived. It was a little ritual Beth had taught me on one of our dates. Kat was apparently familiar with the process as she was giving me the evil eye. Bill, who was gingerly attempting to sip the rut-gut tequila, missed the whole thing. Beth ordered cranberry juice with cherries for Frieda and Shade. Frieda smiled her appreciation and surprise that someone would remember her favorite drink. While Beth and Kat debated their order, I whispered to Bill that the best way to consume cheap tequila was all at once – like medicine. He made a face so I took his glass and demonstrated. He gratefully turned to the bandolier lady and ordered a martini with some brand name vodka I’d never heard of. Ms. Bandolier said she’d give the order to our waiter and check to see if the bar stocked the requested vodka. She pointedly did not take a drink order from me.
Once she left, our little group didn’t have much to talk about. Beth pointed out the wall art. Customers are apparently permitted to write on the walls at this establishment and some of them are poets. Beth found a poem she liked and read it out loud. Kat, who has a need to be the center of attention, found a particularly raunchy passage and read it – rather louder than strictly necessary. She actually over-shouted the bachlorette party that was in progress at the table next to us. They didn’t seem to mind. In fact, the way they reacted, Kat’s selection must have been right on topic for them. Shade followed with a line he said was very nice, “Look at this one. It says ‘Heaven must be missing an Angel because there’s one sitting next to me.’ Isn’t that nice?”
Bill must have missed the gagging signals Beth and I were making because he put his arm around me and announced, “Well Heaven must be missing two angels because there’s one sitting next to me.”
I have to say that I’m not the most graceful person in social situations. In fact, I usually feel like an awkward teenager from the wrong side of the tracks who walked into a grown-up formal. Still, I managed not to squirm, or gag, or laugh. I couldn’t stop the blush though, which Bill took for pleasure. I suspect he expected a kiss. I was saved by a pair of waiters who brought desert to the party table next to us. Another Vaqueros’ legend confirmed. I’d heard many stories about the phallic symbol deserts, but I have to say – they are a sight. In all the stories I’d heard, this special desert – the male member standing upright and oozing a foamy substance from the top – a single portion is served to the guest of honor while everyone else hoots and hollers. Our neighbors, however, had ordered one for each partier. The guest of honor’s was brought out last. She received a chocolate version that was visibly taller than the others. The waiter held it up and said something to the group. The table erupted in the standard laughter and comments, but was soon drowned out by a motorcycle.
Some nut-case had ridden his Harley through the front door and was sitting there, gunning the engine and scanning the dining room. He was a site to behold – long, wavy hair, nice muscles on his tanned and tattooed arms. His body-hugging shirt showed off a clearly defined six pack and his bulging thigh muscles threatened to burst the seams of his jeans. When he spotted the bachelorette party he headed straight for them. The waiter dropped the very special desert and jumped out of the way. The plate landed right side up and cracked, but the desert stood. Nut Case road in circles a few times around the young ladies then stopped in front of the bride-to-be to talk to her. He stopped with his back tire on the desert and managed to keep the tire spinning. I was in the line of fire and was soon covered in bits of chocolate phallic symbol. Kat found this hilarious. Nut Case rode around a few more times then parked his bike by the door. He came back on foot and tried to pull the young lady out of her chair, giving us a front row view of his sculpted buttocks. I was enjoying the view when the young lady started screaming, Beth and I sprung into action without thinking. I reached him first and was rewarded with a shove. He never even looked at me, just swatted me away like a bug. I landed on my butt in what was left of the chocolate desert. Beth came at him from the other direction and first tried talking to him, then flashed her HPD badge. When that had no effect, she tried escorting him toward the door, talking in a calm soothing voice the whole time. He stood firm, never taking his eyes off his intended. When I understood that Beth simply wanted the guy to leave I ran and jumped on his bike. My intent was to shout and gun the engine to get his attention. I don’t know much about bikes. I’ve had a driving lesson or two from past acquaintances, but somehow forgot about the special motorcycle kickstand. When I jumped on the bike from behind, it rocked forward off the kickstand and started to fall sideways, so my scream was real. And it had the desired effect. Nut Case immediately headed towards me, angry. I glanced at my date. He was still in his chair, gingerly wiping chocolate off his pretty suit. So much for chivalry. Since my 4’11” legs didn’t exactly reach the ground with the bike in an upright position, I was tilted at a precarious angle. Still I managed to get the thing moving and rode out the door with Nut Case running after me and calling me some very unkind names. By the time I reached the end of the block I was pretty far ahead of him, so I slowed down. I didn’t want him to give up and go back to the restaurant. When he got close enough, I took off again, this time trying to ride just fast enough to maintain our distance. I managed to get too far ahead again, so I turned the thing to face him. This was not an easy feat and I almost fell. When I heard Nut Case scream in anguish I thought he was concerned for my safety. When I realized it was the bike he was worried about, I wanted to run him down, but only threatened to. He must have believed me because as I wobbled toward him, he began backing up.
He started our little chat with his tough guy act, “Lady you don’t know what you’re doing. You better get off that bike before you hurt yourself.”
I emitted a very unladylike snort and replied, “You’re right. I don’t know what I’m doing. But it looks like you’re the one in danger of getting hurt.”
He started to respond as we continued our wobbly progress, but stopped when the sirens started. Then he tried another approach, “Lady, you don’t want to be arrested for stealing a bike. You better give it to me before the cops get here.”
“Me get arrested? I’m the heroine here. I stopped you from kidnapping that pretty, young damsel. You’re the one getting arrested.”
The sirens got louder and he tried again. “Okay, okay. I was stupid. But I wasn’t trying to kidnap her. I just wanted to talk to her in private. I wanted a chance to win her back.”
“It looked to me like she has marriage plans.”
“Yeah. Tomorrow.”
Nut Case suddenly looked quite sad and lonely. I took pity on him, “Look, I’ll give your bike back on two conditions. One, you promise to leave her alone. And two, you take me with you.”
“Why do you want to go with me?”
“I like riding bikes, I can’t go back in there covered in chocolate, and I can’t take another second of my date.” The sirens were very close.
Nut Case nodded his head and I stopped the bike. He caught it mid fall, hopped on behind me, and we escaped into the artificially lit Houston night.
Phobivore Revolution(working title)
Phobivore Revolution is Mark's entry into the science fiction arena. Disgraced scientist Steve Marks joins a group of investigators of the paranormal and is soon swept into violent confrontations with both powerful other-dimensional beings and their human allies within the U.S. military. As he discovers more about the entities and how to hurt them he becomes valuable to a number of factions. He also rediscovers his own integrity—an integrity that will lead him to risk his friends, his new-found love, and even the survival of the human species for what he knows is right.
Chapter One
"What do you want?" The secretary was ancient, with blue-white hair piled into a shellacked mess atop her wrinkled pate. A cigarette dangled from the corner of her mouth, and her inquiry dislodged a significant length of ash onto her rose colored blouse where it proceeded to slide down and then out along an ample, but sadly lowered breast until it disappeared below the level of her desk.
"My name is Steven Marks. I have an appointment."
"Which ad?" She held out her hand. I dug through my battered briefcase until I found the clipping from the Chronicle of Higher Education. I handed her the clipping. She snatched it from my hand, put it about a half inch from her rheumy eye and then returned it. I shoved it back in my briefcase. I stood there, slightly out of breath. The climb up to this little ramshackle office had been three flights. I was also fighting off the urge to sniffle. It was bitter cold outside and stifling hot in here.
"Dr. Krim is in there," she indicated with a flick of her thumb, and returned to the work on her desk.
I took this as an invitation to present myself which turned out to be a bit of a challenge. The door was warped and I had to apply a shoulder to it to unstick it. The wood felt moist and smelled of mildew and years of cigarette smoke.
A man stood at a lab table in the middle of a large room. He wore a black rubber apron over a white lab coat. He pulled off thick dark goggles to look me over. The goggles left red circles around his eyes. His snow-white hair hung below his shoulders, although he did not otherwise appear too much past 50. He affected a short goatee, equally white. He was very lean, with high cheekbones, and a prominent, thin beak of a nose.
"He's here about that ad." For such an ancient woman she had the lungs of a stevedore.
"Which ad?" His own bass shout was enough to shake plaster from the moldy ceiling.
"C.H.E."
"Thanks Beatrice."
He moved over to the left side of the room where a large desk, a swaybacked sofa and about ten over-sized filing cabinets stood. He motioned me to sit on the sofa, while he removed the apron and lab coat to reveal a clean white shirt with rolled up sleeves underneath, no tie. He sat down behind the huge desk. A large very clean window behind him looked out onto a dreary row of abandoned small factories. From what I had seen on the cab ride over, his office was perhaps the only active business within a mile in this blighted section of Milwaukee's rust belt.
I handed him a file folder with copies of my resume, school records, and letters of recommendation. While he read them, I took off my coat and looked around. On the opposite side of the room was a library with about twelve parallel rows of ten-foot high shelves, crammed full of books. At the back was a glass walled and roofed enclosure with a revolving door surrounding a further three rows, obviously an environmentally controlled room for more fragile texts. In the middle of the room was a large lab table presently set up with some sort of optical experiment. I recognized a high powered commercial laser and a series of standard splitting mirror assemblies. The back of the room was partially closed off with high curtains, but I could see enough for me to surmise that there was a small kitchen and bedroom spaces back there. Overhead was a huge skylight, very filthy with years of accumulated pollution. The floor was pitted and scarred concrete covered here and there with expensive, but now stained and threadbare Persian carpets.
"Dual physics/philosophy from Northwestern, graduate work at CERN, Ph.D. Berkeley. What the hell are you doing here?" He looked up from my papers and fixed me with sharp gray eyes.
"Two pages further along. I like to be honest with possible employers." A headhunter consultant had advised me never to volunteer any information about my 'troubles'. He was an ass-hole. Employers always found out, eventually. Then it was pack up and move again. I was tired of moving. It was easier in the long run to get it out in the open from the start. He leafed through the clippings and the court papers. He took the time to read carefully and occasionally jotted notes in a spiral notebook. He used a beautiful old-fashioned fountain pen. He finally looked up.
"Is this all accurate? Are there any mitigating circumstances that you would like to add?"
"Nope. It's accurate. I knew exactly what was going on from the start. I could've blown the whistle on the whole thing at any time. I wanted my share of the grant money and I wanted my name on the papers that were produced. I was a duplicitous, greedy prick in a lab full of duplicitous, greedy pricks. I've paid for it over the last 6 years, and have every expectation of paying for it for the rest of whatever professional career I get to have. I'm sorry for it, and I would not do it again no matter how sure I was that I could get away with it. I understand that my name would undermine the credibility of whatever research you are doing, and I am perfectly willing to work anonymously and without credit."
I was getting uncomfortable under his unwavering intense gaze. It felt as if I was being released when he glanced back to my folder. He read for a few more minutes. He finally looked back to me and leaned back in his cracked red leather swivel chair. He put his ratty black high-top Keds up on the desk, knocking over one of the many stacks of papers and computer printouts where they joined an unorganized pile of paper around the base of the desk. He made no attempt to retrieve them.
"The salary is 20% of net profits. I get 40% and there are two other members of our group who get cuts equal to yours. If you had been with us three years ago, you would have made $140,000. Last year and the year before, you would've made about $11,000. Extrapolating on what we have made so far this year, you might actually make nothing. There are minimalist accommodations on the floor below, and you are always welcome to live on site. If you choose to stay here, room and board, such as they are, are free. I provide full medical, dental, and vision. Ms. Beatrice Rutt, who you met, keeps all the books, which are open to all employees at all times. She can explain how net profit is calculated, though I should tell you that she embezzles an extra 10% over and above her official salary. It used to be 5%, but last year she gave herself a cost of living adjustment. Her normal salary is part of the overhead -- the embezzled funds come out of my net profit and in no way impact your cut. You are somewhat overqualified for our little enterprise, but I hope we can provide some challenge to keep you busy."
"What will my duties be? What does your company do?"
"Well, we do a variety of things, mostly in a consultant role. A subset of our activities is the debunking of supposed paranormal phenomenon. If you don't mind, I usually give a couple of tests to potential employees. Feel up to it?"
"Of course."
"The first test is rather trivial, but it will give you a little taste of the sorts of hoaxes we come across from time to time." He turned towards the curtained off area at the back of the room and called softly. "Claudia? We have a visitor. Would you like to come say hello?"
Nothing happened for what seemed like a long time. I was getting a bit dizzy and my ears were tingling. I reached up to scratch my ear. But then I noticed that it was getting appreciably colder. Within minutes I could see my breath and my glasses were fogged. It was also getting darker. I glanced at the skylight and could see that the sky outside was rapidly darkening as if dusk were falling though it was only the middle of the afternoon. I removed my glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief. I glanced at Krim. He had risen and was backing away, looking at the curtains.
The curtains stirred and then something emerged. The hackles rose on my neck. It was a girl, perhaps 8 or 9. She wore an old-fashioned dress with a high neck, but it was filthy, ripped in numerous places, and had large sections soaked with what appeared to be fresh blood. Her flesh was a dead whitish green. Her eyes were dark but surrounded by whites shot through with broken blood vessels. Red tears leaked from them and ran down her shrunken cheeks. She had a scalpel in her hand and was idly using it to cut parallel deep cuts in her left forearm. Blood flowed freely and dripped to the floor. She looked me in the eye and smiled, an unnerving evil smile. Her teeth had been crudely filed into points. She spoke in a shrill hoarse voice, distorted and choking as if made by something unfamiliar with human vocal chords.
"You've brought meat."
With a motion almost too fast to follow she drew back the scalpel and flung it directly at me. She seemed to waver and go slightly transparent. I heard a distinct sharp exhalation, like a loud cough. I felt the wind of the scalpel, saw the glitter of it out of the corner of my eye, as it passed my left ear and embedded itself in the brick wall behind me. Brick dust made me sneeze.
As I leapt off the couch the girl took a step forward. I could hear a low feral growl from her. And then she came straight towards me at astonishing speed. I put up an arm to block her attack as best I could. She had long ragged nails outstretched and her lips curled back from those hideous fangs. Red foam was at the corners of her mouth. I searched for anything to ward her off. There was nothing.
She was only a few feet away when she quite suddenly lost cohesion. She had completely dissolved into a noxious red mist by the time she reached me. The cold wet mist wrapped about me, smothering me in the odor of rotting diseased flesh. I gagged and drew away from the horrible odor. Then it was over. The light in the room returned to normal; the smell dissipated; the temperature returned to normal.
Krim returned to his desk. He pulled out a key and tossed it onto the desk.
"I have some work to do. Feel free to move around the building if necessary. That's a master key. What it won't unlock is irrelevant to the current demonstration. Ask for any equipment you might need. I've put a few things out on the desk that you are welcome to use. Don't give me your report until you have the whole thing worked out."
Anthologies:
Texas is a great place to visit...but you wouldn't want to wake up dead
there...or you might!
Enjoy
these collections of short stories - A Death in Texas - by The Final Twist, a Houston,
Texas based mystery writers group will be releasing in the fall!.
For Vampire fans, Sleeping With the Undead a collection of vampire erotica will also be out in the fall!