Flypaper Con: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 4 Read online

  Delbert reached over to the nightstand and picked up a small, red ball with a black leather strap attached to it. “In the meantime…” he wrapped the strap around Nick’s head and put the ball in his mouth. “Quiet. See, Nick, since my… transformative experience with Clark Abernathy, I’ve only wanted one thing. Not to rest, not to heal. That’s what they recommended, but no no no…”

  If Nick’s drugged-out eyes had been like wayward cats, Delbert’s eyes were like untamed beasts. They were everywhere at once, as though something vital had been unplugged.

  “…unlike you and your pathetic little leg, I worked and pushed and fought my way back into top shape. Because all I wanted was a chance. A chance to deliver to you some fraction, some small idea of the pain and suffering I went through because…” Delbert stood up on the bed and lifted his arms skyward. The tips of his fingers brushed the ceiling “…the great Nick Dawkins wrote a book and moved to Forest Down.”

  Delbert dropped back down onto the bed next to Nick. “How many people in Forest Down have suffered, Nick? Harold Trent died on the side of the road trying to help you. And the cameraman who lost his toes? What was his name? Daryl?”

  Nick flexed his fingers. He could feel them again, for all the good it did.

  “And the Littleberrys.”

  Some of the fight drained from Nick at the mention of their name. Guilt crashed upon guilt.

  “How long was their store closed? How many weeks? All because they knew you.” Delbert got off the bed and thumped his fist lightly on the wall of the room. “Clark called me ‘Cancer Man’. He never called me by my name. Not once. They say it was because he couldn’t see me as human. If he did, they told me, he couldn’t have done what he thought he needed to do.”

  Nick looked around the room. Was there anything he could do? His eyes drifted towards the headboard. Could he shake the bed hard enough to knock it against the wall?

  “Clark called me the Cancer Man. But I know it’s you, Nick. You’re the cancer. You’ve been the cancer in Forest Down since the moment you arrived, spreading your disease to all who live there. Like the character in your book.”

  Delbert clambered over Nick and moved so close to his face Nick could make out the individual hairs on his chin. “You’re a cancer, Nick, and I’m going to cut you out.”

  “Of course…” Delbert no longer seemed to be talking to Nick so much as himself. “…I couldn’t just find you and stab you on Main Street in broad daylight, though believe me, I thought about it. I mean, I could have done that, but then I’d go to jail. I don’t want to go to jail. I’m not crazy, Nick.”

  Nick begged to differ. The ball-gag was probably a blessing in disguise in this one instance. There was no chance he wouldn’t say something he’d instantly regret.

  “I had to wait for my opening. I didn’t have to wait long. You were announced as a guest at GutsCon. And I knew…” Delbert paced alongside the bed. Maybe if he kept it up, he’d fall through the floor and this new nightmare would be over. “…I knew there would be Maggots here. And if Nick Dawkins turns up dead in a building full of Maggots…” Delbert threw his hands into the air “…the Maggots did it. No one would ever question it. Right? Maggots did it. And nobody ever knows Delbert Williams was here. I paid for my room in cash. My personal phone is with my senile mother two states away. For anyone knows—for all she knows as far gone as she is—I’ve been at her place all weekend.”

  “And then…” Delbert put his palms against the wall and propped himself against it. “…then I heard about the cameras being down. I realized all I needed was the right Maggot, and I could save the police the guessing game. Leave nothing to chance. I just needed someone to make a big public display. Someone who could be conned into doing the deed for me.”

  Knock knock

  Nick looked in the direction of the door and moaned. The ball-gag forced it back into his throat.

  Delbert stood upright and put his hand on his chest in feigned alarm. “Oh. Oh no, who could it be?” He picked up the dog mask and pulled it over his head as he walked toward the door. “Could that be your little friend? The girl? Here to save you?”

  Corpse? If it’s you kid, run. He’s nuts, just run your ass off.

  Nick put everything he had into pulling at the straps on his wrists. It was less than nothing. His eyes, brain and mouth worked, but everything else was still getting its shit together. He heard the door open.

  “Hey there. I was just talking about you.” Dog-faced Delbert walked back into the room. “We’ve got company.”

  Brundlefly emerged from behind the man in the dog mask. He smiled. “Hello, Nick.”

  Chapter 13

  The young woman known across most technologically advanced countries as CorpseFlower ripped through window after window of files, code and the occasional cat photo. Her eyes were heavy. She bordered on excessive sleep deprivation even for her. She needed to smoke up and lay down. Close her eyes. Get some shut eye. She was of little use to Nick if she couldn’t function.

  But this damn breach.

  It was interesting at first. She loved a good rabbit hole as much as the next girl who grew up wishing she were Alice. But hours of fruitless searching had taken their toll on her fingers, her brain and her patience.

  Near as she could tell, it was a perfect breach. Not a trace left behind in the wake of the computer sorcery that had granted parties unknown access to the local university, Nick’s room, and the hotel’s security cameras.

  But nothing was perfect. Nothing. Not really. Whoever had gone to all that trouble would have left something behind. She just had to find it.

  Corpse’s phone bleeped at her. She glanced down at the notification of points being awarded to someone on the DawkinsCon leaderboard. Now what had they done to him?

  She opened her phone and looked over the notification.

  Someone had defaced the banner of Nick in the lobby. Ten points.

  She giggled. It was adorably lame. She’d have to remember to show it to Nick when he got back. Which could be any time. Or in the morning, if that’s how he rolled.

  Good for you, Nickie-boy. Get some strange. Just don’t get killed in the process.

  Fine. He’d be fine. Corpse went back to her infuriating puzzle.

  She looked at her phone again.

  The DawkinsCon app. Her eyes brightened. What did its insides look like?

  Corpse plugged her phone into her laptop and opened a new window. Code filled it from top to bottom. Goobledygook to the ordinary mortal, but not to her. She was an Amazonian Hacker God from Venus. She saw everything. She saw the fucking Matrix.

  Garbage, garbage, slightly less garbage, elegant little algorithm here…

  Her eyes went back several lines.

  Wait a tic.

  Corpse rubbed her eyes.

  “I know you, elegant little algorithm,” she said aloud. “Where do I know you from?”

  Her memory dove backwards through years of code and screens and…” Her breath tore itself from her lungs. She did know this guy. She was sure of it. And it scared the hell out of her.

  She rubbed her chin. What was he doing shilling code for the Myiasis Admin? “No, no, no,” she mouthed to herself, “you have got to be shitting me.”

  Knock knock knock

  Corpse hopped up into her chair and crouched like a startled animal. “Egad, the fucker’s found me already.”

  She dropped to the floor and skittered over to her suitcase. She reached inside and pulled out her aluminum bat. “You’ll never take me alive, you butt-reaming douche-twat, one of us will bleed out on this place’s ghastly carpet so help me…”

  She slinked along the wall to the door and stood on the ends of her toes to see through the peephole. On the other side of the door, black bangs and bright red lips.

  Hellen.

  First response: relief. It wasn’t a living, breathing nightmare from her past come back to haunt her. Not yet, anyway.

  Second response: a
gitation. It was Hellen. The Hell-bitch. What in the name of Cthulhu’s foreskin could she want?

  Corpse ran a number of scenarios in her mind in which Hellen came to her door without Nick. None of them made a lot of sense. One involved lizard-people; it was the least likely.

  She gripped her bat and cracked open the door, the chain still in place. “Whatdoyouwant?”

  Hellen put her hand on her hip. “I just came by to tell Nick to fuck off.”

  Corpse laughed. “Why, what happened? He remembered you’re a Maggot slag and sent you packing?”

  Hellen froze. “Wait. Back up. He’s not here?”

  Corpse stopped laughing. “Wait, you back up. When did you see him last?”

  “When I got off the elevator.” Hellen’s face dropped. She went pastier than usual, if it were at all possible. “When did you see him last?”

  Corpse slammed the door. She went over as many possibilities in her head as she could. If Hellen had done something to Nick, she could be there to play the role of the spurned date. If she hadn’t seen him at all, it meant he didn’t make it to the date. And that likely meant nefarious parties were at work.

  Either way, Hellen had information she didn’t. Couldn’t have that.

  Corpse unlatched the door and opened it. “Come in, don’t touch anything. You touch anything, my bat touches you. Got it? Got it. Good.”

  “Wait, slow down.” Hellen was sharp. Intelligent. Corpse could see it in the eyes. But she’d been slowed by that half-wit Wormwood. She’d bet money on it.

  Corpse popped open an energy drink. “I know you’re not stupid, Hellen, and I need you to keep up because if you slow me down you’re in the wind. But just this once…” She gulped down several mouthfuls of sweet, sweet liquid speed and cracked her neck, the sounds ricocheting around the room. “Nick left to go meet you. He was good and excited about it, so I can safely assume he didn’t bail. This means one of two things happened…”

  Hellen waited as Corpse slugged back the rest of her drink.

  “Possibility one: Nick met you and you—alone or with help—did something to him. Then you came here to play ignorant and cover your trail.” Corpse tossed her empty can onto the table and pulled on a black hoodie. “Possibility two: Someone got to Nick between here and the lobby. That would make him disappeared for approximately two hours now. That’s plenty of time for some Maggot to kill him and turn him into furniture.”

  Corpse unplugged her phone and closed her laptop. “Now, as far as I’m concerned, one is as likely as the other, but short of torturing you for information, going along with you as though you’re on the level is the only way to find out which happened. So here we are.”

  Hellen smirked. “I guess I can take that for now.” The smirk withered like a flower dying on the vine. She was either a phenomenal actress or it really sank in that her intended boy toy had gone missing. “Oh god. Nick could be anywhere.”

  “Not accurate.” The webmaster slid her computer into her shoulder bag. “He could be many places, but if he was taken against his will, they probably didn’t make it very far. Getting an unconscious or struggling thirtysomething out of the building without anyone noticing would be a neat trick. High difficulty level. On the other hand, keep him here…”

  “There are like a thousand rooms to keep him in.” Hellen got it. Corpse knew the bitch had a healthy hamster running on that janky wheel between her ears. “Where do we start?”

  Corpse tapped at her phone’s screen. “Back in Forest Down, this would be the part where we call the Sheriff. But here and now?” She pulled up her contacts and touched Blaire’s name. “We’ll have to settle for Smiley Cyrus.”

  Hellen stared at Corpse blankly.

  “Blaire. I’m calling Blaire. Dude, you really have to keep up.”

  Chapter 14

  Nick was not a stranger to the feeling of mortality. On the contrary, he was intimately familiar with it. And not ‘we’ve all gotta go someday’ mortality, the abstract notion that keeps a person awake in the dead of the night.

  Real mortality. The sense that one’s end is not only inevitable, but immediately upon them.

  Like an oncoming train.

  Delbert, in his foul-smelling dog mask, leered at Nick and primal desperation once again clawed at his guts. It screamed in his ears.

  You’re going to die here. Today. Painfully.

  Nick’s own screams were muffled by the ball gag in his mouth.

  A friggin’ ball gag. Delbert Williams was as insane an asshole as any Nick had ever seen, Maggot or otherwise.

  Brundlefly, obnoxious turd of a kid that he was, at least he seemed to have most of his bricks in place. Nick doubted the creepy little bastard had any idea of what he was dealing with. “I thought you said he was all drugged up?”

  Delbert leaned in close and examined Nick’s pupils. Nick didn’t know if the guy really had an idea of what he was looking for, or if he was putting on a show for the kid. “He was. We have to be careful with the dosage. We don’t want him biting it just yet.”

  Well, that’s comforting.

  It was, to some infinitesimal degree. If Delbert had wanted to give Nick a Columbian necktie that very second, there wasn’t a damn thing he could do to stop it. It was a helplessness he’d never experienced. Not with his mother, or Danielle, or Clark, or the three stooges who invaded his home.

  In those situations, he’d had a fighting chance.

  Nick pulled at the straps holding him to the bed. They dug into his wrists and ankles, but offered no give. The bed shook a bit with him, though. The headboard made a wump wump sound on the wall. It may be useful for getting someone’s attention. Assuming whoever was in the room door was home. And assuming they didn’t assume whoever banged the bed against the wall wasn’t getting laid.

  He took what good news he could, but it begged the question: why didn’t Delbert want him dead yet?

  Brundle laughed with excitement. “I can’t believe I’m in the same room as Nick Dawkins and the Administrator. Best weekend ever.”

  The Administrator? Delbert?

  No effing way.

  Delbert Williams was a Forest Down mechanic with a wife and a couple of rugrats. The way Nick had heard it, the guy couldn’t have named a Nick Dawkins book before Clark stuffed him full of crabs. The chances of him being the mastermind behind a website full of dubiously-sane Dawkins fans were slim at best.

  “Oh.” Brundle opened a hand to Delbert. “Phone?”

  “Right.” Delbert handed Brundle the smart phone he’d dangled in front of Nick minutes earlier. “Thanks.”

  Brundle shoved it into his pocket. “Did he say anything when you played him the video?”

  Delbert stood upright and stretched his back. “He’s not really in a position to say much. But yeah. I think he got the message. If sweat could talk…”

  “No remorse whatsoever, right?” Brundlefly shook his head. “I’d never have believed it if I hadn’t seen it with my own eyes.”

  Nick’s own words echoed in his head. Do I feel bad about him being shot by a cop while feeding me to his pet rats? Not so much.

  In retrospect, he could have explained himself better if he’d subscribed to the notion that the kid deserved an explanation at all.

  “I could hardly believe it either. Now you see why I found you. This isn’t the person I started Myiasis for.” Delbert tilted his dog-masked head and looked right at Nick. A shit-eating troll grin stretched beneath that rubber canine visage, Nick would bet his life on it. Administrator his ass. “Now, once we get rid of him, you will be there to take his place.”

  There it was. A piece of the picture, at any rate. Delbert had hooked the kid with some bullshit line about being… what? Being the next Nick Dawkins? Was the kid a writer? Usually writers couldn’t wait to tell people they’d written a book, or a sentence.

  Nick tried to form words around the ball gag. Not the Administrator, you dumbass. Not the Administrator. Hear the words. Drool drained dow
n Nick’s throat and choked him. The ball gag was some bullshit. There were people who were into this? It took all kinds.

  “Fate—the universe, God, whatever you believe in—brought us together, kid. I truly believe that.” Delbert patted Brundlefly on the shoulder. “Now go on out there and alibi it up. Make sure you’re seen, talk to some people. Need to have your ass covered, right?”

  “Right.” The word stretched out and Brundle smiled in the way only the least informed person in the room could. “You made your bed, Nick. You’re layin’ in it now.” Brundlefly and Delbert bumped their fists together. “Don’t finish it without me?”

  “Wouldn’t dream of it.” Delbert’s voice was full of malevolence.

  Brundle left.Stupid fucking kid. If Nick ever got his hands on the little shit, he’d throttle him.

  Delbert pulled his mask off. Sweat dripped down his brow. “Can you believe the luck? A whole convention full of these morons.” He sat on the bed next to Nick and set down the rubber mask. “You remember the last time we saw each other?”

  How could Nick forget? He’d pulled into his driveway only to find the poor guy sprawled in the rain like a possum in the road. The first human victim of Clark’s weird-ass art project. His interpretation of Nick’s book Cancer Man—a book about a man riddled with cancer—was a man riddled with crabs.

  Because of course it was. Clark was damaged goods, and fixated on animals in a way Nick couldn’t fathom.

  Nick thought about Delbert’s encounter with Clark a lot. He guessed Delbert thought about it more. Understandable.

  “You don’t have a clue, you know. You only saw the end result. In person, anyway.” Delbert’s head turned slowly—incredibly slowly—to meet Nick’s eyes. “You weren’t there.” He had that look again. Vacant. A ghost. “I know there was the video, but…”

  Delbert stopped talking. He sat frozen, a statue, a sculpture of the man he once was. A significant part of Nick hoped the guy had stroked out or something. He would worry about how to free himself later.

  The middle-aged mechanic blinked and reality made a reappearance.