Flypaper Opus: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 2 Page 3

  “Would you not?”

  Nick looked blankly at her.

  Reed covered her mouth, her eyes shining over her fingers. “Sorry, I said I had a sense of humor, not that it was a good one. Inappropriate. Continue.”

  “You’re fine, I’m laughing on the inside. But geez, Reed, I grew up wanting to tell fucked up stories to people for a living because I thought that stuff was fun. Now I kind of feel like it’s all poison. You know? Like I’m inspiring crazy people to be crazier. Feeding them. Whoever put that thing out front had problems before, no doubt, but I inspired them to do that to those poor animals did I not?”

  Reed didn’t say anything. Of course she didn’t. He wasn’t wrong.

  Nick stared at the black television screen mounted on his wall, the one he bought after Danielle smashed his old one. “I never told you about the email I got from Danielle.”

  Reed’s eyes narrowed as she shook her head. “I don’t think so, no.”

  Nick looked up at her. “I got it quite a while after she died.”

  Reed sat down slowly in a chair a few feet away from him. “After she died?”

  He nodded. “It was a timed thing. Like if she didn’t reset the timer after a certain period of time, it sent automatically. Her screen name was Flypaper, right? That was her whole thing, you remember. So I get this email from her months after she died, and she says that the screen name was a reference to me.”

  Reed repeated the word “flypaper” softly to herself, trying to work out its meaning.

  “She said that I’m flypaper. And that the people on that site are the flies, drawn to me. And then they stick there until they die. That’s how she saw me. And I tell you, I can’t argue. Every time one of them shows up on my doorstep I think, welp, Dani was right.”

  Reed stood up and walked over to him. “Dawkins, Danielle Johnson was a sick, sick girl. People like that… they don’t see the world clearly. I know you know that.”

  “Maybe. Maybe I’m thinking I went into the wrong line of work.” He shook his head. “Way too much bullshit these days.”

  Reed tilted her head to catch Nick’s eye. “It’s not worth it? Getting to do what you grew up wanting to do? Not everyone gets that chance. That new kid, the one with the bag? Wanted to be a professional wrestler.”

  Nick looked up at her. “Who, Wheezy McGee?”

  She stifled a laugh. “Officer York to you, Dawkins.”

  Nick shot out of his chair. “Officer York? So if he were promoted to Sergeant he’d be Sergeant York? That’s amazing.”

  Reed walked toward the front door. “Good night, Mr. Dawkins.”

  He followed her, his hands clasped together. “Seriously, make that happen. Promote him to Sergeant. I’ll do anything.”

  Reed opened the front door. “We don’t even have Sergeants here. Besides, Sergeant outranks Sheriff, so…”

  Kern and Roberts were outside in the rain, hefting the bagged Animalgamation to a squad car. Nick waved at Kern. “What? That can’t be true. Sheriff outranks everything. Sheriff is Sheriff.”

  Reed slid her sunglasses over her eyes. “Call us if anything weird happens tonight. This was probably a one off, but just in case. Will you be around tomorrow if we find out anything interesting about the animalga-thing?”

  “Yeah.” Nick stood up straight, his mental to do list hitting him in the forehead. “No. Shit. I’ll be out. Want to guess where?”

  Reed presented her open palms as if to show that she had no clue. “Confirming your reservation at the nuthouse?”

  “Close! Speaking of crazy people; I’m supposed to go see Mom. Actually, you know what, damn the luck, I can’t go now. Haven’t you heard? There’s a lunatic out there Frankensteining animals together.” He snapped his fingers. “Oh, darn.”

  The sheriff stepped out into the rain and adjusted her hat. “There are always lunatics out here, Dawkins. You can’t let them have control over your life.” She waved and walked away.

  Seems a little late for that, he’d have said if she’d stayed a moment longer. Nick shut the door and locked each of the six locks that lined it.

  Chapter 4

  Clark shifted the van into park, reached into the passenger seat, and opened his laptop. The light of the screen illuminated the van’s interior. He clicked “available networks” with a wireless mouse.

  Headlights hit the corner of his eye. He shielded his face and watched as the pickup passed by, on its way to whatever dilapidated shack the driver called a home.

  The laptop responded. Smiles_913. About time.

  Clark clicked Connect and pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose. He could hardly make out the dentist’s office through the rain pattering the windshield.

  It was built into a house on the side of a back road for Christ’s sake—a dentist’s office in someone’s living room. Having never seen the inside of the place, he could only picture what it might look like. The big fancy chair bolted into the green and orange shag carpeting. The dentist hunched over a patient as Wheel of Fortune played on a CRT television. A cat shooed away from the tray of dental instruments.

  Clark turned his nose up. Fucking dentists. What do they know?

  He looked in the rearview mirror and picked a piece of potato chip out of the hole in his molar.

  The laptop pinged. Success.

  He clicked the Myiasis icon on his laptop; the red silhouette of a fly.

  The website opened and greeted Clark by his username: MaggotMaestro.

  The site’s denizens had been busy. Dozens of comments spread out over several threads, mostly related to his creation. Some of the activity had buzzed around Nick’s radio appearance, but for the most part, it was Clark’s creation; it was the Animalgamation. Cue theatrical music.

  He brushed a long strand of hair out of his face and eagerly scrolled through the responses. He skimmed them enough to let the major points poke him in the eye.

  Cruel. Cruel? He euthanized the fuckers before he got to work. As if any of these savages would have bothered?

  Shoddy craftsmanship. Nitpick much? He thought it was pretty good considering he’d never done anything like it before. Cut him some slack.

  Totes not reel u gais. Seriously? He’d documented every damn step. That guy had to have been a troll.

  Comment after comment—that was the gist of it. Every so often a post would jump out, a lone intellect amongst the dozens of peons who felt the need to clutter the site with their ignorance and poor grammar.

  OP has balls. Damn straight.

  As if any of you could do better. Exactly. Thanks, Fecalmound420.

  Classy. That one could have been sarcastic. It was impossible to say for sure.

  Overall, it wasn’t the reaction he’d hoped for from Nick’s most devoted fan base. They should have been grateful. In awe. He’d brought to life, so to speak, one their favorite author’s classic works, and not in the fake, watered down way Hollywood would have done it; his was authentic.

  Appreciated by the few, misunderstood by the many; this must have been exactly how Nick Dawkins felt every day of his life.

  “Everyone’s a critic,” Nick had written in a foreword once. “You have to shut it all out, the bad and the good. Create in a vacuum, when possible.”

  Clark slammed the laptop in the passenger seat closed and threw the van into drive. He’d show the rest of those slope-browed plebeians on Myiasis how to create in a vacuum.

  He drove a good couple of miles up the road before he stopped and killed the ignition. He turned on the van’s emergency lights and popped the front hood.

  A syringe. He’d need one of those.

  He turned and reached into the back of the van. Holy hell, that odor. It smelled like animal droppings and piss. There’d be no getting rid of it; he’d have to burn the van when his works were complete.

  He fished around in the dark for the black bag. His hand brushed against the only cage still there, and he felt its contents move. Ugh. Messing with those woul
dn’t be fun. They gave him the creeps.

  “We suffer for our art,” Nick Dawkins had said in an interview once.

  Clark found the bag and carefully pulled a capped syringe from it.

  He climbed out of the van and into the rain. No wonder there were so many trees here, it never seemed to stop raining.

  All he could hear in any direction was the rain. It bounced off the van, the trees, and the pavement. The drops danced on the hood of his slicker.

  His breath fogged. Rainy and cold. To hell with this place. Why would anyone move here? He’d have to ask Nick when he got a chance.

  He moved around to the front of the van and pushed the hood up. He slid the syringe into a groove where it wouldn’t be obvious at a glance and then practiced sliding it back out a couple of times. Not a problem.

  Was that everything? He looked around. Big white van. Hidden syringe. Victim in need of assistance. Video camera in the passenger seat. Everything except for the good Samaritan. Surely he or she would be along any time.

  Minutes ticked by, the raindrops counting the seconds. Was it too late at night? Was this a good road? Hell, they all looked the same to him.

  It’s wouldn’t have been smart to pick a busier road to do this on, but by that same token, it did him no good to stand on the side of the road in the rain all night either. He looked at his watch. Ten-thirty; it wasn’t that late. Then again, he was used to the city. Out in the sticks, ten-thirty could be the witching hour.

  And if someone did come along, would they even bother to stop and help someone stranded on the side of the road? They probably would. These small town yokels were supposed to be pretty friendly. Mayberry and so forth.

  He considered looking for another road but knew, deep down, that the moment he drove away, someone would come along. Just like the grocery store; change lanes and you’re screwed. He stayed put.

  At long last, after roughly twenty minutes, headlights.

  Clark stood next to the van and waved his arms. The oncoming vehicle slowed and then came to a careful stop a few feet away. It was another pickup truck, powder blue in color with a splash of rust on the sides. Boy, did these people love their pickup trucks.

  The driver rolled down his window. He had a square head and stubble for days.

  “Little car trouble?”

  Clark did his best to act like ‘regular people’ acted. Pleasant. Congenial. Like maybe he’d been sniffing glue. To him, ‘regular people’ were cartoon characters.

  “Sure do,” he said with a broad smile and a wave. “Man, am I glad you came along. I’ve been standing out here in the rain like an asshole for twenty minutes. Could you help me give it a look?”

  That sounded natural, sure.

  The stubble-faced man looked up at the rain as though it might melt or wash him. Clark didn’t worry for a second. Now that they’d had a face to face, social obligation would push him where he needed to be.

  Sheeple. Baa.

  “Sure buddy, I’ll pull over up here.”

  Clark clasped his hands together. “Thanks, pal, you’re great.”

  The driver pulled over to the side of the road and climbed out of his truck. This poor guy had no slicker. He’d wandered out into the rainy night with only the shirt on his back, like a lost child.

  Clark motioned Stubble-face toward the van. “Sorry, I don’t know much about cars, and this thing’s kind of a loaner.”

  Stubble-face didn’t give a shit. Five minutes ago he was warm.

  Clark led him to the van and leaned down into the hood. The man followed suit. “It just stopped in the road, or what?”

  “Yeah, I drove along, and then I heard a funny sound…” Clark reached for the syringe in the groove of the hood. He tried to slide it out, like he’d practiced. It got caught. Clank.

  Stubble-face was startled. He pointed at the syringe and backed away. “Hey, what the…?”

  Clark smiled broadly and pulled at the syringe again. What was the damn thing caught on?

  “You stay right there, buddy,” the driver said as he broke for his truck. He was big. And slow. Clark wasn’t worried.

  The syringe slid out of the groove and Clark ran after the man, gaining on him quickly. “Whoa whoa whoa, don’t leave so soon.”

  The driver turned and held his meaty hand up defensively. Clark’s syringe sank into the palm. The man jerked his hand away and the needle snapped.

  “Ow!” The man was no longer scared. He was angry, as if the pain had awakened the beast within. “Motherfucker!” He lunged at Clark, who fell back on the rain-slick road. He tried to ward off the brute with one hand. The other still clutched the syringe.

  A heavy fist rained down on Clark, slamming his head onto the pavement. The driver lumbered to his feet and pointed at him. “Fuck you. You sick fuck.”

  Clark sat up, his back arched and his shoulders tightened. His neck went stiff and his head throbbed in cadence with his heartbeat.

  “—Fuck did you say to me?” Clark sprang to his feet and slid under the guy’s right hook. He lunged at the primate that passed for a citizen in this godforsaken shithole. He stabbed and stabbed at the caveman’s neck with what was left of the syringe’s needle. Once it sunk into his flesh, he jammed on the plunger with his thumb.

  The man’s eyes grew round and large, then distant as if he were looking right through Clark. His mouth moved as though it was trying to make words, but only baby talk came out. He slumped to the ground, as if his bones had turned to water. Finally, he lay still.

  Clark took a heavy breath and accessed his current situation. At second glance, this guy looked heavier than he would have liked, but it wouldn’t be a problem. He’d chosen a handicap accessible van for this specific reason.

  He tossed the empty syringe to the side of the road and opened the van’s passenger door. Time to make the donuts.

  Clark hit record on his handheld camera and panned around the unconscious person in the middle of the road until he was satisfied he had enough footage. Then he ran around the van and filmed the double doors in the back. He reached into frame and opened the doors.

  It was black as pitch in the back of the van. No overhead light. He flicked a switch on the camera and its integrated light cut through the black. He climbed inside, filling the camera’s frame with the small cage near the front seats.

  Ugh. Creepy little things.

  They were going to be famous.

  Chapter 5

  There was a time when the only place in Forest Down Nick felt welcome was Bonnie and Chuck’s general store.

  How he longed for those days.

  He stood to the side of Bonnie and Chuck’s front door, making a conscious effort to control his breathing. Good air in, bad air out, that’s what he’d seen in movies. Was it supposed to work? Because it wasn’t, at least not that he could tell.

  His phone rang, playing the Dragnet theme song. He jumped three feet in the air so no, the breathing sucked.

  He dug his phone out of his pocket and answered it.

  “Sheriff, geez, you scared the shit out of me.”

  There was a long silence. “How’d I do that?”

  Nick opened his mouth, but he couldn’t find any way to explain the situation that didn’t translate to, I’m scared of my mother.

  “Never mind, what’s up?”

  “Are you standing outside the general store working up the nerve to visit your mother?”

  Nick looked up and down the street. Could she see him?

  “No,” he said. How could he manage to make a single word sound so much like a lie?

  Reed sighed into the phone. “Come into the station, I have sort-of news. Besides, you creep people out when you stand around out there.”

  Nick looked two buildings down at the Police station. “Seriously, I creep people out just standing here?”

  “Mostly just Postmaster Grimley. He’s called you in a few times.”

  Nick squinted into the window of the Post Office, which sat be
tween the general store and the Police station. Through the dark glass, he could sort of make out Postmaster Grimley ducking behind the counter.

  This town. Sometimes he couldn’t remember why he’d moved there.

  Nick walked into the police station and approached the entryway to the back just to the left of the tiny front desk. Officer York pushed a sign-in sheet at him. “Sign in please, Mr. Dawkins.”

  Nick stopped mid-stride. He looked down at York. “Usually Reed has me go on back.”

  York shrugged and smiled. “I just work here.”

  Nick leaned in to sign the sheet on the desk. “Alrighty.”

  The grinning rookie reached out to shake Nick’s hand. “It’s nice to officially meet you, by the way. I’m a big fan.”

  Nick fake laughed. “Oh, don’t tell me that.” And subject change: go. “Hey, tell me something,” Nick said. “You ever think about looking for a promotion?”

  York cocked his head to one side. “What do you mean?”

  Nick casually leaned on the desk. “You know, a promotion, moving on up in a bigger department. You could work your way up to Captain, or Lieutenant, or even—”

  “Dawkins, get back here.” Reed stood at the entryway to the back of the station. “York, you aren’t being paid to sit there and jaw at people.”

  Nick followed Reed to the back. He heard York muttering behind him, “I’m not.”

  “Cute kid,” Nick said. “Big fan, apparently.”

  The pair squeezed through several desks crammed into a small area. “He’s not a fan like that, believe me. We background check. Don’t forget, you have a million fans that don’t leave dead crap on your lawn or…”

  “Set me on fire,” he finished for her.

  Reed gave him a ‘you said it’ look and knocked Roberts’ feet of his desk as they passed. Nick surveyed the room. “Hey, where’s Kern? I wanted to say hi.”

  Roberts looked up from the clipboard in his hand. “He’s not doing the paperwork for your lawn ornament, I know that.”

  “Abandoned vehicle check,” Reed said as they walked down the stairs to an evidence room where the Animalgamation lay across a metal table. “I’ll tell him you stopped by.”