Flypaper Con: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 4 Page 4
A blood balloon.
Dogman stood on his toes the best he could as people milled around and rubbernecked. Dawkins was covered in red gunk. The purple-haired girl ran after the offending party as hotel security looked Nick over.
He was fine. He was always fine.
It was everyone around Dawkins that suffered for his attention-whoring.
Dogman moved to the side of the doorway for a better look at the commotion. A few yards down the hallway, he saw hotel security pull the purple-haired girl off the guy who’d chucked the blood balloon. She had the dumb schmuck pinned against a wall and swore a blue streak at him.
Lovely girl. If Dogman ever had a daughter like that, he’d disown her.
Phones all around him chirped and squawked. One of them was his. He pulled it out of his pocket and found a push notification from the Myiasis app he’d downloaded that morning. The DawkinsCon leaderboard had been updated.
A girl with a skull mask covering the top half of her face looked at her phone. “Blood boy scored forty-five for that.”
The boy in the black robes next to her scratched his chin. “Seriously? They only gave the Thriller flash mob fifty-five. That was way more work than filling a balloon with corn-syrup.”
The girl in the skull mask turned her nose up. “I think they like, scored against them for originality. Or not originality, I mean. Like no one’s ever done Thriller before.”
The two costumed kids bickered back and forth about the DawkinsCon scoring system as they shuffled off toward another line of people waiting for autographs.
Dogman pushed past a number of freaks in order to keep an eye on Nick. He and his assistant moved down the hallway, the girl shouting profanities every step of the way. The security guards pulled the blood balloon hurler in the other direction.
Nick and his girl turned a corner and Dogman hurried to catch up. He stepped over the red crap soiling the hallway carpeting and passed the gawkers milling about taking pictures, all the while acting as casual as he could in a rubber dog mask.
He stopped at the corner and watched as Nick pressed an elevator button and dripped red onto the marble floor.
Dogman looked for a stairwell and saw one several feet away. He wasn’t sure he had it in him to climb the stairs as fast as one of these fancy elevators could go, but it was that or lose his quarry until he decided to show his face downstairs again.
He burst through the stairwell door and climbed the first few steps two at a time. His legs, already stiff from standing around the convention floor all day, gave him grief like he hadn’t experienced in a couple months.
The first couple of floors weren’t so bad. Exercise had never been a problem for Dogman. He was still in reasonably good shape. But recently…
Dogman poked his head out into the hallway of each floor as he went. He never saw Nick and the girl, which could have meant he missed them, or that they were on a floor he hadn’t reached yet. As big a shot as Dawkins was, Dogman would bet his bottom dollar that he was on one of the upper floors.
By around the seventh floor, his legs had developed their own opinions about the whole situation. By the eleventh floor, they were prepared to tell Dogman to go to hell. He’d more or less resigned himself to having missed them, but continued onward as a matter of principle.
The distance between the eleventh and twelfth floors was the same as the distance between every other two floors in the building, but every individual step may as well have been three. Sweat dripped out of the dog mask on his head on onto his button-down shirt. He took off his jacket and draped it over his shoulder.
Dogman pushed open the stairwell door and leaned out into the twelfth floor. He backed into the stairwell, but as the door closed itself behind him, he heard a familiar tirade. The purple-haired girl swore so loud they could hear her in the next building over.
He moved out into the twelfth floor hallway. The girl’s voice came from around the corner. “You have got to be fucking kidding me.”
Dawkins said something unintelligible. He was worked up too, but not as much as the kid. Dogman moved closer.
“This is beyond disturbing. This is really out there. Can we not stand here?” Dawkins sounded like he was in a room—presumably his. His voice got clearer as he and the girl moved back into the hallway around the corner from him. “We have to call the police, right?”
“Uh, yeah. I don’t even want to think about where those came from. Or how they got in your room. Cops are a minimum. This might be some FBI shit, I dunno. I should probably not be here when the authorities arrive. Just a thought.”
The girl was averse to the feds. Interesting.
Dawkins agreed. “I’ll call them and the front desk. You should go chill in your room, but uh… maybe walk me downstairs first. I do not want to stand around here by myself. I can handle quite a bit, but I’m freaking my shit right now.”
Damn. So much for this window. Whatever it was they found in Nick’s room, it drove them back downstairs for the time being. Plus side, Dogman had an idea of where Nick’s room was. Twelfth floor, a couple doors down from around this corner from the sound of it.
Dogman looked at the elevator doors in front of him. If Nick and the girl were on their way back downstairs, it’d be through those doors. He had seconds to disappear.
The ice machine room. That would do it. He slid into the room and pressed himself against the wall. Nick and the girl stood directly on the other side of the wall from him. He held back the urge to reach around the corner and wring Dawkins’ neck with his bare hands.
Was it possible to black out from pure, unbridled hatred?
“I mean, who even does that?” Nick sounded shaken. Of course he was shaken. It’s always a bigger deal for a person when their own personal space is invaded as opposed to someone else’s.
“Right? Another question: How many points do you think it’ll be worth?” The girl almost made Dogman laugh. He bit his lip to keep it inside.
“Not funny.” Nick paused. “Okay, a little funny. A damn lot of points, I’d imagine.”
The elevator dinged and the sound of the doors sliding open echoed along the corridor.
“Ugh,” Nick said. “Gives me the friggin’ creeps, I’ll tell you that.”
The elevator doors closed and was replaced by the hum of the elevator moving downstairs.
Dogman didn’t move. The wall did a fine job of keeping him upright atop his worn and rubbery legs. He pulled off his dog mask and breathed fresh air for the first time in hours.
There would be more opportunities to catch Nick alone. The weekend had just gotten started.
Chapter 6
Nick could have gone his entire life without seeing that.
The shock of finding your hotel room broken into was bad enough—finding a dozen human brains accentuating the ostentatious décor was a perfect example of what nightmares were made of.
A brain on each pillow, four more scattered about the bed. A brain on the nightstand. Another on the table. Two more in the bathroom sinks. One in the shower. A brain in the bath. And one in his luggage.
Yes. His. Luggage.
If there was possibly a plus side, the brains weren’t bloody hunks of meat, fresh from their craniums. They’d been preserved in formaldehyde for years, leaving them a tan, fleshy color. That was for the best. Otherwise, Nick would have been a guy covered in ostensibly fake blood trying to explain how he had nothing to do with the collection of fresh gray matter littered about his hotel room.
“Well,” one of the police officers standing in Nick’s room said, “I guess we can close the books on that one.”
Nick was lost. “What? Close the books on what?”
Another officer with a deep southern drawl spoke up. “We got us a call this morning up th’ University… lab tech came for the day an’ there’s a whole mess o’ brains gone missin’.”
The drawl amused Nick, but in the moment, he wished he was having this discussion with Sheriff Reed back in For
est Down. He hadn’t dealt with a police matter without her involved in years. “So someone broke into a University lab and stole twelve brains? And left them in my room?”
The officer without the accent put his hands on his hips. “I say ‘broke in,’ but there was no forced entry, here or there. Damned if I know. Way above my pay grade. Maybe the place was vandalized by Houdini. Wait…” The officer looked at his partner. “Houdini’s dead, isn’t he? His son, then. Kid Houdini.”
Nick didn’t know if the officer was being facetious or not. He sidestepped it entirely. “Sorry guys. This stuff just kind of follows me around.”
Officer Drawl’s jaw hung low. “Yeah, believe I saw you on th’ news last year. Fella killed some people like outta your books, didn’t he?”
“Something like that.” Nick winced at the reminder of the chaos inflicted on the lives of the unsuspecting residents of Forest Down as a result of his cult following. That discomfort was replaced by discomfort of a different sort as the brain in his luggage caught his attention again. “I won’t be able to take anything out of here, am I?”
“I’m afraid not, Mr. Dawkins, this whole place will be a crime scene for a bit. In fact, we should clear outta here.” The primary officer gestured for Nick to move out into the hallway. He was happy to oblige. He had no interest in hanging around the impromptu brain museum someone had erected in his room any longer than necessary.
Nick stuck out a hand, which the officers took turns shaking. “Thanks again, guys, and good luck with your policing.” Was that an appropriate sentiment for situations like this? Nick had no concept outside of what he knew from his familiar interactions with Reed.
He moved a door down to Corpse’s room and knocked on the door. She whipped it open and pulled him inside. “Nick Nick Nick Nick.” Her mind moved faster than her mouth again.
Nick patted her on the shoulder. “Slow down. One thing at a time. Did you talk to Blaire?”
“Yes.” She hopped up and down excitedly. “She said the hotel is dreadfully sorry but they’re completely full. No more rooms.”
Nick sat on Corpse’s bed. His leg no longer pained him like it had while in the cast, but the day had still been more exercise than he was used to. Thankfully, the fake blood he’d been drenched in had dried into a sticky film. “Okay, well… that sucks.”
“Do you know what this means?” Corpse clutched her hands to her face and squealed.
He rubbed his fingers against the bridge of his nose. “They’re letting me sleep in the black Impala from Supernatural down on the show floor?”
“Roomie!” Corpse screeched. She flung her arms around Nick and squeezed him.
Nick looked across the room at the three empty energy drink cans that had appeared on the table in the half-hour since he’d seen her last. “Oh, boy. I’ll sleep good here.”
Corpse shook Nick by the shoulders. “Sleep is for the dead, Bro J. And the old. And pussies.”
At the ripe age of thirty-six, Nick wondered what Corpse’s idea of old was exactly. “What about clothes? Did Blaire say anything about clothes?”
Corpse relinquished her grip on Nick’s person and bounded toward the mini-fridge. She produced another energy drink and cracked it open. “She said she had some stuff and would bring it by here in a few minutes.”
“Excellent.” At the very least, the essentials were taken care of. Clean clothes on his back. A place to sleep, or make an attempt to.
“Oh, and seventy points.” Corpse gulped at her drink like Popeye on a spinach bender.
“The brains?” Nick rolled the score around in his head and compared it to the ones from earlier in the day. “That sounds about right. One of the cops said they were stolen from the University campus. No forced entry here or there.”
Corpse stopped drinking and squinted. “Really?” Nick could see the processors in her mind doing a thousand different calculations at once. “Fascinating.”
“That’s one word for it, yes. Icky is another one. There’s fermented brain soaking into my Chucky shirt right now.” He flopped onto his back. “What do you want to do tonight?”
Corpse maintained the conversation as she sat down at the room’s table and brought her laptop to life, but Nick could tell it was a secondary function for her at this point. She was primarily working on the Mystery of the Magic Brains. “Right now I’m thinking I’ll spend some time on my computer. It’s been a few hours. I feel disconnected. You?”
“I’m not sure. There’s a theater a few blocks over having a screening of Deathgasm for GutsCon attendees. I thought about checking it out.” Visions of the thousands of people he’d spent the day surrounded by invaded his head. “Then again, maybe I’ll stay in.”
The sound of Corpse’s fingers jabbing at her keyboard chipped away at Nick’s daze. Her voice pulled him free of it. “Everyone thinks you’re going to be there anyway.”
Nick sat up. “Who’s everyone?”
“Myiasis. Twitter. You know, everyone.” She opened a browser window. “It’s only speculation, but your affinity for New Zealand horror is canon.”
“I have canon?” A knock at the door interrupted the thought. He picked up his cane and got to his feet. “We live in strange times, Corpse.” He walked to the door and looked through the peephole. It was full of gleaming teeth.
He opened the door. “Blaire, did you know I have canon?”
Blaire titled her head. “Nick, darling, I don’t think the hotel allows cannons.”
“Not—never mind.” He looked down at a brown bag in her hands. “Corpse said you were bringing clothes?”
“Yes.” She handed him the bag. “Nothing fancy. Just some odds and ends leftover from various promotions and such.”
“If it doesn’t have brain juice on it, I’ll wear it.” He paused. “Can you believe I have to say things like that?”
“Nickie, dear, after the last few years as your agent, I’d believe anything.” Blaire looked at her phone. “I have a meeting with some people. Are you going anywhere tonight?”
He shook his head. “Undecided. There’s something I kinda want to go to, but it’ll be insane. Lots of people. I dunno.”
Blaire put her hand on his arm. “If you do go out, stay safe. And stay away from crazy people with coffee pots.” She offered a weak smile along with her half-joke. Nick thought perhaps she’d been more disturbed by watching him have his head bashed in over video chat than she’d ever let on, but they’d never talked about it. He could see how that might stick with a person.
Nick prepared to close the door. “Will do. Enjoy your meeting.”
“Right.” Blaire smiled and put her fingers to her temple like a handgun. She made a gun sound with her mouth and mimed recoil. “Bye Nick.”
He closed the door, went back to the bed and dug into the bag’s contents. He pulled out several articles of clothing and Blaire’s words sank in. Various promotions, she’d said. He unfurled a Rat King t-shirt. Underneath that, a hoodie with The Inn’s movie logo emblazoned on the back. “Oh hell.”
“What?” Corpse didn’t look away from her screen. She was indisputably in it.
Nick sifted through the bag. “This is all stuff with the names of my books on it. Oh god, I’m going to be one of those guys.”
Corpse snorted and mock laughed at him. “Ha ha, douchebag.”
“Douchebag deluxe.” Nick set the clothes aside. “Fuck that, there’s no way I’m going out now. I’m sitting my happy ass on the bed and watching HBO.”
Corpse turned to him, her face lit up. “Ooh, can we get a porno? Those are so funny.”
The corners of his mouth dove for his chin. “I am not watching porno with you, Corpse.” Nick’s phone dinged at him. He reached into his pocket. “But still, even that would be preferable to walking around Sixth Street in an Inn hoodie. Holy shit, how big an asshole would I have to be?” He looked at his phone.
It was a text from Hellen.
Deathgasm?
Chapter 7
Hellen gesticulated with the enthusiasm of an awestruck child. “Mind equally blown. I’d be fine if New Zealand’s primary export were horror comedies, now and forever.”
They made it a full four feet across the lobby floor before a bearded, chubby guy recognized Nick. “Nick Dawkins. I love your stuff. Can I get a picture with you?”
Nick ruffled his hair. He’d forgotten to put his hoodie up. “Yeah, sure.” The bearded man handed his phone to Hellen and she took a picture of the two. Nick did his best to wear a genuine smile. He imagined it came out as awkward as usual.
“Thanks so much. I like your Inn hoodie.” The bearded guy took his phone and went about his business.
Nick looked down at his hyper-narcissistic ensemble and sighed as he hurried out the theater doors and onto the crowded sidewalk. The air outside was warm and humid; a far cry from the chill in the night he was accustomed to in Forest Down.
Hellen trotted to keep up. “Does that happen a lot?”
Nick slowed down as the distance between himself and the theater grew. “Depends what you mean. I get recognized back home, but they’re more likely to spit on me than anything else.”
“Holy shit.” They crossed a street packed with drunken revelers. “That popular, huh?”
Nick got the impression that most of this crowd wasn’t the convention; this was a Friday night in Austin. “A lot of bullshit has followed me to Forest Down and they’re not real thrilled about it. I mean hell, you know, of all people.”
Hellen stopped on the sidewalk and looked down at the ground.
Nick skidded to a halt and turned. “I didn’t mean—”
“You can’t do that.” She looked up at him, irritation stiffening her face. “I don’t think I’ll ever not feel bad about everything that happened, but you can’t say we’re good and then throw it in my face like that.”