Flypaper Cast: Dark Psychological Thriller - Book 3 Read online

  The kid in the hoodie walked toward the back of the store. He only pretended to peruse the shelves. His eyes returned again and again to the stairs. The stairs that led to their home above the store; where Bonnie watched some reality singing thing or another.

  The wide kid leaned over the counter as though looking for something. “This the right place?”

  The hoodie kid looked up the stairs and then moved back toward the front of the store. “Has to be, right? Chuck, is it?”

  These kids weren’t there for Fritos.

  Chuck acted natural. He moved toward the counter. He had a gun back there, just in case. In decades of business he’d never had to use it, but it was there should the need arise. “I’m sorry, do I know you?”

  The wide kid leaned on the counter. “Sorry, Chuck, you don’t.” He extended a hand. “I’m Bert.”

  The hoodie kid grinned from ear to ear, in on some joke that Chuck didn’t get. “I’m Ernie.”

  Chuck took Bert’s hand. The kid squeezed hard. Chuck’s bad joints didn’t care for it.

  Ernie laughed. “We heard Nick Dawkins lives around here, that right?”

  Nick’s fans. They always seemed a little off, but they usually came in, bought soda and asked for directions and went about their business. These boys didn’t seem to be there to buy anything.

  “That’s right. Out on the edge of town.” Chuck walked to the side of the counter, but Bert strolled into his path. He was a big boy, and he stood up straight and broadened his shoulders to let Chuck know it.

  “Is it true he comes in here a lot?” Bert glanced at Ernie and smiled.

  Chuck stood up as straight as he could, given the ache in his back. “I was just telling your friend here I was in the middle of closing up. You like to buy something before I call it a night?”

  Ernie picked up a jar of mayonnaise. “Fuck me, I thought these bumpkins were supposed to be friendly.” He dropped the jar to the floor, where it exploded in an array of glass and white sauce. “Dammit old man, see what you made me do?”

  Footsteps sounded from upstairs. Chuck hoped it was a coincidence and took the boys’ attention away from it. “Now why don’t you boys just run along, find something else to do. You don’t want to be causing trouble with the whole police department two doors down, do you?”

  Bert inspected a rack of cheap lighters on the counter. He picked one up and lit it. He watched the flame dance in the air inches away from his face. “Trouble? Why would there be trouble? We’re upstanding customers.”

  The stairs creaked as Bonnie ran down them in her flowered pajamas and her hair in curlers. “Chuckie? What happened?”

  Chuck raised a hand at her. “Nothing, Bon. These nice young men knocked a jar over, it’s alright.”

  Ernie approached the stairs. “I don’t know how alright it is. Chuckie here is being kind of a dick, ma’am.”

  Chuck bristled and clenched his fist. He raised a trembling finger at Ernie. “No, you see here, you don’t talk to her that way.”

  Bonnie moved up a step. “Chuckie, I’m calling the Sheriff.”

  Bert grabbed Chuck’s arm and pulled at his arthritic fingers. “There’s no call for that, Bonnie. Let’s keep this friendly.” The pain in Chuck’s hand pushed the air out of his lungs. He gasped for more.

  “Chuckie!” Bonnie screamed, her hands at her mouth.

  Chuck waved at her. Stay away, Bon. Keep out of it.

  “Why don’t you just tell me what it is you want? We haven’t got any real money.” Chuck looked at the register. There was maybe a hundred dollars in it. Maybe.

  “We’re not here for money.” Ernie dragged an arm across a shelf of jars. Tomato sauce, mayonnaise, and pickles crashed to the floor. “We’re here to deliver a message to Nick Dawkins.”

  Chuck was fed up with this nonsense. Twenty or thirty years ago, he’d have laid these punks out and dragged their sorry asses two doors down to the station himself. “Then deliver your damn message and get out.”

  Bert squeezed Chuck’s hand and twisted his arm. “What do you think I’m doing now?” Chuck gritted his teeth. Be strong for Bonnie. Don’t let her or this shit-stain know how bad this hurts.

  Bonds between certain people were funny like that. After decades of marriage, they communicated entire dialogues with their faces, their body language. Chuck and Bonnie had that down to an art. She knew how much pain he was in and she did what he expected her to do.

  She came running.

  “Take your hands off of him.” She bounded down the stairs faster than Chuck would have thought possible. He hadn’t seen her move like that since Reagan was in office. Bonnie picked up a small bag of sugar and slammed it into Ernie’s face and, by God, it was Morning in America again. The little punk never saw it coming.

  Chuck hadn’t wanted her involved, but if she was going to be, he was proud to see the hellcat he’d fallen in love with; the girl who sneaked out at night and went with him down to Boggs’ Landing. Little Bonnie Keenan, who had once kicked a boy in the groin for whistling at her, then went on to marry him anyway.

  He couldn’t let her get all the licks in without him.

  Chuck reached over and grabbed the wire rack full of cheap lighters and swung it into Bert’s head. Bert responded by kicking Chuck in the back of the knee. The old man crumpled like paper. Bert kicked him again while he was down. Coward.

  Bonnie picked up a jar that Ernie had missed and hurled it at Bert’s head. She missed, but it was a good effort. Bert lunged forward and punched her in the sweet face that Chuck had woken up to for half a century.

  When he was young, Chuck knew how to fight. It wasn’t like kids today. They didn’t pull guns and shoot at each other from moving cars. They fought like men. Fists and testosterone, mixed with blood and concrete. Sometimes they fought for fun. Sometimes they fought over girls named Bonnie.

  Fifty years later, his fist swinging up into Bert’s jimmys, Chuck found himself once again fighting for a girl named Bonnie.

  Bert wilted and clutched at his gonads. His jaw flapped up and down and a shrill noise like a squeaky door hinge came out.

  Chuck went to Bonnie. “Are you alright? Let me look.”

  Her nose was pretty red, but didn’t look broken. She had a cut on her lip. Sons of bitches. “I’m okay, dear. Call the police.”

  Ernie on the other hand, his nose looked good and broken, and he wasn’t happy. He ran up behind Bonnie and kicked her in the back. The pained cry she let out filled Chuck with hate and fury.

  He leapt to his feet and put his hands around Ernie’s throat. They tottered into a shelf where Ernie’s back met solid American craftsmanship. “Hit a woman? Hit my wife? You mongrel, I’ll put you down myself.”

  Bert groaned and charged at Chuck from behind. He put his thick arms around the old man’s neck and pulled him off of Ernie. Chuck swiped at the big kid behind him, but couldn’t connect in any meaningful way.

  The world got fuzzy as Ernie punched Chuck in the gut.

  He wondered who would take care of Bonnie if he left.

  Bam. A sound like a big honkin’ firecracker cracked through the air and the pressure around Chuck’s neck let off. The world came back into focus as he fell to his knees and coughed.

  Bonnie stood behind the counter, a drop of blood on her lip and a smoking gun in her hands. The two boys backed away from Chuck. “That was a warning shot.”

  Chuck sucked air into his lungs and thanked God for little Bonnie Keenan, who did him the honor of becoming Bonnie Littleberry one spring day half a century ago. Lord, did he love that woman.

  Bert and Ernie didn’t move. Then Ernie moved a little. He reached down and touched his pant leg, where a trickle of urine ran down it and soaked through his jeans.

  “Git,” Bonnie said as she jerked the gun in the direction of the front door.

  The two boys ran for the door. In the back of the store, Meredith Dawkins ran down the stairs, her eyes heavy with sleep. “What was that sound? Ar
e you two okay?”

  Bonnie went to Chuck. “Meredith dear, call the police. Chuckie, don’t try to move.”

  Meredith ran back up the stairs. Chuck stumbled to his feet. “Hell with that. I want their plates.”

  “Chuckie, no, leave them be.” Bonnie pulled at Chuck’s arm, but he was an unstoppable force. He ran out the door where he saw the boys across the street, climbing into a dark car. The car’s headlights lit up the snow and ice blanketing the street as the engine roared to life.

  The tires screeched as they spun against the frozen ground. The car fishtailed like a drunken bullet, doing a full three-sixty as the driver fought against the elements. When the vehicle had traction again, it continued to swing directly at Chuck. Bonnie stood just behind him. He grabbed her and pulled her out of the way as the car plowed into their storefront.

  The store’s lights went out as the vehicle barreled through glass, wood and every general good a person in Forest Down could ever need. It came to a halt halfway into the building. The bell from the doorway pinged off the car’s roof and clattered to the floor.

  Chuck held his wife close. Damn the store. She was all that mattered. “You alright, Bon?”

  “I’m fine, dear. I’m fine.” Bonnie looked down the street to where several police officers ran out of their building two doors down.

  Deputy Kern was the first to reach them. He looked them up and down. “My god, are you two okay?” He yelled at two other officers. “Check the car. Someone call an ambulance.”

  “We’re fine, Deputy. Thank you. A little shaken up, but we’re alright.” Chuck surveyed the demolished store front. A piece of glass fell onto the car’s roof and broke.

  “At least we’ve still got our health.”

  Chapter 10

  The credits rolled on Meet the Feebles. Nick figured every time that happened, Jim Henson turned over in his grave. There was something wonderfully blasphemous about watching puppets give each other oral sex that tickled him in his creative bits.

  Corpse, in the meantime, was singing the theme song at the top of her lungs. She would be for days. It was one of those earworms that made itself at home in the viewer’s brain; it used the frontal cortex as a blanket and stole food out of the medulla oblongata’s fridge. It was enough to drive a person crazy.

  Nick lit a cigarette and puffed on it as he overlooked the pile of lumber that was once his balcony. He held his hand out to ash into his mouth-shaped ashtray. It wasn’t there, of course. It was ten feet below, buried in the wooden rubble.

  He loved his ashtray. He loved his balcony. Now they were gone. Somehow, it was as much of a violation as having a deranged wannabe artiste break into his home and beat him cold with a coffee pot. If he got his hands around the Maggots who did it… well, he didn’t know what he’d do. Probably curse a lot. He’d shout at them so hard they’d feel it in their spleens. Kill them in his next best-seller.

  Corpse joined him in the doorway and lit her own cigarette. Damn mentholated things. Gross.

  “You know what I love about that movie?” She took another drag. “Basically everybody dies. Come to think of it, that’s all of my favorite movies.”

  The writer in Nick was intrigued. “Why do you think that is?”

  “Hmm.” Corpse squinted one eye as the gears in her head spun faster than they were designed to, fueled by a combustible cocktail of alcohol, weed, nicotine, caffeine and sugar. “Because that’s life. Everybody dies. Nobody gets out alive.”

  Nick blew smoke into the ether. “That’s fair. Scarface, right?”

  Corpse shook her cigarette at him. “Fuckin’ A. Tony Montana.” She slipped into a decent Al Pacino approximation of a Cuban accent. Which is to say it was nothing at all like an authentic Cuban accent, but it was a dead ringer for Pacino. “First you get the money. Then you get the power. Then you get the women.” She clapped her hands together and her cigarette burst into ash and embers. “Then bam, you’re shot in the back by a Columbian hitman.”

  “Hey, speaking of such things, have you looked at Myaisis lately?” Nick wondered how much attention their exposure of Wormwood and Hellen’s personal details had gotten. Part of him was afraid to find out.

  Corpse ashed out the open door. “Oh yeah. They’re having a field day. That kind of shit is Christmas for internet trolls.”

  The cold air sent a chill through Nick. Or maybe it was simply the kind of chill that ran down a normal person’s spine when they realize they’d taken a giant dump in someone’s life. Arguably justified or not. “That’s something I don’t get, I guess. They’re big dogs in the Maggot farm, right? So why would Maggots be giving them heat?”

  Corpse flicked her cigarette out into the snow. “That’s the internet for you, Nickie boy. Some men just want to watch the world burn.”

  Nick’s smartphone played the Dragnet theme. Reed, hopefully with news about whoever had busted up his car. He flicked his own cigarette outside and dragged his leaden foot across the living room to the coffee table.

  “Ahoy hoy.” He expected Reed to launch into new details about the senseless assault on his vehicle. Instead he got a long stretch of silence.

  “Dawkins. There’s been an incident.” Her voice was joyless; as dead serious as he’d ever heard it.

  “What? What happened?” Nick’s change in demeanor alarmed Corpse, who came over to listen in as best she could.

  “Everyone’s okay, don’t worry. But there was an attack on Bonnie and Chuck Littleberry.” Reed’s words were so surreal it took a second for them sink in.

  “What? You said they’re okay, right? What happened?”

  Corpse leaned in closer. Nick held his phone away from his face so she could hear.

  “Couple of kids, fans of yours apparently. Not especially crazy obsessed types, just asshole kids. They came in, roughed up Bonnie and Chuck. Bless ‘em, they gave as good as they got, though. Broke one of the little bastards’ noses.” Reed seemed to be reading off the details. Nick could picture that notepad of hers in his head. “But as the assailants were fleeing, they lost control of their car and drove it right into the store. The place is a mess. Old as it is, I’m surprised it’s still standing. Your mom was upstairs for most of it, she’s okay too.”

  “Holy shit. Oh my god.” Nick put his full weight on his crutches. They were the only thing that kept him upright.

  “Like I said, they’re fine, a little shaken up, a few bruises, but fine.” She let out a deep breath. “I’m sorry to call with this, I’d have come out, but the roads are atrocious.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I understand. Damn.” Bonnie and Chuck. The other two people in all of Forest Down who ever gave him the time of day. Their lives upheaved. Because of him. “I feel like I should talk to them. Are they at Beasley Medical?”

  Reed chuckled. “They actually refused emergency treatment. You know them.”

  Nick laughed, but a lump caught in his throat. “Yeah, that’s them. Could you do me a favor? Give me their number? I’m ashamed I don’t have it.”

  The Sheriff put on her serious voice. “I can’t give you their private information, of course. But uh—” Reed spoke to someone else on her end of the line. “If someone else were to give it to you, I couldn’t stop them.”

  Nick’s phone buzzed. He looked at it. A phone number, local area code, appeared, along with the words, Love you, Mom.

  “Right,” he said. “Tell someone thanks for me.”

  “Will do. But Dawkins, these kids... I think they’re talking about this podcast thing you mentioned yesterday. Said this was supposed to be a message to you, but it got out of hand. Did you and your houseguest do something to provoke this?” Reed didn’t sound as friendly as Nick was accustomed to. He imagined it had to be what she sounded like when talking to the perpetrator of a crime and not the victim.

  “I uh… the less you know about that the better, I think.” Every muscle in his body tightened. “But I’ll take care of it.”

  “Don’t do anything stupi
d, Dawkins. Get some sleep, we’ll talk later.” Reed hung up.

  Corpse bit at her fingernails. “That nice old couple? They screwed with them? Really?”

  Nick pushed the number in his mother’s text. “Yeah. Give me a second.”

  Chuck’s voice came over the line. “Hello?”

  “Chuck, it’s Nick. I just heard. I—I don’t know what to say.” It was true. One of those rare moments when the writer had no words.

  “Nick.” Chuck sighed. “Uh—thanks for calling.” His tone betrayed his words. Whatever the old guy was feeling, Nick couldn’t imagine—but it wasn’t appreciation.

  “God, Chuck, you’re okay? Bonnie, she’s okay?” Nick wanted to see them, to tell them how sorry he was in person. He wondered if Corpse could navigate the roads.

  “We’re alright, but they tore the place up pretty good. We’re at the station now with your mother, but we’ll be going to stay at the Shady Thicket until we can sort the store out. We’re not sure it’s structurally sound.”

  Nick’s stomach sank. They weren’t sure their life’s work was structurally sound. “I don’t know what to say. I know this is on me. I’ll do whatever I can to make this right. I’ll pay for the damage, anything.”

  Chuck coughed. “We appreciate that Nick, but we’ll manage. We always have.” Of course. The Littleberrys were proud. Old school picked-up-by-their-own-bootstraps types. It’d take some convincing to get them to accept a handout, even if he owed it to them.

  “Okay, put a pin in that.” Bonnie. With her cookie package smile. The grandmother he’d have liked to have had. “Can I talk to Bonnie? I’d like to say hi and apologize to her.”

  The old man was quiet. “I don’t think that’s a good idea. She’s pretty shaken up, you know. Look, I need to go. We got this report to finish up.”

  Nick could hear the writing on the wall. “Yeah, no problem. I’m sorry again, Chuck. I—”

  The line was dead. Chuck had already hung up.

  Nick squeezed the phone in his hand, which shook with the seismic activity building inside his body. Corpse reached a hand out to him. “Nick?”