Scott Nicholson Library Vol 3 Read online

  “No, thanks,” Bone said. “I’m lactose intolerant.”

  “Whatever. Say, why don’t you try one of the tanning booths? On the house.”

  Bone’s shin sparked with dull feeling, and she realized Crystal had kicked her. “Uh ...that’s kind of you, but I’m allergic to UV radiation, too. I break out in hives if I even think about Sunmaid Raisins.”

  “Whatever,” he said. Then, to Crystal, “I’ll be on lunch break in my office. Key those tapes in at $3.99 and see how they do.”

  After he navigated the action aisle and disappeared, Bone said, “What was that toe job all about?”

  “Surveillance.”

  Bone glanced at the cameras in the upper corners of the store. “So? Every business has security monitors.”

  “In the dressing room? That’s how Fatback Bob gets his kicks. He offers free sessions to any female under 20. Has a bank of monitors in his office and spycams in places you wouldn’t dream.”

  Bone shuddered, imagining the overweight man watching her undress. Even worse, watching her fade to nothing. Talk about naked ...

  “You work for a pervert?” Bone asked.

  “Everybody works for a pervert. It’s just a question of degree. As long as he keeps his hands to himself, hey, who am I to judge?”

  The tape had continued rolling and the movie was now in a fairly generic scene where the heroine discovered an ancient book in the graveyard. From what Bone could tell, the basic thrust was that she was only now realizing she was dead, and she looked up in stunned surprise.

  She was such a bad actress that her “stunned surprise” was very much like her curious resolve or her perplexed dismay.

  The whispers came again, and this time they were audible. Roystra, roystra, roystra!

  As the chants rose, a swaying, staggering figure moved in from stage left. The camera swam, and then there was another shambling figure, and yet another, taking jerking steps toward the heroine.

  “Whoa, Dempsey jumped the shark bigtime,” Crystal said. “Now it’s a freaking zombie flick.”

  And there among the actors with their makeup-clotted faces, mussed hair, and torn clothing, Royce made an encore appearance, a strip of rubbery flesh dangling from his cheek, his T-shirt mottled with Jell-O and cherry sauce, eyes blank and staring with evil intent.

  Kind of like his “Hey, chick, I’m a tortured loner” look.

  “Hear that?” Crystal turned up the volume.

  “Zombie moans. Satanic chants. And probably some sea-creature squishes thrown in for good measure.”

  “No, it’s a phrase. Something about Royce.”

  Bone strained her ears. “Royce’s truss? What is he, Hernia Boy or something?”

  “No. ‘In Royce we trust.’”

  “Wow.” She could hear the words clearly now, repeated over and over in a lulling monotone. “Like anybody could ever trust that guy?”

  Crystal stopped the tape and ejected it. “Something’s up, and this merits some closer study.”

  “Why do I have a feeling this involves Pettigrew, a couch, and a tub of buttery popcorn?”

  “I need your help here.”

  “Royce needs my help, too. Nice to be wanted for a change.”

  “While I check out Dempsey, see what you can dig up on Royce.”

  “Ha ha. You make a funny, Crystal. ‘Dig’—get it?”

  “I’m trying to keep you out of trouble and maybe earn you some brownie points. Saving the world ought to get you a few marks in the Golden Book and get you moving on to heaven.”

  “I know you’re anxious to get rid of me and all, but—”

  Madame Fingers came to the counter, gumming and smacking. She laid a copy of “East of Eden” on the counter. “Oldie but goodie, just like me,” she said. “When I was a young’un, I was sweet on James Dean.”

  “Congratulations,” Crystal said. “This rental qualifies you for a special freebie.”

  “What’s that?” the old woman said, apparently not content with the stolen freebies squirreled away in her purse.

  Crystal winked at Bone and slid a token toward the woman. “One tanning-booth session, but you have to act now.”

  Madame Fingers beamed, exposing her three brown teeth. “Don’t mind if I do. Been quite a rainy spell lately.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “That’s what passes for cutting edge these days?” Pettigrew asked, wiping his buttery hands on his jeans.

  “Beats spending twenty bucks at the Cineplex,” Crystal said. “Besides, if you’re going to be working with Dempsey, you might as well understand his vision.”

  “I’m not working with Dempsey. And the only vision he got is ‘mascara vision.’”

  “Last time I saw you two together, you were tighter than the Brokeback Mountain boys.”

  Crystal squirmed down into the sofa cushion and rested her head on Pettigrew’s shoulder. Momma was somewhere in the back of the trailer, messing around with some newt innards or smoking some dried buzzard gizzards. Which meant she and Pettigrew could get in a little making out.

  “Well, when somebody says you’re ruggedly handsome, it’s hard not to listen,” Pettigrew said, kissing the top of her head. “But when he started babbling about red carpets and back-end deals, he kind of lost me.”

  “That’s the secret handshake,” Crystal said, with all the insider knowledge she’d gleaned from behind-the-scenes bonus footage on DVD’s.

  In “The Darkening,” the zombies had eventually chased the fish-lipped heroine to the edge of the graveyard, at which point she realized her spirit was trapped there and she could never escape. After a long, repetitive chase between the gravestones, the zombies eventually cornered her and began tearing at her clothes, beginning with her shirt, of course. Then they started ripping and eating her flesh, though the meat looked like chunks of bad bacon scarfed from a grocery store Dumpster. Besides the obvious plot hole of ghosts not having flesh, the big reveal at the end was a letdown—the woman “died” at her own grave.

  Pettigrew hadn’t said anything when the boobs flashed, but he’d checked her out with the same sort of stunned surprise, or maybe butter-brained confusion, as the heroine had expressed. Or perhaps he was wondering if Dempsey would put a babe like that as his love interest in the next movie.

  Royce had only made one more appearance, in a cutaway where a gruesome zombie face leaked chocolate cherry sauce. But the “In Royce we trust” chant had been repeated several times during the extended chase scene.

  As the end credits rolled, something thumped under the couch.

  “What was that?” Pettigrew said.

  “Probably a rat.”

  “I got some poison out in the truck.”

  “What are you doing with poison?”

  Pettigrew shrugged. “You never know when something might need killing.”

  Crystal wasn’t sure poison would work on the Lurken. For all she knew, it might give them a buzz and inspire a case of the munchies. She wasn’t sure what kind of mouth was attached to the end of those slimy, slithery tentacles, but she wasn’t ready to find out.

  “Well, handsome, you’re killing me with your rugged good looks.” She cupped the back of his head and brought his face down for a kiss. He slipped her a little tongue.

  “Get it, girl,” Bone whispered from behind the couch.

  Crystal waved her away. Pervert.

  Pettigrew pulled away. “Why are you twitching?”

  “Shaking with desire for you.”

  “Your momma’s home.”

  Crystal and Bone sighed in unison. “Since when has that ever stopped you?”

  “When are you going to take me seriously? Us seriously?”

  “Not now, Pet.”

  He stood up and stomped loudly enough to scare off any rats that might have been hiding under the couch. “I just don’t understand you. First you’re hard to get, then easy, then ‘Wait, wait, wait.’”

  “I’m 18 and I’m a woman. That explains e
verything.”

  “Dang it, Crystal. I ain’t trying to tie you down. I’m just trying to make plans.”

  “I’m not ready for plans. I have to get my GED and—”

  “You got the hots for Dempsey, huh?”

  “That’s a low blow.”

  “Ain’t the only low blowing going on around here.”

  “Whoa,” Bone whispered in Crystal’s ear. “You scored French Leather Boy and didn’t share?”

  “Shut up,” Crystal said.

  “No. I’m laying it all out. I can’t go on like this.”

  “What’s going on?” Momma yelled from the back of the trailer.

  “Nothing,” Crystal, Pettigrew, and Bone called in unison.

  “Well, keep it quiet. I’m trying to get some work done.”

  Pettigrew lowered his voice. “You been moody ever since Bonnie died. It’s been two years—”

  “Don’t you dare.”

  “Well, she wouldn’t want you to stop living, too.”

  “Yes, I would,” Bone offered.

  “How do you know what Bone wants?” Crystal squeezed the television remote, fighting an urge to hurl it into Pettigrew’s ruggedly handsome, concerned, tall face.

  Pettigrew stopped his pacing. “Wants?”

  “Wanted. Would have wanted. The past tense thingy.”

  “Well, I know she was your best friend, but if you hang on too tight to the past, you’re going to miss the future.”

  “This is almost romantic,” Bone said, hovering near Crystal’s ear.

  Pettigrew peered toward the couch. “I see you.”

  “Uh-oh,” Bone and Crystal whispered at the same time.

  “I see the hurt, Crystal.”

  Whew. As long as you don’t see the ghost, you can see all the hurt you want.

  “I see the scared little girl inside. I see those community-college dreams—”

  Ka-WHUUUMP!!

  The trailer shook as the explosion rolled down the hallway, knocking a pot off the stove and scattering Momma’s ceramic rooster collection across the top of the refrigerator. Crystal leapt from the couch and hurried to the bathroom.

  Pettigrew was right behind her. “What was that?”

  “Stay here.” Explosions weren’t unusual in the Aldridge home, but Momma generally didn’t mess with the heavy-duty potions while company was present.

  And if somebody’s been messing with the potions, no telling what Momma’s cooked up.

  Momma was cussing up a storm, which meant she wasn’t seriously hurt, and acrid smoke boiled from beneath the bathroom door. When Crystal grabbed the door handle, the metal burned her flesh. She pounded on the flimsy wood. “Momma!”

  “Coming, coming.” Momma hacked and coughed, then slammed against the door. “Can’t get it open.”

  Crystal glanced at Pettigrew, who was tapping his cell phone. “What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Calling the station.” Pettigrew was a member of the Parson’s Ford Volunteer Fire Department and dealt with every crisis by the book.

  “No. Her insurance rates will go through the roof.”

  “Like that fire’s going through the roof?”

  “She’s got it under control.”

  Momma slammed into the door again, and the smoke had some bite to it, part rubber, part vinegar, and just a tinge of wet wolf hair. Momma streamed a slew of expletives that sounded like Old Latin.

  “If by ‘under control,’ you mean dying of asfixit ...ass ...ashfix . . .god-danged choking to death,” Pettigrew said. “Move away. I’m busting the door down.”

  “I’ll handle this,” Bone said, and a moment later the door handle turned. Momma fell out into the hall, tongue lolling and eyes bugged. Her eyebrows were singed and the front of her smock was stained, but other than that she appeared intact.

  Except for the newt protruding from her forehead.

  “Uh, Momma?” Crystal waved smoke toward Pettigrew, hoping he didn’t get a good look, but it was too late.

  “What’s that on your head?” he said.

  “Tell him it’s a beauty product,” Bone suggested.

  “Facial scrub,” Crystal said to Pettigrew. “As you can see, there’s no fire, so just go wait in the living room until we get cleaned up.”

  She stepped past Momma and grabbed a towel. The bathroom counter was a mess, and it looked like the wake of rush hour at a Walmart pharmacy, with overturned bottles and tubes of ointments oozing noxious goo. Crystal tossed the towel over Momma’s head and pretended to wipe her face.

  Pettigrew still hovered. Bone did, too, except her feet weren’t touching the floor.

  “A little privacy?” Crystal scowled at Pettigrew.

  She waited until Pettigrew skulked down the hall then examined her mother, who was still speaking in tongues.

  “You sure you’re okay?” Crystal asked.

  “Somebody’s been in the batwing wax,” Momma replied. “Made the potion zig when it shoulda zagged.”

  “What are you working on this late?”

  “You ever heard of the witching hour? It’s midnight.”

  Crystal touched the newt, which squirmed and stuck out a slithery tongue. “Does this hurt?”

  “No,” the newt said in a squeaky voice.

  “Who said that?” Momma said.

  “My work here is done,” Bone said, heading for Crystal’s bedroom and the Orifice that would allow her to escape.

  “Wait just a second,” Crystal said.

  “I’ve got all night.” Momma reached up to explore the lump on her head. “Gak. It’s slimy.”

  “Hey, at least my skin’s not crocodile hide, Granny,” the newt said.

  “I’m not a granny,” Momma said, casting a glance at Crystal. “This one isn’t up to breeding yet.”

  “And I thought I had problems,” the newt said.

  “What can you do? When you love somebody, you just put up with them.”

  “Yeah.” The newt emitted a squeaky sigh. “There was this cute iguana once and—”

  “Hey, this isn’t ‘Dr. Phil,’” Crystal said, perusing the compounds on the sink. “Now, do we have anything to make creepy crawlies go away?”

  “Don’t make me report you to PETA,” the newt said.

  “Two drams of datura, a pinch of feverfew, and a tincture of bloodroot,” Momma said. “And four ounces of ethyl alcohol.”

  “I thought you weren’t supposed to mix datura and alcohol,” Crystal said.

  “The alcohol’s for me,” Momma said. “I’m going to need it.”

  “Just my luck,” the newt said. “I finally get vocal cords and I’m going to be pickled.”

  “Shut up,” Crystal and Momma said in unison.

  Bone, who had obeyed Crystal and was waiting outside the bathroom door, started materializing. Crystal had dodged the bullet with Pettigrew but if Momma knew she’d been committing necromancy, she’d be grounded for life or the end of the world, whichever came first.

  Crystal waved Bone away, and the dead girl drifted through the door, half solid.

  “Okay, let’s root out a newt,” Momma said, arranging the mess on the counter. The smoke had cleared enough that the mirror was visible, and scrawled in rose lipstick were the words “Coming soon.”

  “Uh, Momma, I think somebody’s trying to tell you something.”

  “I got the hint the first time, when the warding potion blew up in my face,” Momma said. “Something doesn’t want me guarding the Orifice.”

  “Better keep me around, then,” the newt said. “Two heads are better than one.”

  “Shouldn’t it be ‘Four eyes are better than two’?” Crystal said.

  Momma glared at her with bloodshot eyes. “You’re arguing with a newt, honey.”

  After a couple of minutes mopping up spills and capping tubes, Momma compounded the datura, bloodroot, and feverfew. As she daubed it on the protruding newt, he spat and hacked and gave one last, “I’ve grown accustomed to your face” bef
ore he began shrinking. Soon nothing remained but an ulcer that vaguely resembled a tiny red Orifice. Momma slapped a band-aid over it.

  “Who do you think is trying to sabotage us?” Crystal asked.

  “Could be anybody. We got enemies as old as the hills. On both sides. Why do you think we got cursed with poverty?”

  “As soon as I get my administrative assistant’s degree, we’ll be in clover.”

  “First we have to get through October. Powerful forces are afoot this month, when the nights grow long and the veil between the dead and the living grows thin.”

  “Oooh. Sounds ominous.”

  “Don’t get uppity. You’ve come of age and it’s your turn to step up.”

  “You’re as bad as Pettigrew. What if I have other plans?”

  Momma shoved the last of the potions under the sink. “You were born an Aldridge. You’re obliged.”

  “So what if creatures from beyond want to take over Parson’s Ford? They can have it, for all I care.”

  Momma nodded down the hall. “You got a good man there. Don’t keep him waiting.”

  “He’s trained.”

  “You know what happens to honey that stays in the pot too long?”

  “No.”

  “It gets gummed up.”

  “I think that newt’s tail stirred your brains a little.”

  Momma opened the window and waved the smoke away. “Look around. Ain’t you ever wondered why weird things happen to you all the time?”

  “I blame my upbringing. Or lack thereof.”

  “Well, maybe, just maybe, Miss Crystal Dawn Aldridge, there are forces at work beyond your control. And one of them might be you.”

  “Beyond control? I’m not the one blowing up my own bathroom.”

  “These Orifices. Have you noticed they only open when you’re around?”

  Crystal’s breath caught from more than just the smoky haze. She hadn’t told Momma the Orifices had become more active. She’d secretly hoped she was going crazy like any normal teen. Apparently, no such luck.

  This was real.

  Momma smiled with that ancient understanding all mothers possessed. And a touch of telepathy probably didn’t hurt. “We’ll talk.”

  Great. As if I wasn’t confused enough already.

  Crystal went to the bathroom door. To the left lay her bedroom and her dead best friend and the Orifice. To the right was her possessive, grumpy boyfriend.