Beach Blanket Bloodbath (Amanda Feral Book 4) (15 page)

“Oh Jesus fuck. How do you figure?”

“Wendy used to be your henchman and now
she has one of her own. You miss the power dynamic. Now, Wendy’s a drug dealer,
maybe you could be a pimp? Look at that girl over there, she could totally be
turned out.”

I glanced up ahead. Sure enough, Lizzy
Stroheim, aka Moonglow, waited outside the park gate, kicking the rock columns
with the back of her heels and glancing optimistically at passing cars. If I
didn’t know she was waiting for me, I’d have totally pegged her for a hooker, a
character trait that I’m sure wouldn’t fly with the judges of Miss Sandflea.
Pageant queens were stripped of titles for far less. I read about one local
beauty canned for a photo her boyfriend took of her shoving a gumball up her
twat. It wasn’t even that dirty. He was quite a good photographer. Plus
afterword his breath was really minty. Win-win.

I pulled the van over a block up from the
waiting girl.

“You might consider disconnecting, Gil.”
I took a drag off my cigarette, pointing it in his scowling direction.

Gil hit send on whatever text he was
typing and slipped the phone into his pocket, sighing. He stared out the
window. “Don’t pretend you’re doing the noble thing, Amanda. You’re not Becky
Swinton’s avenging angel. Hell, she’d probably have ended up whoring herself
out before graduation and shitting six kids out of her cooch straight into a
trailer court toilet. Your actions seem more like procrastination.”

“From what?”

“I don’t know, figuring out what you’re going
to do with this life? You’ve been floating since the show bombed.”

I shook my head. I was not having this
conversation. Absolutely not. “I wrote a goddamn book since then.” (
Happy
Hour of the Damned
,
$4.59, while supplies last)

“Whatever, you dictated notes to some
poor writer you kept locked in a trunk in your guest room. He wrote the book.”

“Hey, I released him into the wild. He
didn’t have any of his own stories.”

Gil pouted. “I’ll alert Amnesty
International.”

“I appreciate your deflection. I really
do. But it’s not going to work on me, Gil. You should know that. I’ve been deflecting
since kindergarten.

“Well…” Gil started to say something, but
I found myself distracted by a flyer stapled to the telephone pole next to us.
A wanted poster for an oddly feminine looking molester named Buck with the
fakest mustache ever. Underneath the copy read: Last seen stalking the rest
stops and small parks of the coastal highways.

I pointed it out. “What do you make of
that?”

Gil swiveled toward the poster, stabbed
his thumb in its direction. “You mean Bucky the Guck?”

“Guck? I’m pretty sure that’s not a word.
“

“Yeah it is. It means jizz.”

I frowned. “I have never heard that.
Ever.”

“Oh come on. Everyone knows that word.”

“No they don’t.”

“Whatever. Bucky the Guck is wanted in
three states for luring guys into the bushes and taking their spunk…by force.
The cops have been after him for years.”

“Him? No way that’s a guy,” I said,
squinting to get a better look. “That mustache has got to be fake. The
features. Those lips. Buck’s a woman.”

Gil held up his finger. “Used to be a
woman…now she’s a monster. Creeping in the shadows of the night, draining her
victims of their life fluid. It’s disgusting.”

“You realize you just described a
vampire, right?”

“I don’t creep, Amanda. I don’t have to
crouch in bushes.”

“So you don’t swallow?”

“Shut up,” he said, jaw tense but
quivering.

I busted up laughing and it wasn’t long
after that he joined me. I slapped his thigh and that seemed to be enough. He
cracked that wicked smile of his and I stepped out of the van. “Don’t leave the
car, now.”

“Why?”

“There’s a pervert out there draining
internet whores of their livelihood.”

“Good tip.”

I approached the girl cautiously. You
never know about kids these days, Moonglow Featherberry included. She could be
carrying a gun or something and they all know how to put down a zombie. There
are fucking books about that shit.

“Are you Amanda?” Lizzy asked, squinting.

I nodded. “Sure am. Pleased to meet you.
I was rooting for you to win the whole thing. I guess you have.”

The girl shrugged, looked me up and down
and winced. “Wow. Look at you. I don’t think I’ve ever seen anyone dressed like
that around here. Are those clothes expensive?”

“Probably,” I said, shrugging.

The girl wore a knit cap perched atop her
head for no good reason and a winter jacket two sizes two big. She crammed her
hands in the pockets and fanned it out like a cape as she talked. “I didn’t
really want to win, you know.” She grimaced. “I wouldn’t have even done the
damn thing if my mom hadn’t badgered me into it. But, shit, what else was I going
to do? There’s nothing for me here. I planned to come in second or even third
so I didn’t have to be in the goddamn parade tomorrow.”

“Totally understandable.” I couldn’t
actually remember ever seeing a parade outside of reenactments on movies and I
always wondered what kind of people drag their asses out of bed at the butt
crack of dawn to secure seating to watch a high school band hit every other
note or a drill team grind in their hoochie skirts?

“I guess.” Lizzy shrugged. “Actually, I
kind of like them.”

She paced a bit, dug in her pocket and
pulled out a bent cigarette, straightened it between delicate fingers, nail
polish chipped and gray. “I was planning on running away tonight and now I feel
obligated to wave at tourists and toss sand flea beanies to the kids.”

“Bummer. Running away is always the best
option. And it’s summer, so you won’t get cold when you crawl into your
cardboard box.”

“Exactly!” She beamed stupidly. “I was
thinking of going to Seattle and becoming a big star.”

I crinkled my forehead. “Star?”

“Roller Derby. I’m good at skating. You
know how they say everyone has at least one thing they’re good at?”

I couldn’t name a single Roller Derby girl,
period, let alone in Seattle, so I’m pretty sure you can’t be famous at it.
This girl needed a clue, but for once, I didn’t pounce. Runaways are one of my
chief food groups and this girl seemed to be teetering on the edge of the Styrofoam
packing tray. If some trucker on her way to Seattle didn’t rape and murder
Lizzy (or vice versa), she’d probably take her first meth hit with a toothless
hobo and end up in some zombie or vampire’s sights. On the other hand, being
food for the supernaturals sure beats blowing old men for twenties.

She seemed to be considering this. The
perfect time to pull out my phone.

“Do you smell fish?” she sniffed the air,
craning her neck slowly toward me.

“No. Now, at the theater, I saw this
woman asking people questions.” I held the photo out for her to examine and
wasn’t at all surprised when the girl nodded.

“Mmhm, ya. Mrs. Winterford.”

I knew it. That bitch could lie to
everyone else, but not me. She hadn’t missed the pageant at all.

“What do you know about her?”

“Is this a quiz?” She took a long drag
and blew it into the sky. “She writes books or something. I thought your text
said I was going to be in the paper.”

“Oh you are.” Under: girl goes missing, I
thought, but kept that tidbit to myself, for obvious reasons. “What do you know
about Mrs. Winterford?”

“She’s a creeper. Always hanging around
any time there’s an accident in Las Felicitas. Lurking around corners and shit.
There’s a lot of accidents around here. It’s kind of ridiculous.”

“Do people think she’s involved in these
accidents?”

“Some do. I dunno. But if there’s ever a
particularly juicy one then she writes a book about it. You can see them all
over at Mrs. Swinton’s store. She signs them and everything. Kind of our local
celebrity.”

“She’s pretty mobile then?”

“What?” the girl’s face registered
confusion—as it likely did hundreds of times a day.

“I saw her walking around not even trying
to be paraplegic. What’s up with that?”

She shook her head, clearly not clicking
with the lingo. “She’s not on crutches or anything.”

“Oh no?” The American school system at
work, folks.
        

“Maybe a limp?” She shrugged, noncommittal.

I sighed. I knew Mrs. Winterford was
faking. God, what kind of a person does that? It made my stomach
turn—though the feeling could have been a result of the jostling Thad had
just put my insides through.

Hard to say.

“Did anyone have reason to hurt Becky?”

“Hurt her? No. I don’t think so. Everyone
loved her, obviously. She won and all despite being completely boring.”

“Right?” I nearly spat. “I was totally
rooting for you, like I said.”

“Thanks.” She crushed the butt of her cigarette
underfoot and backed away a step. “Anyways, I think I’m going to go. Have to
get up early for the parade.”

 
“Good luck with the roller derby.”

Moonglow drifted into the darkness of the
park and disappeared. I stood staring after her, amazed at myself. This
detective stuff was actually kind of simple. I had no intention of actually
investigating and here I was with the actual killer pinned down. All I needed
to do was deliver her to Mrs. Swinton along with some key evidence.

And I knew just where to get it.

By
the time we made it back to Ocean Lane, the night sky was pink and Gil had
taken on the edgy look vampires get when daylight presents itself like a
prison, drumming his fingertips on the dash, eyes darting from mine to my foot,
stopping short of screaming, “Step on it!”

When we pulled up to the Dunes of Hazard
he darted, feet spinning on the damp patches of grass that sprouted here and
there like stray hairs.

I stared after him as I backed out,
wondering if it wasn’t so much the deadly sun, but his need to get back to his
clientele. Also, sort of envious. Those guys sounded really disappointed that
Gil hadn’t finished that whole bloody beat-off thing.

Must be nice to have people really
invested in your sexual pleasure (footnote: I’m looking at you Scott). Though,
Gil doesn’t have any coworkers. No one to bounce ideas off. No safety
protocols. If there were some sort of filming accident and Gil misjudged his
strength, ripping off his own penis and throwing it across the room, there
wouldn’t be anyone there to catch it and pretend that Band-Aids would take care
of that kind of an injury. Just the guys on the computer screaming and
reversing their credit card charges.

Sad.

I’ve never even had phone sex. I
have
masturbated while I was on hold
with my internet provider. But I’m pretty sure I can’t get paid for that.

I slapped my jaw. Enough. I already had a
pretend career as a smokin’ hot detective, why would I even consider exposing
my undead lady business for money? Not that I was doing that. Oh fuck, keep it
to yourselves.

I pulled back out and drove to Thad’s
clothing shack. Leaving the van idling—if he were still there I’d
probably have to thwart his advances and turning off the van was as good an
excuse as any to bolt. If not, his clothes and the sketchy note he’d shown me
at the bar would likely be folded neatly inside, along with everything else,
while he slipped through the murky depths of the Pacific Ocean.

“Thad?” I called. “You around?”

I rapped on the door a couple of times,
but it was obvious he’d retreated to the sea. The inside was as I’d left it,
with the addition of his latest outfit folded on a stool in the corner. As I
crouched next to it and drove my hand into the jeans pockets, the sound of feet
scraping against shale caught my attention. The column of streetlight
illuminating the hut through the open door was blocked entirely.

“Thad?” I said, preparing a lascivious
grin for my oceanic lover.

But the figure that loomed before me, wet
and ballooning and gray, probably didn’t belong to Thad—probably. But it’s
hard to say, I only ever saw his transformative shape in shadow.

“It’s me Amanda!” I cried out, in case I
was mistaken, or he was, or whatever.

But the thing’s shift continued,
unimpressed with my credentials, filling the doorway in teeth, row upon row. A
snapping, snarling food processor. I threw myself into a defensive position,
hands outstretched, knees bent and inhaled to the best of my
ability—zombie lungs have one purpose and it ain’t breathing.

“Down boy!”

I’d handled a few shapeshifters in the
past—including Scott, who only dared shift into beast mode once and in
his defense, he was really horny—but not into anything as large as a
great white on two legs. Maybe-Thad’s arms receded into an elongating neck,
gray and slick as neoprene. The whole thing was neck, as far as I could tell,
but his legs were thick as tree trunks, its feet taloned, and the nails at the
end of each of its three toes akin to shark teeth themselves.