Unquiet Dreams (21 page)

Triumphant, she clamped the reward firmly between her teeth, turned her back on the freakish combat behind her and ran drunkenly for the wall, the hole and safety. Darting into the hole, she dropped her juicy meal for a moment and looked toward the Evil Ones. Still they wailed and fought. Fresh blood filled the air. She stared, amazed, another lesson learned, then took up her tasty burden again, running down the corridors and around the darkened corners. Her children would feed well, grow strong. And she would sleep comfortably on her full belly and ponder the way to turn Evil against Evil.

 

 

She seemed so small at the big table, a drink with the palest hint of green beaded with sweat next to the flickering candle. His heart swelled. He knew he wouldn't tell her—at least not that night—that the emotion flooding his ventricles was protectiveness. She was so self-sufficient, what with her little candy shop and her scrupulously kept accounts.

He had seen them—and her—when he first figured out the clues. Her username ("candyheart") and her avatar (the gift-wrapped 1lb dark chocolate truffle box) added to her "self-employed" designation and a few casually dropped references to the chocolate trade. You didn't have to be Sam Spade to connect the dots.

"Tabitha?" He added the question mark to his voice in order to play the part of the uncertain swain.

She smiled. "It's you." Her hand thrust out awkwardly and he enclosed it in his large paw, feeling a surge of satisfaction that felt so primal, so right. It took all his strength not to enfold her in his arms at once.
Calm down. You've got a lifetime
.

The drink, she explained, was
zubrowka
, a kind of Polish vodka with some sort of grass in it. Normally he'd find such a thing unhygienic, but because it was her drink, he got one, too. The cold bite of that first sip sealed the night for him. He didn't usually drink but there was something so clean about the taste, he knew it was a sign.

Talk came easily, just as it had online. Over the flank steak Tabitha confessed, "I still think of you in my head as Number 7." The pink blush on her cheeks did something to his insides. They churned like hot taffy.

"It's not actually Number 7. It's Double O seven," he corrected her. "It's from a movie—actually a series of movies." The vodka made him feel expansive, he forgave her misunderstanding easily.

Her laugh tinkled like broken glass. "When you said it out loud, I remembered at once. James Band!"

"Bond."

She smiled. "That's the one!"

The bloody red of the steak as she popped it in her mouth increased the warmth he felt from her nearness and the drink and the night. "I have something to show you," he said feeling the heat a little too much on his brow.

"I know," she said, smiling yet, though her eyes grew serious.

He looked over his shoulder to assure himself no one else in the room was paying them any attention, then began to unbutton his shirt. For a moment, he hesitated, then pulled back the crisp linen to reveal the long welts across his chest.

Tabitha reached up her tiny hand to touch his skin. It was electric. He thought her tiny nails, varnished an innocent pink, somehow made the slender fingers even more delicately beautiful.

"I really don't mind the scars," she murmured, turning her bright eyes back to her plate, a crimson flush rising up the back of her neck—visible even in the dim light of the restaurant. It foretold a sensuous nature.

"May I walk you home," he asked, his voice catching slightly as he slipped the raincoat over her small shoulders.

"Of course." Her bright eyes promised so much. Surely the path to her home would have some quiet corner where he could test that promise and take that little girl into his arms. When they crossed Pine at the corner and she pointed off toward Yates, he knew the right place.

"Can we step in here a moment?" He gestured to narrow behind the Chinese restaurant. His heart leapt into his throat. "I-I wanted to kiss you. I didn't know how to ask."

"Shhh," she said and took him by the hand. They walked into the passage and she turned her bright eyes up to him.

"You're so lovely, Tabitha." He rested his big hands on her shoulders. "So very lovely."

"And you're so delicious, Number 7," she said with a smile, her white teeth glinting in the dark.

"Double O seven," he chuckled.

"No, Number 7," she corrected him as her mouth dropped open and she sunk her teeth into his chest, tearing away a gaping hole in the flesh as he clanged back against the rubbish bin. Her grin transfixed him as she wiped the blood across her face and it dripped onto the raincoat. Quick as a lightning bolt she struck again, cracking ribs and growling. Then he saw it was his heart in her teeth, blood still furiously pumping out of it in all directions.

"I love you, Tabitha."

She popped the heart out her mouth with one tiny hand, bouncing it up and down as if weighing it. "I know, dear, I know."

 

 

with thanks to Patti Abbott

 

James Preston basked in the warmth the congratulatory accolades. People swarmed around him, touching him, smiling at him and it was bliss. The glowering presence of that ponderous fool Disch nearby only made the golden glow burn brighter.

How ridiculous he had been! Amateur! Trying to steal the spotlight from him? A smile curled his lip as he remembered the way the man had floundered through his ponderous pontificating. What a contrast it made to Preston's own witty, economical—and studiously humble—speech.
Who would be quoted in the papers tomorrow?
Me, that's who, Preston thought as he accepted another congratulatory accolade with what appeared to be an abashed modesty.

I've reached the tipping point at last! My sonorous voice will be the vehicle that takes me to the pinnacle of success.
His smile broadened.

The party had gone on long enough, however. With the expertise lent by years of practise, Preston could sense that the peak had passed and folks were thinking about the after-parties. That was his cue: he looked around to find Jeannette.

Preston's personal assistant had been flitting around all night, working on his behalf, pressing the flesh he'd rather not have to press. Jeannette was perfect: bubbly, persistent and pleasantly zaftig. He spotted her talking up Rav Noonan, the producer of last year's sleeper hit and doubtless casting something new.
Good work, Jeannette
, he thought as, smiling left and right as if warding off bad luck, he made his way through the parting waves of partiers. Jeanette's ample breasts rose and fell with excitement as she gestured toward him, waving him over to the conversation. Her long brunette hair retained its perfect curls from that afternoon. He must remember to ask about her styling products.

"Wouldn't you, James?" Jeanette said with a grin, laying her hand on his arm, which caused her silk blouse to part a little more and show a peek at her black satin brassiere.

Preston smiled warmly at the two women, but his thoughts ran ahead with delight.
It must still be tucked away upstairs!
"If it's a fabulous opportunity to work with Ms. Noonan, the yes, of course I would be delighted." There were chuckles and more words, but his thoughts were racing ahead to the suite upstairs.

Noonan made a lot of grandiose plans and vague promises, but he took it as a sign that she said she'd be calling him the following week. At last he thought the time was right to announce, "This pumpkin needs to go to bed, my dears. Actors hours," he said, his voice ruched with regret.

"But James," his PA said, her eyes wide with surprise, some of which might have been genuine, "there's the party UNM has put together for Grady. You must go."

"Oh, my dear," Preston said, his voice filled with longing and just a soupçon of regret. He rested a hand lightly on her shoulder, where he could feel the strap of her brassiere just beneath the filmy material. "You will make my apologies to everyone and be your charming self. I'm counting on you."

Jeannette looked up him, her brown eyes wide. She leaned in and whispered, "You're not snubbing him for that tedious speech of his, are you?"

"Tedious?" he whispered back, giving his words a conspiratorial tone. "I thought it riveting."

Jeanette laughed behind her hand, her breasts jiggling ever so slightly within the confines of her undergarment. A warm flush rose up the back of Preston's neck and at once he was impatient to get away, but he had to play by the rules.

He willed his eyes to meet hers with something approaching sincerity. "I'm counting on you to make it clear that I won't be there because I don't want Grady to have to share the spotlight. It is his night after all."

"You're being generous."

Preston chuckled. "Indeed I am. But you will have to do yeoman's duty, my girl, to make sure everyone understands how generous I am." He pecked her on the cheek. "Good night—and don't worry about making noise when you come in. You know I sleep like the dead."
Especially tonight
, he promised himself.

When he locked the door behind him, Preston could barely stifle the urge to run at once into her room, but he took off his jacket and hung it in the wardrobe, first and took out his cufflinks. He began unbuttoning his shirt as he walked into her room, slipping through the door she'd left ajar this afternoon. Jeanette's table was strewn with papers, though her business card binder left an impression of neatness.

Preston pulled the top drawer open and there it was: the pink box with the name in script. The black ribbon had been undone, but it didn't matter. He knew she had tried it on. Blushing she had said, yes, it fit, it was the right size, and oh, how extravagant he was. Preston grinned and picked up the brassiere, his excitement growing. His thumb brushed the purple silk gently, then he traced the black Chantilly lace with his finger. He didn't even realise that he had sighed.

He laid the brassiere on the bed, his eyes upon it as he removed his shirt and lay it on the bed, too, as if they were lovers. Preston picked up the brassiere, his touch reverent as he turned toward the mirror. He shivered as he let the straps slip down his upraised arms. The silk kissed his skin, its touch slightly cold, but warming quickly. Reaching behind he fastened the hooks, his eye riveted on his image in the mirror. It was a snug fit but that only added to his delight—and his excitement.

If only he had breasts like Jeanette's, Preston thought as he allowed his fingers to make lazy circles across the expanse of silk and lace. He grinned at himself. If you did, you'd never work again. Excitement surged within him as he pictured Jeanette's creamy breasts encased in the purple silk, getting nearer and nearer the breaking point, his breath getting ragged as his fingers moved more quickly.

Preston didn't recognize the sound that preceded the door opening—those damned little cards—but he couldn't miss Jeanette's startled expression as she stood in the doorway.
What I must look like
, he had time to think, his chest tightly bound by her brassiere, his chinos tented with barely contained desire.

"Oh, god, no," he whispered, but she already had her phone out and aimed at him. In the camera's click her heard the end of his brilliant career.

 

 

"Do I have a game for you."

"I don't know, do you?" Eddie remained hunched over his terminal, desperately trying to reach level three.
Go go go! Damn!
His ship burst into flames and exploded in 256 Trinitron colors. He flexed his hand; it was beginning to get that three-aspirin ache.

"Listen," Karen leaned back dangerously in the swivel chair, her legs a precarious counter-weight, "It's right up your alley, I think you'll like it."

"Is it a shoot-everybody or a touch-everything?" Eddie reflected sadly how—despite the great advances in computer sophistication—all computer games still fell into one category or the other. Well, to be fair there were also the old text games, but really, who bothered?

"Neither. It's interactive and on-line."

"Oh, some MUD full of Dungeoneers announcing 'I am a dwarf and my name is Randalf.' I hate those. You know I hate those."

Karen let her chair tip forward. Her feet slapped the floor hard. "No, idjit. I wouldn't bother with something like that. You log on their web page—you get one guest login free—and you can go in and murder people."

"Oh, so it is a shoot-everybody—" Eddie sneered.

"No, you don't shoot virtual people. You hire them to kill someone. It's called Murder Inc. I think it's supposed to be based on some old movie."

"Who do you have killed?"

"They have a list….just log on and try it." Karen got up. Retrieving her book bag from under the terminal, she slung it over her shoulder. "It's at MurderInc.com and it's got all the info there. But right now let's motor or we'll be late for Psych."

***

Eddie clicked open his web browser, congratulating himself again on paying the extra to get a speedy account at home. For that pittance he could cruise the web for hours on end in search of new games like some kind of virtual shark. When his home page—"Eddie's Nth Level! Enter if YOU DARE!"—finished loading, he typed in the URL and hit enter.

Immediately his screen was filled with blinking red and black.
Wow, I have to look at the source code for this: it's not even Flash
. When the index page finally loaded—crimson with black lettering and an abundance of skulls—he read:

 

WELCOME TO MURDER INCORPORATED!

Based on the Jack London short story "The Assassination Bureau" and the 1969 movie of the same name, this game makes the others pale in bloodless comparison.

This is the Most Dangerous Game: MURDER!

The first login is free—after that, it's gonna cost ya.

So log on and tell us

WHO DO YOU WANT DEAD?

 

Below this bombast was a window for logging on. Eddie typed "guest" and his email address, though he was already beginning to wonder why Karen thought this game would of any interest to him. While the next page loaded, he noticed the text scrolling across the bottom of the page: "Accessory to a murder, even after the fact, is a felony crime…." Eddie chortled. That was a nice touch.