Seeds Of Fear (5 page)

". . . saw you through that window at night. .. there's the door to the back ... the stove's still here . . . the flue in the fireplace is probably full of bird nests ... got to kill off the past... get rid of it for good . . . if you murder her, then maybe . .. I thought you needed that gift... that release ..."

Was she ... could she be talking about murder? Crossing the line. Killing the Lot Lizard. She couldn't possibly mean it.

"I can't do it," Bastine murmured. "I don't want to do that." They stood close together at the window of the bedroom. The flashlight glinted from the black pane, a spear of yellow radiance.

"But you must."

"No," he said. "I can't go that far."

Shaw moved closer to him. "Then I'll do it," she said. "For you. I want to. I've always dreamed of taking revenge on your behalf, Bastine."

"Should we?" he asked. "Can we? But I can't, I said that. It wouldn't be right." He followed her to the open living room. He moved the light around looking for Dory. She was gone.

"She's hiding," he said. "She's scared too."

"Like you were. Like I was for you."

"We ought to let her go. We have to leave here. Now."

"I can find her. I know all the secret hiding places."

Bastine knew them too, but they never saved him. Nothing ever, by God, saved him. He was as shriveled inside as he had been as a kid in this house. Why had he thought he'd be excited and could enjoy some nutty sexual escapade of this magnitude? It was a terrible mistake, maybe the worst one he'd ever made. Shaw was stimulating that dead part of him and making it walk. But she could not make it kill; she could not make it free, either.

While standing, considering his options, he had not noticed Shaw's disappearance. He moved through the house, trembling uncontrollably, calling for her. "Shaw? Please come out. Don't leave me here alone like this."

He searched for them. The cubbyhole under the sink was empty. The closets smelled of mildew and old coats soaked with body odor. He left the house, skirted the porch, looked in the mud holes beneath it. It looked as if dogs had wallowed there.

"Shaw? Dory? Let's go now. I don't want to stay any longer. I hate it here!"

He heard the rasp of crickets and throaty bullfrogs that leaped and slapped standing water. He heard a breeze ruffle through the silver moss. "Oh shit," he mumbled. "Y'all come on back here."

He circled the house and headed down the worn path to the outhouse. The door was missing. He glanced inside, but couldn't bring himself to go near the hole in the boards or to gaze into the old pit there. He pushed aside brambles and searched behind the outhouse. He was coming around again to the back porch to check an old refrigerator lying on its back when he heard a gunshot shatter the still night. He halted. Let a whimper escape his lips. He'd forgotten about Shaw's gun. He expected to see her any moment come dragging the body of Dory from the woods. He waited, holding his breath. Dew soaked into his shirt and chilled him. He tried calling again, but couldn't speak above a whisper. A fearful idea took possession of his fevered brain. What if it wasn't Shaw? What if Dory possessed the gun?

What if Dory now stalked
him
and he was to be her next victim? He was the one who hit her, wasn't he? She might think he sent Shaw after her.

He must hide. He had done something dreadfully wrong this time. He was involved in a death dance.

He dropped the flashlight in his terror and scrambled up the back steps. The middle step gave way and sent him sprawling onto his knees. His pants tore, his knee bled. He went up the next step on hands and knees, splinters lodging painfully, pulled himself up with the help of the rail, and lunged toward the back door. The hinges gave and the door fell inward as he turned the doorknob. The crash made him scream, his legs wobble. He stumbled over the door and looked wildly around, the darkness impenetrable. Where? Had to find a hideyhole. Where?

He got down on the floor and tried to squeeze into the space under the sink, his favorite childhood cubbyhole, and found he was too large to fit. He had to hold back hysterical laughter welling up at the sight he must make with his ass sticking high in the air and his head lodged next to the drainpipe. He wasn't little anymore. He couldn't fit, he had so few places left for hiding.

He backed out, could now see gray shapes in the black. The doorway. He could find a closet. Or lie down in the old claw-foot tub. He'd seen it was a place where someone had defecated, but that didn't matter. He'd lie in shit if he must. Would the girl look in there? No, no, no, she'd never find him there.

He came to his feet and felt his way through the door to the living room, kicked trash out of his way, gaze skittering to the windows, and the front door that stood open to the night. He felt along the wall, the wallpaper peeling, the grit of old dried glue beneath his fingertips. He found the hallway and crept toward the bathroom.

His father hauled the tub from a junkyard and they filled it with water heated on the stove when they bathed, then he had the job of carrying out the dirty water bucketful by bucketful. His father made the bath by sealing off one end of the hall and installing a door. It was a stupid thing to do, but now it might afford Bastine sanctuary. It
must.

He turned his back, slid into the tub, lowered himself the way he might have had it been full of warm water. He felt the hard crusts of someone's feces under his hips and grimaced. He slid farther down, knees up and to the side, hands crossed on his chest. The cold porcelain cooled his skin through his clothes and then seeped into his muscles. He bit down on his tongue until he drew blood to keep from whispering that he didn't mean it, he didn't mean it, wasn't anyone, goddamnit, listening to him?

He stared across the rolled white rim of the tub at the door. He willed it to stay closed.

He heard the creaking boards of the front steps first. His heart trip-hammered him half to death. He shut his eyes so tight, tears were squeezed from the edges. His fingers clutched at one another, nails tearing at the skin of his knuckles.

If he were on the road, the cities flying past, the miles rolling behind him, he'd be safe. If he hadn't been dispatched to Tallulah where Shaw waited for him, he would never be here after all these years.
If he weren't so goddamned fucked-up, he'd never have left the truck stop.

Oh God, oh God, let it be Shaw, he prayed. Let her find me and take me away from here, please God. She is by far the cruelest of the two of us. Punish
her.

The doorknob slowly rotated. Bastine's eyes stretched wide open. His breath caught in his throat where he swallowed it.

I didn't mean it.

The door opened without a sound, swinging back by increments.

Don't hurt me. I don't like being hurt. Daddy, please. . .

He could see her now in the doorway, but who was she? Mama? Shaw? Dory? He tried to find his voice, failed.

Her dark shape came toward him, arms hanging at her sides.

I'm hiding, she can't see me, no one can see me.

His legs twitched, his fingers tightened, his teeth closed harder on his tongue until they touched and blood filled his mouth. He must breathe. He must cry out for mercy as he had always been forced to do.

The right arm of the shape came up and he saw something in it. The barrel of the gun pointed at his chest. His vision narrowed into a tunnel that drew him into the cylinder. It was death he faced, that one true monster he had always feared and managed to outrun. He gagged on his own blood, jerked forward, hands coming up to stop the inevitable.

"Shaw!"

The gun blast lit the room and Bastine fell back against the tub as if a sledgehammer had been swung by a giant arm, slamming him in the chest.

"I'm no fuckith thaw." Dory wiped the back of her hand across her split lips and broken teeth.

Bastine tried to rise again, to push away from the cold porcelain of the tub, but his arms would not obey him, and now he felt it. The zone of pain began in his right side and spread out a carpet of fire forward to encompass all the ribs on that side and to the back. It felt like someone with a burning razor ran through his lungs, hacking, hacking.

"What have you done?" he murmured. "Why have you done this?"

"You busth my teef! You and your girfren tried to kill me!"

But no, he wanted to say and couldn't, thought he said and didn't. But no, it wasn't me, it was Shaw, it was her, and she's crazy as hell, don't you see, couldn't you tell, couldn't you just help me now because I'm dying here, I'm dying now, this is no game, girl, that gun's no toy, this was the worst idea, the all-time worst thing ever happened that shouldn't have, but if you'll take my hand, I'll. ..

His thoughts ran down like a weak truck battery without enough juice to start the engine, and he knew finally that she hadn't heard his pleas. She was gone, the doorway empty, the door swinging lazily on its hinges, quietly now shutting by itself, sealing him in the little old room in the little old house that had never once afforded a proper sanctuary for victims who meant to hide away.

S
he wasn't necessarily the tallest woman in the world, Andy Chalminski told himself, gaping at the lady in question with scarcely concealed fascination, but it would definitely take someone special to top her—

Which was exactly what Andy meant to be and intended to do: the first man to climb the human alp named Donna Callaghan and plant his flagpole at the top of the mountain. Or more specifically, wherever his personal survey indicated Ms. Callaghan would prefer the flagstaff to be planted.

For an ambitious guy to get ahead,
Chalminski thought as he studied the enormous woman at her solitary table across the restaurant,
sometimes he has to get a little behind.
The crude observation was not original to him but a rule of thumb in the dog-eat-dog business in which the slum-born Andy had struggled for the dozen years of his manhood. Hell, there was absolutely nothing personal about his plan for bedding the current object of his attention.

Truth was, the midwestern giantess quietly eating soup and minding her own business had no more appeal to Chalminski than the zucchini his waitress brought along with his small steak. Her face was probably not as homely as the dictionary definition of zucchini ("a squash shaped like a cucumber")—he couldn't see much of it with that straight brown hair drooping over her ears and temples—but Andy had seen a picture of her in the newspaper before flying to Columbus, and her glasses were as thick and heavy as World War I flyers' goggles.

That photo had lured him to Ohio, or, more exactly, a caption beneath it reading: 6' 10" WOMAN REFUSES DATE WITH NBA STAR. Eddie Burgess, who'd appeared in a few of Chalminski's ultra-low-budget porn flicks before losing his ability to get it up on cue and retiring to the Midwest, had spotted the picture and sent the clipping to Andy. The local story with it—very short because Donna Callaghan was said to be excruciatingly shy—made it clear that six ten was just an estimate of her height, and she might clear seven feet. "I feel awkward enough around people without letting anyone measure me," Donna was quoted as admitting. "Besides, I don't much care for tall men." All that in response to the local press's smart PR move of trying to arrange a date between her and one of the Cleveland Cavaliers.

The second thought crossing Andy Chalminski's mind had been
I'm only five six when I really stand up straight!

And his first reaction had been the instant awareness that a thirty-two-year-old virgin who had to stoop to enter a room—assuming she didn't look too damn awful with her clothes off—was possibly the only person alive who might save his sagging career as a movie producer!

It had started going bad when schmucks with their own cameras began making "home video" porn and marketing them with the notion that these were "real people in action," maybe the neighbors down the block. So a lot of potential customers of Andy's had decided to watch ol' Bob and Suzy get it on. Well, fuck, did they think actors in a professional flick were androids?

Worse, it had gotten harder and harder to create gimmicks that made some jack-off at an adult vid store grab a box and run to the register to take it home. Every combination of gender, position, and racial mix was
already
on film! Even Eddie Burgess had said, before Andy hung up and came to Columbus, "Unless you can talk some aliens from another planet into screwing our girls on camera, Andrew, skin-flick folks are going to be the blacksmiths of the twenty-first century."

Since Andy privately thought Eddie Burgess was right, he had immediately seen the latent potential in a seven-foot-tall babe—he'd definitely claim she was that tall, right on the box—and instantly other exciting promotions swarmed through Chalminski's mind. Just glancing at Eddie sitting next to him now—the actor'd come to McGarrett's Restaurant to introduce him to Donna—was a reminder of how Burgess was hung. There'd been females who were turned off by the sight of him naked, and not every actress had been able to accommodate "actors" like the guy.

But with a
seven-foot dame
—the hell with anatomy experts who'd say Donna's size made no difference; studs with dongs like Eddie could be billed as "Finally Meeting Their Match!" Shit-fire, flicks with her in them would go like hotcakes to broads as well as guys!

Now, persuading titanic Ms. Callaghan to earn a mint of money seemed to pragmatic Andy Chalminski the most down-to-earth and easy proposition.

"Not so, Andrew," Eddie said softly. He had nodded in the giantess's direction and hadn't looked at her again. "I've come to know her and she is shy as hell. Probably a virgin, as I said, and definitely a lady."

"I never met a woman who hated the idea of big bucks," Andy argued, and forked steak into his mouth. "All I need t'do is make my pitch and be first to break her in." Suspicious, he glowered at the still handsome Burgess. "How the fuck did you meet Madam Amazon, anyways?"

"It happens Donna and I belong to a local amateur writers' club."

"You?"
Andy nearly choked on his steak. "You and the female Lurch are budding Shakespeares?" He tried to regain his control. "Sorry, babe, I just can't picture you romancin' the muse. Fucking the bitch, absolutely, but not in your mind!"

"Listen." Eddie clamped a hand on Chalminski's forearm. He had the first serious expression Andy'd seen since Burgess began his career twelve, thirteen years ago and wondered if he could have sex with a stranger and a film crew watching. "I like Donna, but I haven't touched her."

"Bull hockey."

"Andrew, she's written the story of a girl as tall as her dad by the age of ten; she was through puberty before she was eleven. Other kids saw her as a freak, so she couldn't relate to anyone. She's all alone in the world."

Andy squinted his surprise. "She's doin' an autobio? I don't see how that—"

"A retired actor moves to town," Eddie went on relentlessly, "and listens to what the tall girl reads to the class." His fingers on Andy's arm tightened. "He tells her," Burgess whispered, "he knows a film producer who's interested in finding hot properties, and he himself might introduce her to the noted Andrew Chalminski."

Andy whistled low. "Whew, that's smart! But, Ed, I don't wanta buy no fuckin' disease-of-the-week story. I wanta buy the use of her body! So how am I gonna—"

"I said," Eddie went on, his grip bringing pain, "if the famous movie guy
wants
to film her story, he will have a tough time finding an actress
tall enough
for the leading role!"

"Brilliant!" Chalminski exulted. Could Eddie-the-Meat-Man actually have a brain? "It's a great setup. But what do
you
expect t'get out of this, old buddy?"

Eddie's forever-photogenic eyes opened widely. "After explaining that producers are quaint fellows who enjoy testing would-be actresses who double as screenwriters, I mentioned the possibility that I, her new confidant, might be willing to serve as her . . .
costar."
He smiled. "Being timid, she liked that idea very much."

"You want a
comeback?"
Chalminski demanded incredulously.

"She's waiting for
us,
Andrew," Eddie said quietly, "so I hope you'll listen to me very closely: I didn't become an addict or spend all my money, and I didn't get any nasty diseases that will kill me. I just got out of the sleaze biz before it devoured me. I find I like a normal life, writing, and Donna—even if she is as tall as the Chrysler Building." He sat straight across from Andy. "I want you to think seriously about
decently
producing her life story. You might begin a chapter in your life you'd really enjoy. Even people like you, and I, can go straight."

Andy was badly shocked by what had happened to Burgess. But he considered the request, lips pursed, and nodded. "I'll think it over. But as for usin' you as a real actor, with his
pants
on—"

"Let me finish," Eddie interrupted. "If and when you choose to pass on doing the right thing, Andrew— if you score with the lady and get her to sign a contract—
that's
when I intend to collect.
That's
when I want my comeback to take place."

"With her," Chalminski said slowly, getting it. "You—
want
this broad!"

"Just this one time, in one film," Burgess said with a nod, "that I can watch over and over when I otherwise can't get Herman up even for my own pleasure. Besides," he added a bit smugly, "I think we could make a classic with a good girl like Donna."

Andy stared at him as he stood. Then, chuckling, he followed Eddie to Donna Callaghan's table. "You got a deal," he said under his breath, clapping the taller man's back. "You actors!"

Donna raised her head, and till then, Chalminski had forgotten how different she would seem to him. But at first she didn't appear extraordinary except for how she blinked repeatedly. The nearsighted eyes behind massive glasses were an oddly innocent light blue, and Andy remembered how much Monroe's eyelashes batted due to vision problems. Donna's brown hair was as straight as he'd expected, but the girls he used frequently wore wigs, and contacts would take care of the blink. On the other hand, broads who looked innocent and blinked at the actors' erect members might have considerable appeal to some viewers.

Yet Donna Callaghan, looking up, had not looked
far
—seated alone at her table, she was nearly as tall as Andy Chalminski was, standing!

"Hi, nice to meet ya," he said when Eddie'd introduced them. Speaking triggered his autonomic, charming smile and he sat down even as he shook her hand. Wishing he had worn a less showy sport jacket, he reminded himself Donna believed she was a writer. "Eddie says he's pretty impressed with your book."

She smiled, slouched back to minimize her height. "You two must be very good friends for you to call him 'Eddie' instead of 'Edward.'"

"Yeah, well, we go back." He'd liked the feel of her hand even if her thumb had reached around his paw to her other fingers. They wouldn't exactly feel bad on a guy's cock. She had a generous mouth (a matter of some importance in Chalminski's line), and one chipped tooth could be capped. "You're kind of young to have done an autobio."

Donna answered carefully. "It's not so much autobiography as, well, the story of any woman who learns she's going to be different. From other girls."

Andy wished she'd sit up so he could get a clue about her build. The top of her huge sweat suit was so big, he couldn't make out her tits at all. "I mentioned your youth just because I'd want ya to do a lot of TV. Interviews with Oprah and Geraldo; a ton of publicity." That was a surefire come-on, and Andy was rewarded by a flush of color in her cheeks. "I need a way, to . . . well, gauge whether we should shoot for feature flicks or the tube."

"I must get back to work on my current story," Eddie interjected before Donna could speak. He gave Chalminski a familiar, man-to-man studied stare they'd used before, one that meant he had done his part and now he was clearing out. "I live right around the corner, so here." He produced two car keys on a ring, dropped them in the producer's palm. "You'll want to read some of Donna's writing, so bring my car back when you two are through talking and you can stay the night with me. I'll drive you to the airport in the morning."

"You'll want to see my work," Donna asked Andy, "tonight?"

"A movie guy's work is never done," Andy said, and shook Burgess's hand. "Thanks for the wheels, 'Edward.'"

"Sure thing." Eddie paused, smiled down at Ms. Callaghan. "I left a bottle of bubbly on the front seat in case the two of you close anything. It's for you."

"Oh, Edward, you are so
sweet!"
Donna said, and half stood to give the former porn star an impulsive hug.

Chalminski couldn't believe his eyes. Not even stretched out to her full height, this broad he'd come to Columbus to see was at least several inches taller than Burgess, and he was surely a good five eleven. More than that, Donna's head was larger than his, and she was able to reach the guy and begin the hug from a solid yard away! The arms in the blue sweatshirt were like the branches of a tree covered by some kind of fungus!

Andy bobbed up after Eddie was headed for the door and before the huge young woman could sit down again. The ex-actor had arranged things perfectly—maybe he could get it up for one more movie after resting up more than a year. But probably he'd get the broad who'd do Donna since the studs who screwed her would have t'be in fucking
shape!
Now there was no reason to waste any more time in the crappy restaurant, and Chalminski wanted Miss Amazon to see he was short, no conspicuous threat— and he wanted out of there! Everyone in the joint was staring at her and how she dwarfed him.

"If ol' Eddie is as sharp a judge of talent as usual," he told Donna, "I'm really anxious to see what you got.
Have,
"he corrected his grammar, taking her arm.

Absolutely nothing happened as he tried to propel her toward the door; she didn't budge an inch. "Well, if you're
truly
interested in my work—I mean, I haven't been published anywhere." She took a wary step, so long a one, Chalminski had to skip to catch up.

"Look," he said, speaking straight ahead instead of craning his neck to see her face, "I flew in from Jersey to check you out, so it's now or never." They were already at the door, he couldn't recall when he'd walked so fast, and the sweat running into his collar told him he needed to exert his masculine sense of authority or he wouldn't be able to do anything with Lady Kong if he
did
get her in the sack. "Who knows, maybe what you've written so far is such terrific raw material, we can get 'Edward' to do the screenplay."