Chase Baker & the Humanzees from Hell (A Chase Baker Thriller Book 8) (3 page)

5.

“Baker? Chase Baker?” a woman says from behind a rack of magazines. I don’t know her, but I recognize the book she holds in her hands. It’s a copy of my debut novel,
The Shroud Key
, based on my time in the Middle East searching for the lost bones of Jesus Christ. The woman compares my picture on the back cover to its counterpart standing a few feet away.

I hope she’s a fan, because I didn’t forget the knife this time.

“In the flesh,” I say and smile.

The woman returns the gesture and holds the book open to the title page for me to sign. She says, “Love your books. I’ve checked out this copy so many times I practically own it.”

I hesitate before pulling a pen out of my pocket, my gut taking the temperature of this reader’s sincerity. My eyes scan the magazine racks in case there’s someone waiting for me to let my guard down. I turn my back to a sturdy bookshelf where the only surprise would be a falling book. This could all be a distraction.

Who asks authors to sign library books? She seems comfortable in here, blends in well with the books. Her body language says she’s a regular. Doesn’t she know I can’t deface public property, even if it’s something as innocent signing a book?

“Is something wrong?” the woman says, her eager expression fading into disappointment.

Stop it, Chase. You’re being paranoid, and you look like an asshole.

“Nothing wrong at all,” I say and sign the title page with my initials. “Thanks for reading.”

“And thank you for writing,” the woman says.

I never know how to end these spot signings. I feel like there’s an expectation something terrific or exceptional will happen. Do readers want me to buy them coffee? Have a deep, philosophical conversation on the nature of writing? Or are they satisfied with two letters in ink on a title page? At least with the larger book signings, people know they’re only getting three sentences of talk, two hands shaking and one signature. But this? It’s like trying to end a drunk dial from the pope.

“Pleasure is all mine. Enjoy the rest of your day,” I say and start for the door.

“Hey, wait. What are you working on now?” the woman says, invading my personal space to prevent me from leaving.

See what I mean?

My pipeline is filled with plenty of potential responses, but I still struggle for an answer. Truth is, I’m running low on source material, or at least the kind fit for public dissemination. Although my books are based on my adventures, some things are too strange to print. Others wouldn’t appeal to anyone but me. Case in point: the only adventures on my docket involve wine, Italy, friendly company and not scrubbing my hands after using the computer at a public library. Not quite the stuff of bestsellers.

“I’m actually…,” I start to say but cut myself off. I want to finish the sentence with “taking a break from writing,” but I can’t for reasons hard to explain. I’ll put it this way. I catch a high every time I survive an adventure. Living that close to the edge gives life an exhilarating flavor that few get the chance to taste, let alone
choose
to taste. Every close call with death, every mind-blowing experience, every shot, every stab, every drink, every friendship, every betrayal, every night in the arms of a beautiful woman, they’re all streaks in the blur. It’s hard to know what they mean when everything happens so fast. I tell myself it’s all for a greater purpose, usually to save the world from some grave danger, but I suspect that’s left over from my time in the military. Why bother? What’s the point? Would it make any difference if I decided to spend the rest of my days with good food, drink and women instead of bad men, guns and bombs?

But now, standing here in the library, face-to-face with a reader, I know the answer. My adventures aren’t about
me
. With the fate of the world on my back as often as it is, they never were in the first place, but that’s not quite the point, either.

I occupy a unique position in the world, one where I can have several lifetimes’ worth of adventures in the span of a week with enough regularity to make a living from them. I owe it to everyone who could only dream of that chance, who bide their time surfing the ‘net at libraries because they don’t have a computer, who work unfulfilling jobs just to make car payments so they can afford the daily commute into work, who find relief from raising a house of kids by staring at the TV, who think reading enough inspirational books will teleport their lives into satisfaction without stepping foot outside their door, who stockpile better days in the pictures on the fridge and who buy lottery tickets because deep down they’re convinced they’re just temporarily inconvenienced millionaires. I do it for them.

I do it for the same reason we look to rock stars to trash hotel rooms, show up high to interviews, fuck until their pelvises crack, insult world leaders, burn out and die in car crashes. People yearn to live beyond the boxes the world puts them in, but most are too sheepish or have too much at stake to break from their routine. So they hold on the only way they can. They live vicariously through their heroes. Sometimes they’re musicians or artists. Sometimes they’re sports stars. Sometimes they’re politicians or religious figures.

And sometimes they’re writers who pen books about their adventures around the world, who bump into readers at the library.

This Iceman mystery might turn out to be nothing, but that doesn’t mean I can walk away from it. There’s enough in the bank account to cover my travel for a few days. I can’t not give it its due diligence.

“Chase?” the woman says, refocusing my attention. “You’re ‘actually’ what?”

“Promise not to tell anyone?” I say.

“We just met, so you can trust me,” she says.

I like her sense of humor.

I lean in and lower my voice to a whisper. “My next book is going to be about a human-ape hybrid experiment gone wrong. Some real mad scientist stuff.”

The woman lights up. She says, “I like the sound of that. When’s it coming out?”

“As soon as I’m finished researching it. I’m headed into the field now.”

“Could be dangerous. Watch your back,” she says.

I pull away and start once more for the door. Looking back with a grin, I nod to the pervs browsing porn on the computers and say to her, “You, too.”

6.

The Museum of the Bizarre in Austin, Texas, located off a dusty back road better suited to goats than tourist traps, lives up to its name one haunted doll and alien embryo at a time. And that’s just the people waiting in line to get in. “Keep Austin Weird” indeed.

I skip the cloak and dagger routine upon arrival, with the exception of the .45 and survival knife holstered beneath my bush jacket, opting instead to blend in with the regular saps outside the door. The place doesn’t open for another 10 minutes.

That’s 10 minutes too many for a brain that tends to find patterns in the most paranoid ways possible. It makes me the best at what I do, but it also forces my eyes to pause too long on a couple making small talk as they wait.

Did they say my name?

They glance my way, noticing me notice them, and suddenly I’m not the only one paranoid. Nor am I alone in carrying a concealed firearm, as I surmise from the baggy jackets and loose-fitting pants. Paranoia and handguns. Seems about right. This is Texas, after all.

The doors to the Museum of the Bizarre open, and the line of people shuffles inside. I put on my best act as a tourist to blend in. Better to use the soft approach this time, since I only have half a clue what I’m doing here. It’s not a hard jig to dance, though. The exhibits include the corpse of the supposed Fiji mermaid, a variety of shrunken heads, freaks of the animal kingdom fading into irrelevancy as genetic modification becomes the norm, a mummy, various cursed artifacts and, of course, a jackalope mount. I could trump this place 10 times over with what’s hidden in the crawlspaces and within the floorboards of my apartment, but it isn’t half bad, either.

Missing, however, is the “
Epic
CREATURE FROZEN in a Block of ICE!!!” advertised on the posters outside, a beast so mysterious it cannot even be found in the short hallways of the museum. A few others take note of this discrepancy, too, voicing their dissatisfaction to whomever is listening. But only the jackalope responds, howling away with animatronic glee.

I knew those things weren’t real.

I wouldn’t put it past a place like this to advertise a feature it didn’t actually have. How many suckers do those posters outside pull in? My bullshit detector is overheating in this cramped museum. Time to leave.

The corner of my eye catches something unusual as I head toward the door, which is to say it’s rather mundane. A sign on one of the walls reads, “CLOSED.” It’s framed neatly in the center of a rectangular patch of wall not cluttered with forgeries and fraud that resembles the outline of a door. I doubt anyone else noticed it, but this is the dividend of a mind on overload, subconsciously scanning for breaks in patterns.

I walk to the wall and place my hand on the CLOSED sign while pretending I’m interested in strip of fender from James Dean’s last ride. My hand gives the sign a push. The wall doesn’t give way completely, but there’s enough play to suggest there’s a hinge somewhere inside the wall.

This is a door.

Before I can investigate further, I feel a heavy hand on my shoulder.

“Can I help you?” a voice says from behind me.

I turn to see a woman with a vague resemblance to Hillary Clinton looking back at me, right down to the pantsuit. I know right away who she is, and the timing couldn’t be better.

“Actually, yes. I’d like to speak to the owner,” I say.

“You’re looking at her,” the woman says. She shakes my hand. It’s a well-rehearsed handshake. I get the feeling she worked in corporate America before buying an eccentric museum for shits and giggles for her retirement hobby. “Hillary Carter. What can I help you with?”

Called the first name correctly. Not too bad.

“Yeah, the sign outside said something about a creature frozen in a block of ice. Doesn’t seem to be here, though,” I say.

“You were on the right track,” Hillary says. She points at the CLOSED sign. “Unfortunately, the exhibit is closed for maintenance. I’d be happy to refund part of your ticket price.”

I don’t believe either part of that, including the refund. You can keep the $3.

I point a thumb back at the sign. “Nah, that’s OK. What’s with the hidden passageway?”

Hillary starts to say something but stops. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name,” she says.

“Baker,” I say. “Chase Baker.”

“Baker, ah, yes, well, a pleasure to meet you,” Hillary says. She stumbles on her words as if she’s running my name through her memory. “You see, Mr. Baker, our centerpiece exhibit is highly valuable, and we take certain precautions to keep out any unwarranted activity.”

Yep. Corporate America.

“Do you know when the exhibit will be back open?” I say.

“It depends, but we’ll make an announcement on our website. Do you know the address?” Hillary says.

How could I not? It’s plastered on every free inch of space in here.

“I know it,” I say. “Must be some maintenance you’ve got going on behind that door.”

Hillary nods in reservation. “You have no idea.”

My curiosity keeps me in the game, and this conversation is no different. Our talk isn’t ending here.

I stop Hillary before she turns to give the same speech to another gaggle of irked patrons.

“I happen to be in the maintenance business myself,” I say. If I had a business card, I’d be handing it over right now, but I don’t. “I specialize in antiquities.”

“You don’t say? What sorts of antiquities?” Hillary says. She looks me up and down. The bush jacket, jeans and steel-toe boots don’t lend any academic heft to my appearance, but the confidence in my voice should fill in the gaps in my résumé.

“The rarest of the rare,” I say with a wink. It’s cheesy, but it feels appropriate for a place like the Museum of the Bizarre.

“Is that a fact? Hmmm…,” Hillary says, tapping an index finger on her chin. “Wait right here. There’s someone I want you to talk to.”

So there’s something to this after all. Now I’ve got a good reason to stick around for some of that famous Texas barbecue.

I browse and re-browse the same row of the museum’s oddities, waiting on Hillary to come back. After 30 minutes, I start to think she forgot about me. Just when I’m ready to once again call this jaunt a bust, I spot her coming down a hallway toward me. She motions for me to follow her, explaining that “there’s someone you should talk to in my office.”

Her office ports over none of the kitschy charm from the rest of the museum. It’s hardly an office. It’s a sagging storage shed rusting in the dirt behind the museum. Hillary opens the metal door and hurries me inside. My gut instinct is too slow to warn me about going inside. I don’t like off-the-beaten-path places with only a single way in or out, but my feet lead me in anyway.

“This is your office?” I say, trying to make heads or tails of the dark interior. I smell old gasoline and paint.

Hillary says nothing. I hear her hands follow the shed wall and flick on a light switch.

No. This isn’t her office.

Once my eyes adjust, I make out dirt floors, a riding lawnmower, tools and several disassembled exhibits. Oh, and three bikers dressed in leather vests and scar tissue worthy of the Hell’s Angels page-a-day calendar. One-percenter types, the kind law enforcement actually gives a damn about watching.

I usually give the benefit of the doubt when meeting new people, but I make exceptions for storage sheds masquerading as office spaces behind sketchy museums. So I introduce myself the only way I know how.

“Howdy, gentleman, my name is Chase Baker,” I say and put my hands on my hips, brushing back the bush jacket so my shoulder holsters become visible. “Any friend of Hillary’s is a friend of mine.”

“We’re not friends,” Hillary says. Gone from her voice is the air of professionalism she exhibited in the museum. Here now is a malice that could cut me in half.

“You treat all your patrons this way?” I say.

“Don’t play coy with me. We know why you’re here, and we’re not about to play your games,” Hillary says.

“What do you want then?” I say.

“I want you to bring a message back to where you came from.”

“Albany?”

“If want to call it that, then yes,” Hillary says.

“What sort of message are we talking about here?” I say.

Hillary chooses sign language to close out our conversation. Which is to say she motions to the bikers to communicate with their hands. Whatever message I’m supposed to receive comes through loud and clear. I’m to have my ass beat. Thoroughly. And the bikers are excellent communicators.