Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 (26 page)

“The way I see it …” He drew languorous circles
around my nasty nugget.
¹³⁸
“We’ve got three likely scenarios.”

“Uh huh.” I tensed my thighs, trapping his fingers in place for a moment.

“One—the most likely—your boy Fishhook has been up to no good. He killed Tad for the mushroom haul.”

I slid my hand across his thigh groping the bulge he’d cultivated.

“Aah … or two. The weirdo family shapeshift …
and
are killing off perfectly good white people.”

I hummed a response. His fingers moving faster now, crossed and trapping my clit like a wish. I played my fingers across the fly of his jeans, teasing with the idea of springing that bad boy from its cell.

“Th-th-three.” He stuttered. “I haven’t mentioned this before now, but there’s a strong possibility that Markham’s onto my little defection and he’s sent Randy or Darryl to follow up and finish the job. At least we know for sure they’re werewolves. What’s worse, I’ve got a pretty decent nose and I didn’t catch a whiff of werewolf ass on anyone in that parking lot last night.”

That last sentence killed my libido. I left his cock struggling, reached for his wrist and gave it a pat. “Yeah, I’m done down here, let’s pick that back up later.”

“Are you serious?” He watched for me to shift into a grin, gestured at his lap, and then shoulders slouched, pulled his hand away. He wiped off what little moisture I was able to manufacture on his pants leg. “You’re gonna give me blue balls, you know?”

I lifted my hips off the seat, straightened my panties
and pulled the discount skirt out of my ass. “So when were you going to tell me about your new theory?”

“I just thought about it on the drive from Billings.”

“Okay, smart guy, then get this shit. Who killed the albino girl? That was only two days out. Markham couldn’t have found out your plans that quick, unless he’s got you LoJacked or something. Do you remember that wereslut shoving an electronic tampon up your butt?”

“How’d you know?” Scott asked with a wink. “Did you ever think maybe he didn’t trust me to begin with?”

I hadn’t. “That would definitely make it plausible. But why would they kill that girl?”

“A warning?” He shrugged.

“To whom?”

“To me. To let me know that they’re out there and watching me
not
do my job.” As if to drive his point home, he fiddled with the rearview mirror.

“Why not just put you down?”

He cringed at the lame dog reference.

“Sorry. But, well, you know? Why hold back?”

“I guess they should have really. I would have in their position.”

“So maybe that’s not what’s happening.”

“But just in case, when we get to Rapid City, we’d better build a fort and hunker down.”

“That’s all very frontier, stud, and don’t think I don’t appreciate the image, but I can’t.”

“What?”

“I’ve got plans.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Okay.” I held up my hands in surrender. “My mother’s about to kick it. She’s in some hospice center as we speak. As wonderful as it’s been having this whole adventure to take my mind off her, time’s up. I can’t put
off the inevitable. Gil’s agreed to go with me, just to help me through it.”

“Oh. I’m sorry, babe. Must be horrible for you.”

“Oh no no no. I mean yes.” I shook my head. “Oh yes. It’s horrible, but not for the reasons you’re thinking. Ethel’s totally getting what’s coming to her. She was a real asshole. Gil and Wendy were the ones who talked me into getting closure.” Complete with air quotes on “closure.”

“I was just going to let the issue die.”

“Jesus.”

“What?”

“It’s just … That’s a little harsh. She is your mother.”

I could feel my mouth contorting into a cat’s anus. How dare he? “How
dare
you make judgments?” I asked, swiveling in the seat to face him.

“I was just saying—”

“I heard you. I’m just not in the mood to take criticism from my own private stalker.”

“Also harsh.”

“It was meant to be.”

“Listen. Wendy and Gil are right in some respects. It’s important to clear the air before she dies. But you also need to understand that—”

“Don’t say it.” I couldn’t bear to hear it spoken.

“We all take after our parents in one way or another. In a sense, you owe a lotta what makes you so cool to your mom. Sure there were bad times. We all had those, but there were good times, I bet. Fun times. Times where I bet you even admired her.”

I seethed.

But didn’t have to cover his mouth. Scott knew enough to keep quiet this time. We sat in silence as we crossed the border into South Dakota. His words echoed in my head the entire time, mixed with my own in a symphony of shame.

Just like Mom
.

It was true. God it was true. The bitch had worn off on me like a red shirt dropped in with the goddamn whites. It was in my freshman year at Seattle Community College that I first noticed the similarities and began to shove the reality down as deep as Wendy could a Twix bar.

Take a look….

Jordan Lamb-Corey was a 14-year-old advanced placement student working through a tough social challenge and not just a premature hyphen. The girl was a legitimate genius, SAT scores off the charts, president of the Honor Society and a complete social reject. It didn’t help that her parents cut a deal with her high school to split up her time between college course-work and age-appropriate social activities (lunch, sports, dances).

The way Jordan’s days were scheduled you’d think she was a CEO or a Hollywood actress on a press tour, and not the shy bookworm. Which is why I found her in the college library, reading Candace Bushnell in a study carrel.

“The thing about that book …” I flicked the cover to see Sarah Jessica Parker and the girls stepping out.

“Huh?” She shuddered with surprise, sheepish eyes peeking over metal-framed glasses.

“The thing about that book is that it makes you want to live it, right?” I squeezed in between her and the carrel and sat on the desk, crossing my legs.

She scanned my look. Head-to-toe afternoon glamour complete with pearl drop earrings, a stunning updo and the finest Edith Head knock-off lunching suit I could find. Heels of course. Pointy as hell.

“You’re really gorgeous.” Jordan pushed her glasses up the thin bridge of her nose, revealing a startling
red indent. The girl’s lips were thin and nearly as pale as her pasty cheeks.

“I know, right? Sadly, you’re not. But you can be. I’ve seen you hanging around here and you look a little out of your element. Though …” Her clothes were mildly grungy, flannel shirt over a Screaming Trees T-shirt, holey-kneed jeans with words doodled on the fabric in ballpoint pen. “… you might want to hook up with the potheads in the teachers’ lounge.”

“No!” She yelled. Heads poked up from their studies. She dropped to a whisper. “I don’t do drugs.”

“Of course not. Who said you did?”

She shrugged.

“The trick is to run with it and never let them know they fazed you.” I breezed over the fact that I’d been the offensive party and reached over and took off her glasses. She squinted, grabbed them from my hand and slid them back on with a grimace.

“I don’t have any friends around here. In high school, either, really. Everybody sucks.”

I hatched my scheme right then and there.

“Isn’t that the truth?” I assessed her hair, thick, shoulder-length and not at all scraggly. I could work with it. “Let’s do a makeover. What do you say?”

As her thin lips stretched into a smile, they flattened a bit becoming almost plump. Almost attractive. Workable.

“Meet me after school. I’ll be at the Starbucks.”

“Which one?”

“Duh, the new one.”

She nodded and so began my gracious tutelage of the poor girl.
¹³⁹
If I had my way, Jordan would be the
most popular girl in her school by the end of the week. I could dream, right?

Now, it’s important to note that I, myself, was not particularly popular—nor was I a geek, mind you. I was feared and that’s nearly as important.

“So. Do you at least know the Five Deadly Digs?”

“What? Like slams or something?” she asked.

“Something. Let’s practice.” I stepped away cocked my jaw and looked from her shoes, up her legs to her eyes, cringed and shook my head.

“Oh my God, what?” Jordan brushed at her top, prodded her hair, for debris, presumably.

“
That
, bitch, was number one, The Look. It’s an up and down perusal followed by the slow shake of the head. Non-verbal critique is essential for diminishing your adversary to a miniscule blithering idiot.” I gestured to the girl. “Case in point.”

“Gawd. Nice.”

“It’s not about nice. It’s about winning. Two. Metaphor. See that woman over there?” I pointed to an overweight thing stepping out of a city bus, at least five children in tow and lugging a sixth in a car seat, likely named Sciatica. “Like so.” I yelled across to the woman, “Bitch, it’s a vagina not a clown car!”

Jordan’s head sunk into her shoulders. “Holy shit! That was evil.”

“No. That was number two and not the freshest comparison, either. I think I picked it up from my mother. By making an intellectual connection between one thing, the vagina, in this case, to a ridiculous comparison, we gain a significant advantage on our opponent, in this case, the lovely Welfaria over there. Which brings me to number three. Renaming. Don’t ever call someone by their proper name. It’s like giving up your power and people with high self-esteem don’t do that. Got it?”

Our high heels clicked in tandem.

“Next up. Superficial agreement. Let’s try. You ask me to do something.”

Jordan thought for a moment, then asked, “Could you meet me after school today?”

I laughed. “Uh … yeah.” I nodded. “I’ll totally do that. For sure. Whatever. See? How’d that feel.”

“Crappy.”

“Excellent. Last one. The truth. Get to know people’s secrets. Nothing cuts a person off at the knees like a well-timed revelation. Since I don’t know any about you we’ll forgo practice, but keep your eyes open and listen.”

Within weeks, like magic the girl developed quite a following amongst the other students. By homecoming, she was a princess, by holiday break banging the quarterback, by prom the first sophomore queen. She was unstoppable. We’d meet in the library and conspire.

“The other day, Heather Gill came begging for a spot in my clique.” Jordan exaggerated a yawn. “She used to be
très
popular. But now, sadly, she’s fallen to the wayside. I, of course, let her in on some bad news. Her time was over. A new era had begun. She cried until I was forced to toss a Kleenex at her feet.”

Maybe I was ill, but her words seemed cold.

“Jesus. Don’t you have feelings?” I asked.

“None that I’m aware of. Should I be concerned? Oh …” She reached for my lapel and a blurry-edged spot—had it been on skin would have been a melanoma. “Is this mustard? Someone sure likes their food.”

“Wow. You’re a nasty bitch.”

“I don’t make the rules, Amanda.” She looked me up and down, shook her head. “You did. Has your brain turned into those condiments you’re so fond of?”

She sounded just like Ethel. Exactly, in fact.

Our interaction turned Jordan Lamb-Corey into a real cooze and yet she was so familiar. Nothing compares to the first realization that you’re just like a parent. In fact, the experience is like a punch in the gut followed by a kick in the ass, as all the memories of telling yourself you’d never be like her, or him, or them. And then you are.

When I realized what I’d done to Jordan was exactly what my mother had done to me, I shut down. Didn’t even blink. It was shock. It was simply better not to think about it. Move into denial and stay there like a comfy cottage.

At least I thought so at the time.

Of course, it makes for a lonely existence never growing to any level of emotional maturity, but you play the hand life gives you. Even in death.

Or not.

“You’re right.”

His head snapped at the sound, mouth agape in pseudo-disbelief. “I’m what?”

I sucked at my teeth, while Scott grinned wildly and beat out a rhythm on the steering wheel. He was really
pushing his luck—cute—but not enough to save him from the inevitable smack down.

“I said, ‘You’re right.’ Now shut up about it.”

A stuttering chortle erupted from the driver’s seat. I chose to ignore it for a moment and then reached across the gap for a titty twister. He yelped like the mutt he was.

“Quit it!” he yelled, voice raising an octave as he shifted out of my reach. The car lurched to the left from his effort to escape my torturous fingers.

“Mmm. Not so kinky now, are you?” I crossed my arms and watched low hills rise out of nothing and a town out of that.

It was called Belle Fourche, and, though there was certainly nothing “Belle” about it—the highway did “Fourche” if that’s what the town founders meant.
¹⁴⁰
I kind of doubt it. It didn’t take much longer to reach Rapid City and the cheesy Raging Rapids Water Park and Family Suites, a catastrophe of architecture not often seen outside nightmares or kindergarten art hour. Tubes of every color darted in and out of holes in the three-story center tower, like maggots threading a giant block of blue cheese. One tube expelled waves of water into a giant clear funnel; human children swirled inside like living turds, flushing into yet another tube that probably wasn’t bound for the sewer, though had every right to.

“Maybe we could find somewhere else,” I said, but Scott was already out of the car and heading for the lobby.

While he checked us in, I scanned a rack of local attractions. Mount Rushmore, the Black Hills, the Jewel Caves.

Huh?

What?

I snatched the brochure from its slot and scanned the information. About an hour away and massive, though sadly not full of diamonds, rubies or sapphires, the Jewel Caves may actually stretch out over a three-state region. Scary. And quite possibly what the vision and the freakin’ shaman had been referring to. At least I was fairly certain until I looked back at the display and noticed the twenty
other
cave brochures.