Mark Henry_Amanda Feral 02 Read online

  “There you are. I see you. Be there in a second.” I waved and hung up.

  Wendy watched me from the camper’s side window. I wondered if I’d shown too much excitement at seeing Scott again. I waved her out and grabbed my purse from between Mr. Kim’s legs, or within actually. He raised a transparent eyebrow, making me giggle.

  “Honey? Wendy and I have some shopping to do, right after we talk to Scott about this whole shaman thing.” I wondered if the words were too flippant, then added, “Which is totally my main priority. I’d like you to stay by the trailer.”

  The girl pushed her door open and bounded off around the front of the RV. I heard a few raps, followed by the sight of Wendy slinking toward the door.

  I’d expected Wendy to be a bit brighter, more effervescent. Despite all my friends being dead, I credited Wendy with expressing a certain joie de vivre. Even her killings are executed with gleeful and guiltless exuber-ance.107 Yet, when she rounded the back of the Win-nebago, she appeared sullen. Her shoulders curled in; her back was hunched—while unquestionably a high fashion pose, it did nothing when highlighting a grubby Dukes of Hazzard ensemble.

  “I know what we’re going to do.” I slung my arm around her shoulders. “We’re going to do some shopping. I don’t have much hope for the quality, but if I can do anything it’s put an outfit together. That ought to cheer you up.”

  She patted her stomach and scowled. “Not with this.”

  “Oh that. I’ve got some ideas about that.”

  And I did. Or at least I figured they’d come to me once we rolled through the automatic door.

  Scott’s eyes prowled my body as we strode toward the men. He met my approaching gaze without apology and extended his hand to greet us. I wasn’t sure how to read the gesture. A business-like sexual interest? Horny yet gentlemanly? I shook anyway, half expecting to be pulled into his arms and ravaged.108

  “Did you get what you were after in Butte?” He attempted to shake Wendy’s hand as well, but she withdrew, turning her nose up as though she’d encountered bad meat.

  “Not really. We got a lead on a shaman on the Crow Reservation that sounds promising, though.” I aimed my chin at the cultists. “How about you. Anything?”

  Tad and Corey began to protest.

  Scott waved them off. “These boys didn’t have anything to do with that girl’s murder, anymore than I did.”

  “Oh … hold on.” I stepped away from him, pointed at my eyes with my middle finger and then at his, just like a movie I saw once.109 “I haven’t excluded you as a suspect either, Officer Scotty. I’m watching you.”

  A half-smile arched at the corner of his mouth, which he then wet. “As I am you.” He paused, scanned my body. “But, these boys just don’t have it in ’em. You and I know what it takes. Just look at ’em.”

  They weren’t particularly threatening—true—gangly-limbed and bad haircuts both. The two of them together probably weighed only slightly more than Scott, though muscle weighs more than fat, and don’t think I didn’t notice the ex-cop was toting some guns and I don’t mean the kind you shoot out of, except maybe that one, you know, the one that actually does shoot.

  The one down there.

  Only not bullets.

  Jesus.

  Am I rambling? I sound like a retard.

  Anyway, the conversation continued.

  “Granted. Tad and Corey don’t look like your traditional albino killers, but—”

  “She was just pale, she didn’t have pink eyes or nothin’,” one of the guys said.

  Scott glowered at the kid. “But?”

  “But,” I reiterated. “That doesn’t mean they didn’t do it.”

  “We’re bound—” one said.

  “Shut up, Corey,” said the other, presumably Tad.

  Even Wendy cocked her head at that remark. Until now, we hadn’t learned much of anything from the boys, simply assuming a wide range of possibilities as to their identities (I’ve made you a little list in the footnote; won’t you meander?).110 So this remark caught us off guard a bit and smelled suspiciously of witchcraft. I was intrigued and that’s a tough response for a human to get that wasn’t bound for my stomach. There’s that word again. Bound.

  “What do you mean … bound?” Wendy stepped up. Her arm touched mine.

  “Uh.” Corey looked at Tad, who only shook his head. “We’re not at liberty to say.”

  “But not bound from saying so?”

  “Huh? What?”

  I simply nodded. Sometimes a quick play on words could trip up a hambone like Corey.

  “We’re bound from doing physical harm, by the Maha,” he said.

  “Why’d you tell her that?”

  “Why’d you let me?”

  “I didn’t. Wha?”

  Back and forth they bickered until they realized we’d continued to focus on them, then they turned back, frightened. “You won’t tell will you?” Tad said, or it could have been Corey. I’d forgotten again.

  “Not if you tell us who or what this Maha is,” Scott took on the stern look of a police officer shaking down an informant. The boys were instantly talkative.

  “The Maha Durgha is our guru,” one said.

  “She knows everything,” the other said.

  “She probably knows we’re talking to you.”

  “She’s powerful.”

  “She’s awesome.”

  “Okay,” I interrupted. “Got it. She’s a superstar.”

  “She’d probably know how to fix the girl’s problem. Help her see the ghost,” said Tad, we’ll say, for the sake of time. In fact, from now on, I’m just going to use their names arbitrarily, because honestly, does it really matter?111 The kid had won my attention, though.

  “Can we talk to her?” I asked.

  “No,” Tad said.

  “Nope,” Corey mimicked.112 “But maybe one of you could.”

  “How so?” I glanced briefly at Scott, whose eyes had narrowed to suspicious slits. I knew what he was thinking. This was either a tactic to get one of us alone and do fun things with our severed appendages or a legitimate attempt to help. My instincts told me it was the latter.

  “She’ll only accept one audience per month. It may have already happened this month for all we know, but there’s a fairly good chance it hasn’t. Honey can go with us to the compound. It’s not too far from here. We’d have her back by morning.”

  Wendy laughed, but a sloshing sound echoed from her gut silencing her. She held what must have been her do-it-yourself colostomy bag until it quieted. I gave her a wink, mouthed, “We’ll fix that,” and turned back to the boy. “If anyone’s going it’s me. ’Cause, newsflash you little fucker …”—the boy flinched—“… we don’t trust you.”

  “Okay, then. We’ll take you.”

  That was easy.

  “You’re goddamn right you will, right after me and my girl go shopping.” I reached around Wendy’s waist and led her into the discount store.

  * * *

  We found some batting in the fabric section and after holding up a bag to Wendy’s midsection, decided on two and tossed them into the wobbly-wheeled cart. A few Ace bandages would hold it all in place, so we rolled off to Health & Beauty.

  “Do you ever think about what binds us, Amanda?” Wendy rested her hand on the cart as we navigated the aisles.

  “You’re getting philosophical on me or is this because of those boys?”

  “I’m just wondering if the only connection we have is our food. Or this.” She gripped the cart and stopped walking, forcing me to do the same and raised her shirt to reveal the hole. Dark gray tendrils etched into the surrounding skin. The rot was escaping her insides and infecting the surface somehow. Maybe it was mold—I’d have to remember to get some Pine-Sol— or it could just have been the store’s horrendous lighting. Either way, I couldn’t stand looking at it for any length of time.

  I scanned the aisle for witnesses, clutched Wendy’s hands and pushed them down, cov
ering the source of our joint horror. “No, baby. Not just this. You’re like my sister. Gil’s our brother. Like family. That’s why we argue. It’s just banter.”

  Her eyelids dimmed, but she nodded as we shuffled past pots and pans and through the linen department, where a grungy girl with a bad haircut was fondling terrycloth.

  “It’s changing me, you know?”

  “No. I don’t.”

  “This hole. It’s letting the monster out. I can feel the need to eat all the time. I used to be able to control the hunger pretty well, but now it’s slipping away. We call the bitten mistakes, but we all are … really.” If her eyes could produce them, she’d have cried.

  I’d have cried, too. None of this was normal. We shouldn’t exist, at all. But what good was dwelling on the fact? We were here. Sure, Wal-Mart isn’t exactly living, but it was something.

  “If you want to see it that way,” I said. “Even the humans are mistakes, then. This whole planet’s a mistake.”

  Wendy stared holes into my forehead.

  I looked away, plucked the bandages from the shelf and pushed off to makeup. “Come on. We’ve got work to do. Can’t spend all night sinking into depression, save it for drive time.”

  She shuffled behind me. It really was just going to be a matter of fixing her up. There’s nothing like a makeover to change irrational thought patterns. At least that’s what Oprah’s taught me.

  Wardrobe was the tricky part and required trips to women’s, men’s and boys’ clothing to come up with an outfit worthy of emotional confluence. By the time we stood in one of the two excruciatingly long lines, Wendy had begun to act like herself again.

  “I can’t believe those bitches closed their lanes on us. Sorry! Break.” She aped the girl’s waddle.

  “Oh God and when the other one pointed at me with those curly long fingernails, I felt like one of Gil’s bottles of celebrity plasma. Note the celebrity part.”

  “Of course.” Wendy poked at the batting. “Are you sure this’ll work?”

  “It’ll do the trick until we can get back to the reapers for a freshening.”

  “It’s gonna cost a fortune.” She sighed. “I don’t think I have it.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ve got some copy you can freelance for me.”

  “Serious?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “Thanks, sister.”

  Like a fucking Hallmark card.

  103 And … I think you know I would have.

  104 Or tentacle? Upper sucker?

  105 Could someone arrange that for me? Thanks.

  106 Whatever those are. Anyone?

  107 And that’s the gold standard.

  108 This ain’t that kind of memoir. I do the ravaging. I think you know that.

  109 ’Cuz I’m a bad ass, like that. You know.

  110 Who were Tad and Corey, anyway?

  Mormons or Jojobas? They both wore short sleeve dress shirts and everyone knows those are restricted to mathematicians, teacher’s assistants and those who interrupt Saturday morning television trying to get you to read magazines sans gorgeous cover models—what were in those pamphlets, anyway? Words?

  Kirby salesmen? I hadn’t checked in the back of their truck but couldn’t it be filled with vacuum cleaners and dry shampoo? It was a possibility.

  Gay lovers fleeing persecution? There had been just the one tent. Were gay lovers even persecuted anymore? It seemed a useless enterprise, unless they were on the run from a gang of homophobic truck drivers with those metal testicles hanging from the hitch. Almost plausible, eh?

  Vicious traveling serial killers with a penchant—pronounced with French accent, s’il vous plait—for albinos? Hmm. Intriguing but not likely. That sort of pigment deficiency is quite rare. Plus, weren’t serial killers supposed to be charming? I think I’ve made my point.

  Other? This seemed the most appropriate, given the newly revealed clue and the vibes Officer Scotty was getting. Back to it …

  111 No is the answer you’re looking for.

  112 See how this can work?

  Chapter 16

  What’s the Maha You?

  The tropics are a great location for a supernatural getaway. Nothing beats Malaysia in piercing season. The Gods and Goddesses turn out in full force. Good times. I’m telling you.

  —Letters to the Editor, Travel & Creature

  “That’s not too tight is it?” Tad asked. His voice was a bit gravelly, not froggy per se, just scratchy. Clearly the phrase wasn’t one he’d used before.113

  “It’s fine.” I patted the blindfold and shifted my hips around on the flip-down seat in the truck’s cab. I guess I should have been happy that handcuffs weren’t part of the deal, or worse yet, duct tape. As it was, all I could see was a thin sliver of my new blouse, and only if I strained my eyes. Not that there was anything to look at.

  “You comfortable?” the other one asked.

  “It’s like a fuckin’ spa day back here. What do you mean, ‘Am I comfortable?’ Of course not!”

  “Now, Miss. That’s naughty talk and we don’t naughty talk in this truck.”

  I decided not to respond. One, I couldn’t tell what exactly had been “naughty” about what I’d said and two, why bother? Clearly Maha had these guys brain-washed.114

  I already liked her.

  My cell phone rang and I had a hell of a time digging it out of my skirt pocket. Why didn’t I just carry my purse? I damned myself to hell for that with every contorted twisting metal-rod-in-the-back movement it took to get the goddamn phone.

  It was Marithé.

  “That guy keeps callin’.”

  “Tell him to fuck off.”

  “I don’t think he’ll go for that. Besides I already threatened him with a restraining order. He responded by faxing a copy of an article that was so heinous, there was nothing I could do but tell him you were tending to family issues.”

  “Oh my God. You made up a different location, right?”

  “Of course.”

  I hung up on her. Disgusted.

  We drove for close to an hour, on a paved road for most of the way. But in the last fifteen minutes the smooth surface gave way to gravel and potholes, bouncing me around the cramped compartment like change in the bottom of my purse, without the soft buffering of tampons, ’cause really, why would I need those? The old uterus doesn’t really function anymore.

  I don’t bleed. If you must force me to spell it out.

  And … since you’re on to me.

  A Confession

  One Word to Wendy and I’ll Kill Ya!

  Yes. I have some tampons.

  I know I get on Wendy for her Twix habit, but I can’t give up coffee. How is it even possible to do that? And really, it’s Wendy’s fault for getting me back into it. She’s the one that told me about using Depends to eat whatever we want.

  I just took the idea to its next logical step.

  Of course, there is the pain to deal with; undead diarrhea is a bitch. But for a quick caffeine fix, an OB Ultra does the trick quite nicely.

  Don’t tell.

  I’ll only deny it.

  “You can take off your blindfold,” Corey said. “We’re almost there.”

  “There ain’t nothin’ to see anyhow,” Tad finished.

  But there sure as shit had been something to smell. During the entire ride, the driver’s window had remained cracked, flipping my hair into a bramble of knots—a hair don’t, no matter what Vivienne West-wood says—and filling my nose with blatant notes of manure and an acrid hint of smoke.

  Montana’s ranch land was proving quite quaint.

  I slipped my fingers between the fabric and my cheeks, pushed it up and fashioned it into a cute hair band—if I was going to meet their messiah I would damn sure be presentable.

  As we crested a small hill, the truck came upon a remarkable structure. A glossy black wall rose from the waves of moonlit grasses, high into the night sky. Tad slowed to a stop a few yards away from it and p
ut the car in park.

  There didn’t seem to be a gate or door or anything. The dirt road just butted right up to the thing. Nothing interrupted the finish except an occasional etching, which seemed to be written in Sanskrit.

  “What does that say?” I pressed myself between the front seats.

  “It says, ‘Know thyself and enter, know nothing and perish. The truth is all around you.’” Tad opened his door with a creak that shattered the silence. He stepped out and walked up to the wall, pausing for a moment and then passing into it. The obsidian material became liquid, sliding around his flesh like quicksilver. He spasmed a bit and then disappeared. The wall solidified.

  Corey opened his door and left me sitting in the back.

  “Wait!” I yelled. “Where the fuck are you going?”

  But it was too late. Corey didn’t hesitate at all. He walked straight into the wall, again with the creepy spasm and then he was gone.

  With not much room to maneuver, I banged around the cab of the truck until my foot finally caught on the lever for the seat back. I triggered it and it slid forward unexpectedly, leaving me wallowing on the floorboards, searching for purchase to pull myself up. Not since prom night had I been so contorted.

  Prom night.

  I’d seen the aptly designated Dr. Crooks in my senior year of high school, after being caught shoplifting high-end cosmetics. Mother made me, I’d have preferred a male therapist—as some of you may know— but the bitch was paying, so …

  Meander with me, won’t you?115

  Her post-therapy homework assignment had been helpful and forced Ethel to fork out $200 on a facial, new skin-care regimen and a hairdo to match. It hit the mark, and I managed a prom invite, despite my less-than-sunny disposition.

  Gary Lortner—oddly hot band geek, but not my first foray into the submissive male specimen (Ethel had paraded enough of those through her bed-room)—made the first move of his life in a shaky one-word question outside the girls’ bathroom.

  “Pro-o-om?” He studied the industrial tile floor while he asked, kicking the water fountain with a dusty Doc Marten.

  I pinched his chin and forced him to look at me. Training puppies is quite similar; eye contact is key. “What was that, Gary? Full sentence, please.”