J Duncan - Deadworld

On one side of the table, a chenille-covered lounge chair and ottoman, floor lamp, and side table. On the table were several books and a newspaper. Dimly, she had awareness of there being more to the space. There were other aspects, more furnishings, but they were barely noticeable in the glare of the overhead light, and her eyes had no will of their own to wander and take in the surroundings.

She watched him move around the room, into and out of the central light, removing his jacket and draping it carefully over the back of the lounge chair, then disappearing into darkness until she heard the unmistakable tinkling of ice cubes. He returned with a drink in hand. His tie had been removed, and the top two buttons of his crisp, white shirt were unbuttoned. He seated himself in the lounge chair and sipped down the martini, reading through some of the newspaper. With no sense of time to speak of, Laurel could only guess how long she sat there unmoving before he finished off the martini and laid the paper back down.

Drake pulled her cell phone from his pocket and held it up. “Fourteen calls now, Ms. Carpenter. You appear to be a rather popular woman. Why is that, I wonder?”

Laurel had nothing to say, as he had given her no permission to speak. I can’t die like this, not buried inside my own body.

Fourteen calls meant Jackie was wondering why she hadn’t called to check in and would wrongfully suspect Shelby of taking her. They would be focusing on the wrong person.

Drake sighed with exasperation. “I suppose I should strap you down so we can have a proper conversation. Don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” Laurel replied, unable to keep her lips from forming the words.

He leaned down and opened a drawer beneath the table, and Laurel soon found her wrists zip-tied to the edges of the table. Her legs from the knees down still dangled over the end. “Well, then, there we go. We may speak freely now.”

And like that, the impenetrable weight upon her mind lifted, and Laurel could control herself once again. “You’re going to kill me.” She was surprised at the finality in her voice.

He stood next to the table, looking down on her much like a wolf looks at a fawn with a broken leg. “I’m going to drain the blood out of you, sucking the precious life force from it until you leave this world of the living and enter that of the dead. It is more a transition, really, but not one I highly recommend.” He smiled, and the charm may have been there in his lips, but the eyes ruined it completely. No charm was possible from glowing, irisless eyes. “It is wretchedly cold over there, and most of the fellows are a bit of a bore. I’m afraid you will not find it much to your liking.”

The bastard was a talker at least. That much went in her favor. There was little other advantage she had at her disposal, however. The straps would only get tighter if she pulled on them. Time would prove to be her only ally. She needed it badly. “You aren’t exactly what I’d imagined from a… um…”

“Vampire, Ms. Carpenter?” He laughed softly. “Such an amusing twist of the reality, but in essence, yes, I am one of the very same, and it is not so much like the stories portray. Both more and less, as it turns out.”

“You are both living and dead at the same time,” she said. Shelby had shown her that much. She wondered if Shelby was out there now, cruising the streets on that death trap on wheels looking for her. Jackie would be. Two hours of no contact would be about her limit, if she guessed her friend correctly. Her patience and paranoia would have met head to head by now.

“Why, yes, indeed I am, Ms. Carpenter. How very astute of you. Your ability serves you well. I wonder,” he said, leaning over her, his face next to hers. Laurel turned away from those enthralling eyes. She could not bear the notion of that mindless enslavement again. His breath sucked in next to her ear, a deep inhalation. “I wonder if your blood is any richer because of it?”

A shiver went down Laurel’s spine. Not a question she hoped to have answered any time soon. “Why did you choose me, Mr. Drake?” She had to keep him talking, soothe his ego, and let him think she found him intriguing. At least that was what she had been told to do when one found themselves in the hands of a kidnapper.

He bent down below the table again, opening drawers. “You fit the bill, Ms. Carpenter, ordinary as that might sound. I saw you at the park that first day and noticed you bore a reasonable resemblance to Nick’s dead wife. The fact that you were involved with the case has made it sweetly ironic, wouldn’t you say? Ah, here we go.” He stood back up clutching a variety of items. “But as you likely have deduced by now, your hair color is all wrong.”

“So the dye was to make the boy resemble one of Nick’s children.”

“Yes,” he said. “Now then, let’s get you tilted up so I can get at you a bit easier.”

The head end of the table dropped down, and Laurel found herself down at knee level staring up at Drake. From beneath the table somewhere he had pulled out a snaking cord with a showerhead on the end of it. He was going to dye her hair right there.

“I don’t really make a good brunette, Mr. Drake.”

He smiled, and from her angle it looked like a twisted frown. “Nonsense. You’ll be lovely. Besides, we must do something to pass the time. Your friends aren’t close enough yet.”

“You want them to find you?”

“But of course, my dear,” he replied, spraying her hair down with warm water. The unusual care with which he took going about dying her hair made Laurel’s skin crawl. “I had thought you smart FBI types would have deciphered this game Nicholas and I have been playing. You have all the evidence you need, or are they too dense to believe in such a plan? But then again, the man does so dread involving others. Far more entertaining this way, really, I must say. Back in ’70 it was far more interesting. You fellows got rather close at one point. I dare say killing you will up the stakes a bit.”

With his hands covered in plastic gloves, Drake began to massage the coloring into Laurel’s hair.

Laurel could not get the morgue pictures of the boy out of her head now, close-ups of the dead skin colored with dye. “Why do all this though? Why didn’t you just kill him after you killed his family?”

“Suffering, Ms. Carpenter. One’s enemies do not suffer if they are dead, and besides, when you cannot die, one needs some way to pass the time.” He chuckled and continued working the dye into her hair. “You know, you really have gorgeous hair. Your best trait, I must say.”

“Thanks.” Laurel could not tell if he was being serious or merely playing her.

“Ms. Fontaine seems to like it. The little cunt has good taste.”

The breath caught in Laurel’s throat. He’d seen them together? How was that possible? It was the first time she had heard anything close to animosity coming out of his mouth. “You don’t like her.”

He gave her a faint smile. “In her way, she is more cold-hearted and vicious than I, but not to you. No, no. She’s sweet on you, Ms. Carpenter. That she made rather plain to see. So your death will be doubly delicious, I must say. Two birds with one stone, or so the saying goes.”

“How did you know?” She did not need to know, but it would keep the conversation going, and she was admittedly curious.

“I have my little helpers, just like Nicholas,” he said.

Laurel realized then. The ghost that stole the penny. The ghost she saw just prior to Drake showing up. He had help from the other side.

He pulled her hair out straight over the edge of the table and let it hang down before proceeding to rinse most of the dye from her hair. His fingers were gentle upon her scalp.