Norman Partridge - Slippin' into Darkness

And then everything came together for her imagined alter ego in a sudden epiphany, the kind that only occurred in fiction. The beauty of the dead princess, captured for the ages on the carved wooden sarcophagus-a quiet beauty that was a twin to her own. This impression crossing with her memory of the strange, silent attentions of her Egyptian lover, his cold interest in her work, his fascination with the forgotten mysteries that only he recognized in a pair of beautiful eyes that gleamed like the Nile at sunset…

A dozen film-clips flickered in Amy’s memory Little bits of old mummy movies. Kharis the mummy-he of the gamey leg, severed tongue, and digit-less right paw-dragging his reincarnated love into a quicksand bog. And she could almost see herself, the beautiful archaeologist, lifting the sarcophagus lid that wore her own face, confronting the decayed corpse.

Knowing that in a thousand years she would be its twin.

Just as she would soon be April Destino’s twin in death.

Amy shook the image away, fighting to control her imagination. The task was impossible. She saw Steve Austin hauling April Destino out of the grave.

And she was left with one irrefutable impression-Austin, charged with the same unquenchable desire that had spanned the centuries in a dozen-plus works of fiction, was much more dangerous than a walking band-aid with a compulsive attitude.

Bat Bautista didn’t waste his time thinking about dead Egyptians.

He didn’t think much about April Destino, either.

He spent his day at a dusty state prison thirty miles north of town, just praying that some idiot con would give him some lip. He wanted nothing more than to bash some face while imagining that he was beating on Griz Cody, or Derwin MacAskill, or Todd Gould, or that smarmy asshole Shutterbug.

Those guys were so damn stupid. You could rattle their cages without even trying. Bat had to smile at the memory-Shutterbug screeching like goddamn Stepin Fetchit while Todd and Derwin and Griz tried to figure out who stole April Destino’s corpse.

Like you had to be a detective to figure it out.

Bat figured that he should have been a detective. He was the smartest guy he knew. If he had managed to pass the damn police tests, if he’d done better in the interviews…hell, he’d be chief of police by now if he’d only had a little luck.

Shit. The cops wouldn’t have him. Him-the guy who could solve the whole damn mystery.

Clue number one: a hole in the ground where April’s body should be. Clue number two: busted beer bottles beneath the granite cross that bore her name. There was only one guy in the world who had the hots for April Destino and played graveyard baseball. Just add clue number one to clue number two, end of story. Ozzy Austin balances the equation.

Good old Ozzy Austin. The Six Million Dollar Robot. Many moons had passed since Bat last crossed swords with that weird asshole. They had played baseball together as kids-little league. Pony, high school-but even then he had thought Austin was screwy. Norman Bates on the mound. Hecklers always got to Austin. They knew how to push his buttons. Calling him a robot was one way to do it-the guy was a robot, throwing that same damn fastball over and over. Austin was just lucky that most guys couldn’t hit it, but that didn’t change the fact that he pitched like some damn Iron Mike.

The truth fuckin’ hurt, and that was that. Hecklers never got to Bat Bautista. He just kept cool, maybe pictured himself bashing their heads with a claw hammer, and things were fine and dandy.

Bat twirled his nightstick, clattered it against the bars, imagined waving it in Austin’s face. He wondered if it was still easy to get under Ozzy Austin’s skin. He could almost see Austin squirming. He could almost smell his sweat. He whistled low and smooth as the idea took hold. He wondered how much money Ozzy Austin had, and how much peace and quiet he was going to let good old Ozzy buy with it.

Bat wondered about other stuff, too. He was one hell of a detective. He noticed things other people missed. Like last night, in the movie. He’d spotted the two shadowy figures hiding behind the old furniture in the basement, watching the A-Squad and April. He figured Shutterbug had never noticed them before because maybe the film had to be projected really big to see them. And Todd and those other morons hadn’t noticed last night because they were too busy watching themselves with April.

No one had noticed them the night the A-Squad did April, of course. But Bat had noticed last night. There they were, on Candid Camera. In 1976, Shutterbug’s primitive movie lights had cut the shadows for a second or maybe two…just long enough for Bat to spot the two of them up there on the big screen, peeking from behind that old furniture, in 1994.

Amy Peyton and Doug Douglas. Just a quick glimpse, but he’d caught it.

He wondered what he’d do about the two of them, and Shutterbug. He’d have to do something about them. He’d have to get hold of that film. For keeps. After he took care of The Six Million Dollar Robot, of course.

He wondered about the whole mess while he sipped a beer after work.

He wondered about it while he drove home.

He was still wondering when he pulled into his driveway.

And spotted Ozzy Austin standing on his front lawn.

The Six Million Dollar Man sat behind the wheel of the car he had owned since high school, waiting for a red light to turn green.

He had done it all for April. He had covered up at the cemetery, masking his insane mistake as best he could, knowing all the while that the tilting house of cards he had constructed to protect the two of them couldn’t survive the mildest breeze. And then he had found April’s nightmare at the old drive-in, and that was a sheer stroke of luck. He had dived into the nightmare, hoping to set things right, because it was a real nightmare and he could hold it in his hands.

Success or failure couldn’t be measured. Not yet. Steve knew that Shutterbug had gotten the message, but he didn’t think Bat Bautista had seen the light. Things might get messy with Bat, and that kind of trouble could send the house of cards into a dizzy sway. Forget a mild breeze. An attack from Bat Bautista would be launched with the fury of a full-force hurricane.

Steve had to avoid trouble. If he could. Maybe he could leave town. Pack up, take April, and go.

No. Not with her screaming. Not with her trapped in the nightmare.

The light turned green and Steve hit the gas pedal. The old Dodge roared over the crest of Georgia Street, past closed department stores, past the post office, to the empty street that paralleled the cold channel which separated the shipyard from the city.

Steve pulled to a stop in the public park behind the main library. He stepped from the car, unblinking eyes behind his silver shades staring at the channel. Choppy black waves lapped against the concrete walls of the pier. The sunset arced above the metal buildings across the water. The salt wind was as steady as time. It pushed clouds across the copper sky. Copper to pink to purple and iron while he stood there. Shipyard steel painted by advancing shadows as the sun melted into the horizon.

No. He couldn’t leave. This was his home. Always had been, always would be. His home, and April’s home, too.