She hocked up a good one and spat at the figure. “Do your worst, asshole.”
He walked over to the counter, where, among all of the medical devices, was a common kitchen toaster. Next to it was a loaf of bread, the kind that came in a colorful plastic bag. He removed two slices, placed them in the toaster, and depressed the plunger.
“Where’s Frank?” Sara said.
He didn’t answer. Sara tested the restraints on her arms, legs, chest, flexing and stretching to see if there was any way to escape.
The toaster dinged.
Blackjack Reedy took the slices of toast, and knelt next to Sara’s chair. He held them out to her. Sara began to wonder if he was mentally deficient. Like Lenny from Of Mice and Men.
“I don’t want your toast. Let me go.”
Blackjack held a piece out to her bound hand. Sara changed tactics. Forcing a smile, she said, “Thank you, I’d love some toast. Can you unstrap my hand so I can hold it?”
Blackjack pushed the toast under her palm. Quick as a mousetrap, he slapped the other piece on top of her fingers.
Then he smiled, and Sara saw that his teeth had been filed to points.
She screamed loud enough to wake the dead as Blackjack opened his terrible mouth and bent down to eat his sandwich.
Frank
Frank Belgium stared up at the ghost of Jebediah Butler, whose entire body was covered with blood, and said, “Need a Band-Aid?”
Belgium was strapped to a stainless steel gurney. It had gutters around the edges, which made Frank think it was a mortician’s table.
The implications didn’t bother Frank. At that moment, nothing at all bothered Frank. He decided, if he made it through the night, to pursue the glamorous and rewarding life of a heroin addict.
But living through the night was beginning to seem like a long shot.
Jebediah pushed a metal cart up to Frank, filled with all sorts of horrible-looking medical tools. Hammers and saws and blades and drills. Frank stared at a particularly rusty chisel and giggled.
“Can you sanitize those tools before you dissect me? I don’t don’t don’t want to get an infection.”
Jebediah loomed over Frank, squinting at him with his soulless black eyes.
“Aren’t… you… afraid?”
“Friend, as far as scary things I’ve seen, you aren’t even in the top five. Where’s that Ol’ Japser fellow? He’s certainly handy.” The pun delighted Frank, and he giggled again. “I also could have gone with he’s well-armed.”
Jebediah picked up some sort of crusty mallet and brought it down on Frank’s broken elbow. It stung, but the drug dulled most of the pain.
The ghost looked confused.
“You seem like a reasonable sort, Jebediah. So I’m going to offer you some advice. And I I I really think you should take it for what it’s worth. Are you ready?”
Jebediah Butler gaped.
“I’m not going to say it unless you want to hear it.”
“Tell… me…”
Dr. Frank Belgium looked the monster dead in the eyes and said, “Go fuck fuck fuck yourself.”
Tom
Tom wiggled his fingers to keep the circulation going, but his hands and arms were becoming very numb due to being hung by them. He felt he’d bought himself a little bit of time, but had no idea how to get out of this situation. His hopelessness spiked every time he looked at the corner of the room, to the branding iron heating up in the wood burning stove, which the blackened figure of Sturgis kept fussing with.
When Dr. Forenzi finally entered the room, Tom was grateful for something else to focus on.
“Where’s Roy Lewis?”
Forenzi clucked his tongue. “Out of all the things you can ask me, that’s your first question? Where your partner is? He gave all he had to give. Like you soon will. How did you figure it out?”
Tom stretched on his tip toes to take some weight off his cramped arms. “Let me down and I’ll tell you.”
“I can assure you, Detective, you’ll tell me anyway.”
Forenzi went to the corner of the room and took a black covering off of a piece of medical equipment. It looked like a dialysis machine.
“It was Torble,” Tom said, glancing at Sturgis Butler. “He said I see your fear. He said that same thing earlier today, at the prison.”
Forenzi made a face and wagged a finger at Sturgis, née convicted serial killer Augustus Torble. “I didn’t go through all the trouble of bringing you here to screw things up like that.”
“And I don’t get my kicks dressing up in a goddamn Halloween costume, spraying myself with liquid smoke to smell like a barbecue. Plus these goddamn contacts are killing me.”
To drive home the point, Torble stuck his finger in his eye and pinched out the black lens.
“So everything was fake?” Tom asked. His curiosity was real, but he was more interested in keeping the doctor talking, hoping for a situation to save himself.
Forenzi nodded. The machine he’d uncovered was on a cart, and he was pushing it over to Tom. “Of course. The house is fully rigged. Trapped doors so people appear and disappear. Electromagnets to make chairs move or pictures fall.” He reached for Torble’s neck and tore off a flap of latex make-up, holding it to his own throat. “Voice… synthesizer. Hear… how… scary… I… sound…”
“How about the painting of the house with all of our pictures on it?”
“Just painted yesterday. One of my men has some artistic talent. I doubt it has even dried yet.”
“And the guns?” Tom asked. “Bullet proof vests?”
Forenzi took Tom’s Sig from his holster and aimed at his chest. Just as Tom tried to twist away and began to yell, Forenzi fired twice.
It stung a bit, but Tom remained free of holes.
Forenzi tucked Tom’s gun into his waistband. “When your luggage was brought in, your ammo was replaced. Soft wax bullets. There’s an indistinguishable recoil, but they disintegrate before hitting the target.”
Shit. Why hadn’t Tom thought to check his ammo?
“What if I had the gun on me?” he asked. “How would you have switched?”
“The front doors to Butler House have an X-ray machine in them. You were scanned for weapons when you entered. If you were carrying a gun, you would have been the first one targeted, and your gun taken. My men are very good at what they do.”
Forenzi had damn near thought of everything. A perfect ruse that fooled everyone, Tom included. “And Aabir?”
“One of us. Like Pang. They’ve played those parts before. Unlike the live roaches put into your mouth, theirs were rubber.
“What about Deb? In the exam room?”
“Franklin is real. I was able to secure his release from prison, as I did with our friend Torble here. In Deb’s and Mal’s case, we thought that touch of authenticity would help raise their metusamine levels. Franklin sprayed a chemical in Deb’s throat—I call it traumesterone. It inflames the vocal chords so a person can’t speak. Or scream for help, as the case may be.”
It all made sense to Tom, except for the most important part.
“Why?” he asked.
Dr. Forenzi sucked in a breath, then let out a big, dramatic sigh. “I explained this at dinner. I need to frighten you to harvest the metusamine in your blood. The more you’re frightened, the more you produce. And because you and the others have experienced high levels of fear in the past, it has altered your brain chemistry so your blood contains higher levels of metusamine than the general population. Much higher, in fact. And I require that neurotransmitter. In order to make anti-venom, you need real venom. The same applies to Serum 3, my anti-fear drug.”
“So why kill Wellington? Or was that fake, too?”
“That was… unfortunate. I would have preferred terrifying him, then milking him for metusamine like you and the others. But that’s the other half of the experiment. You’re obviously aware of who is funding this research.”
Tom thought back to the Butler House website, and who owned the property now. Unified Systems Association.