“So,” she said, “you’re doing this to win a million dollars?”
“Hmm? Me? No. I’m… well, being coerced into this.”
“By whom?”
“I’m not not not at liberty to say. Sorry.”
Sara nudged him with her thigh, and when he looked she was smiling again.
It dazzled him. She looked so pretty, so real, so near. Like a safe port in a terrible storm.
“Real secret stuff, huh?” she asked.
He smelled something on her breath. Whiskey. Belgium rarely drank these days, but he really wished he had something to take the edge off.
“I was involved in a government project that I’m not allowed to talk about.”
“What do you do, Frank?”
“I’m a a a molecular biologist.”
She seemed to appraise him, and Belgium lapsed into self-consciousness. Had he combed his hair? Were there crumbs on his face from breakfast? Did he have any stains on his shirt?
“This is a fear study,” she said. “I take it something bad happened with that government project.”
“Yes. That’s… well, it’s actually understating it a bit.”
The horrors of Samhain all came rushing back at him like they were still happening. The deaths. The blood. The certainty he was going to die. Frank could feel his larynx tightening, and he put a hand on his throat to massage it. The sides of the cab seemed to be closing in, making it hard to breath. He stared outside, saw something fly past, and flinched like he had at the airport.
“You look freaked out, Frank. I didn’t mean to—”
“Would you mind if we stopped somewhere for a drink? I mean, I I I don’t want to be forward, or for you to think I’m trying anything with you. But I could really really really use one.” He winced. “The past… it… hurts.”
Sara opened her purse and took out a tiny, plastic airline bottle of Southern Comfort. She passed it to Frank, who was shaking so badly he couldn’t get the small top off. Sara put her hands over his, helped him to remove the cap, and he downed it in one gulp. Almost immediately, he felt better. But he didn’t know whether to attribute that to the booze, or Sara’s touch.
“That’s… that was… thank you.”
She patted his shoulder. “No problem. I get panic attacks too.”
Sara turned away, looking out the window. Almost immediately he missed her looking at him. Belgium felt the liquor burn into his belly and wondered how he could draw her attention again. He figured maybe the truth would do it.
“I was locked underground with a…” Belgium chose his next word carefully. “Maniac. I barely got out alive. A lot of people died. Badly.”
Without facing him, Sara said, “I was trapped on an island with dozens of cannibals, and several serial killers.”
“You were… seriously?”
Sara nodded into the window. “A lot of people died. Badly. I guess that’s why we’re both here.”
Belgium had a sudden, overpowering, completely inappropriate surge of affection toward this woman. He wanted to hug her. For her sake, and for his. If she was a kindred spirit, as he suspected, it would do both of them a world of good.
Instead he sat rigidly in his chair, trying to will his heart to slow down.
“I read up on Butler House,” Sara said, still not looking at him. “Lots of tragedy there.”
Belgium had begun doing some research on the house—the devil you know and all that—but it had scared him too badly to continue.
Sara seemed to be expecting some response, so he grunted noncommittally.
“If any house in the world could be haunted,” she continued, “this would be the one.” Sara turned, and touched his arm. “Do you believe in ghosts, Frank?”
Belgium didn’t believe in ghosts. But there used to be lots of things he didn’t believe in.
“I can’t rule out that they might exist,” Belgium said.
“I think the supernatural is bullshit. I don’t believe in any sort of afterlife. But…”
Sara opened her purse. Besides a wallet and a few more SoCo bottles, there was a bible, a rosary, and a vial of clear liquid.
“Holy water,” Sara said, snapping her purse closed. “Does that make me a hypocrite?”
Belgium shook his head. “No. It makes you prepared.”
“No atheists in foxholes, I guess. Did you bring anything?”
Belgium hadn’t. For the same reason he’d never bought a gun.
“Um… no. I guess—this might sound silly—but I sort of feel like I’m living on borrowed time. Ever since… well, let’s just say I’m lucky to be alive, and these last few years I’ve been waiting for my past to to to catch up with me. Whatever happens, happens.”
“Kind of fatalistic, don’t you think?”
He was surprised by the frankness of her words, and wondered how much she’d had to drink. But perhaps it wasn’t the liquor. Maybe Sara was always this straightforward.
He liked that. A lot. And it had been a long time since he could admit to liking anything.
“I don’t don’t don’t think it’s fatalistic. More like realistic. When you see dark things—”
“You can’t unsee them,” Sara said, finishing his thought.
They looked at each other, and Belgium saw understanding in her eyes. This woman was just as wounded as he was. He’d heard about the concept of kindred spirits, but hadn’t experienced it before.
“I have a very bad feeling about this trip, Sara,” he said in hushed tones.
Then the front windshield burst inward and the car spun out of control.
Pittsburgh International Airport
Mal
Growing more and more uncomfortable as they inched their way through the security line, Mal let his wife go through the metal detector first.
She beeped, as expected, and then got into a conversation with the bored-looking TSA guard. He waved his wand over Deb. That led to her pulling off her jogging pants—which had snaps on the sides instead of seams.
Mal’s prosthetic hand always got a few raised eyebrows, but Deb’s artificial legs drew attention like a marching band down Main Street. Though Deb was always offered the option of a private search, away from gawkers, she never accepted, preferring to strip down to her shorts and show everyone on the planet her high tech artificial limbs.
Mal knew Deb did it because she didn’t want to be treated any differently than anyone else. But they did treat her differently, and Mal watched the crowd finger pointing and murmuring, some assholes actually snapping pictures.
It was made even worse by the fact that Deb was an athlete, and very fit, so standing there in her running shorts like a sexy female Robocop getting ready to pose for Playboy 2054 made him feel jealous as well as overprotective. As expected, after her scan and pat-down, Deb was immediately approached by a smiling Lothario who was better looking, a better dresser, and no doubt younger and richer than Mal was.
So I get to endure her humiliation of stripping down to her stumps, and then nurse my own humiliation because I don’t feel I’m man enough for her.
Mal was expertly in tune with his own feelings, thanks to the unrelenting therapy. Besides lacking a hand to touch his wife with, he also felt powerless to protect her. That led to feelings of inadequacy which normally didn’t reveal themselves during daylight hours. But as he watched CEO Joe chat up his wife while TSA played stupid with his mechanical hand, Mal felt himself getting angrier and angrier. When they finally let him through, he stormed over to Deb as she was re-snapping her running pants.
“Picked up an admirer, I see,” Mal said, sizing up the man. He looked fit, and could probably kick Mal’s ass all day long and not break a sweat.