Disclaimer: Stephen King is an amazing writer. And anyone he or the
director created is not mine.
A/N: After seeing the movie, inspiration overwhelmed me. To write of course, not to eat corn. I hope you all enjoy the story. It will be a short one, probably going to write it in three parts, but who knows where it could go from here? So I'm not promising anything. Read on!
PineAppleLint
* * *
She didn't know where to begin. Sitting outside in her red trashy Honda in the middle of the dirt driveway, she waited. Nervously, she grabbed a piece of Spearmint gum and gnashed it between her back molars, staring at the log cabin before her. The log cabin that was supposed to be the residence of Mort Rainey.
She had heard the small town talk, the gossip, the secrets that no one else was supposed to know but found out anyway. It was believed that Mr. Rainey had four murders under his belt. Getting out the photo she acquired of him, she took one long gaze at it, studying it to the best of her abilities.
He had blonde-streaked brown hair down to his chin, gently brushing against his cheeks. His haunting brown eyes stared wearily back at the camera, and sharp cheekbones graced his face that made his appearance look mysterious and bold. He wore a black ski cap and big brown glasses pushed halfway up his nose. His mouth was half open as if he had been talking when the photo was taken, and she could clearly see braces on his white teeth. A black scarf was wrapped around his neck. Even in his tostled just-rolled-out-of-bed state, he was a handsome man.
Sometimes the handsome ones were the most dangerous of them all.
Just then, the phone rang and she jumped, letting go of Mort's picture and having it fall to the floor of the car near the brake pedal. Hitting the "talk" button, she held it to her ear and said in annoyance, "What?"
"Something wrong, Ms. Oltie?" Timothy asked. He was her boss, the one who had sent her out on this goddamn mission in the first place.
"Tell me why I'm here again in Tashmore County, T?" she questioned, rubbing her green eyes tiredly.
"The local sheriff's office wanted someone to investigate the situation further, gal. So don't give me any shit today. Plus, that division is full of old fogies. Like they're going to put Mort Rainey behind bars. They'd break a hip first." He laughed at his ridiculous comment.
"At least the sun's up," she said with a smile, "Bad things happen in the dark."
"Damn straight," Timothy commented, "Perhaps you can talk to him. Make him uneasy."
"Well right now I'm the uneasy one, boss," she informed him with a smirk, "This place, out here all by it's onesies, it's bound to give you the willies."
"Especially if there's a cold killer on the loose," he added.
"Oh, thanks for making me feel a bit better," she replied dryly.
"You're welcome. Now hurry up, do what needs to be done, and get the hell out of there. Maybe I'll buy you dinner if you get back early, Zoë."
"All right, sounds good. Bye, T."
"See you later, alligator." The phone crackled and the call ended. She sighed and threw her cell phone back in her forest green messenger bag that was littered with loose change, her wallet, feminine products, and candy wrappers. Zoë gathered up her loose brown hair and wiped the sweat from her nape. Her Honda wasn't privileged in the air conditioning category, and that was the reason why she had her window rolled down. The breeze tickled her nose and she sneezed.
Looking down at her Reeboks, she realized the picture was still down near her toes. Bending over, she felt for it in the cramped car, letting out an 'mmpf' as she failed a couple of times in her persistent grabbing. "Come on, you bastard," she muttered and practically whooped for joy when she felt the photo between her fingertips. Straightening in her seat, she placed it on her dashboard and was about to check her appearance in the rearview mirror when she let out a cry of surprise.
Mort Rainey was standing right next to her car door.
"Can I help you?" he asked in a hushed tone.
"Um...I..." shit. Now could she have been caught off guard like that? He sensed her uneasiness and smiled. He motioned towards his own picture on the dashboard.
Where did you get that?" he questioned, still smiling eerily.
"I see you got rid of your braces," she said confidently, smiling wearily back.
"Yup. Just needed to straighten a few things out. Would you...like to come inside? For a soda or something? It's a bit warm outside."
NO, her mind screamed, GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!
"Sure," she said boldly, ignoring her screaming thoughts, "That would be nice. I would also like to ask you a few questions."
He opened the car door for her politely and she got out of the car. He slammed the door shut for her and she thanked him. He was almost TOO polite. He made her feel like a cornered animal.
As an instinct, her fingers touched the cold steel of her gun in its holster. That one touch reassured her more than calm words ever could.
"Who do you work for, Mrs....?"
"It's Miss Oltie. Actually, Agent Oltie of the FBI." She wasn't afraid to tell him. If he was interested enough, he would find out anyway.
"Pleased to meet you, Agent Oltie. Now I don't know what you've come down here to find, but..."
"Mr. Rainey, this is just a friendly little visit," she reassured him, lying through her teeth, "Just checking up on you, that's all."
His brown eyes met hers, and it felt weird, almost intimate. "Do you have a badge, Ms. Oltie?"
"That's AGENT Oltie, and yes, I do." She grabbed it out of her pocket and flashed it to him. He took a step closer to examine it. Zoë squirmed, feeling the need to back away or snap her badge shut again, but forced to keep that smile plastered on her face as he studied it. She didn't want him to sense her uneasiness.
Zoë slowly put the badge back in her pocket and followed him up the creaky porch steps. He held the screen door open for her and she slipped inside.
"It's been a long time since I've had a beautiful woman in my house," he said with a grin.
"Oh? And why is that, Mr. Rainey?"
"Call me Mort." He shrugged and added, "People talk. Most people don't trust me."
"And should they have a reason not to trust you, Mr. Rai...I mean, Mort?"
He replied while wiping a few strands of hair behind his ears, "Don't act stupid. I think you know the answer to that question." That answer sent a chill up her spine. Hopefully he didn't notice her shiver.
Mort motioned for her to sit on his messy couch while he walked casually into the kitchen. She heard the refrigerator door open, slam, and then the clinking of glass. She folded her hands in her lap as he reappeared with two glasses of lemonade.
"I hope this will suit your fancy," he commented, handing her a glass.
"Oh, this is just fine, thanks," Zoë nodded. Yeah, like it was an every day occurrence that she had lemonade with psycho murderers.
He sat across from her in the lumpy sofa chair and took a sip of lemonade. Trying to be polite, she did the same, except more cautiously. Who knows what he could have done to the drink?
He stared at her for a moment. It was unwavering, solid, and utterly creepy. It was as if he was counting how many eyelashes she had, or playing connect-the-dots with the freckles gracing her cheeks.
"What?" Zoë asked, tilting her head to the side, "Is there something wrong?"
"You have pretty eyes."
"Thank you." She flushed. Awkward silence ensued.
"So," he said at last, "Wasn't there some questions you had for me?"
"Okay, Mort." She set her glass down on the table and stared back at him. "Let's cut to the chase. What made you do it?"
"Do what, Agent Oltie?" he questioned with a small, innocent smile, "You are going to have to be more detailed."
"Kill those people," she said in exasperation, "Murder them. Four people, am I correct?"
"That's a bold accusation," he said, the smile never wavering. Silence wafted through the air once more, making the atmosphere seem humid and heavy.
She took a big gulp of lemonade and brushed away the bead of sweat that was rolling down her brow. "If that's how you want to play the game, fine. I can't make you tell me anything. But I WILL find out, sooner or later."
"I didn't know a game ever started," he responded in amusement, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "And that sounds like a threat."
"It's not a threat." It's a promise, she wanted to say, but kept her mouth shut. "I'm just doing my job."
"Ah."
"Well, is there anything you want to say for yourself?"
He blinked at her. He ran a hand through his messy hair, then sat up from the couch and began to walk up the creaky stairs. Zoë, being relentless, followed him. She found Mr. Rainey typing on his laptop with quick, precise key strokes.
"What are you doing?" Zoë said with a frown, placing her hands on her hips.
He opened a package of Doritos that was sitting on his work desk and began munching thoughtfully. He offered the bag to her but she shook her head in silent refusal.
"You gave me inspiration, Agent Oltie. I've had writer's block for a week straight."
"Well, glad to be some help to you," she commented, on the borderline of having a sarcastic tone. She stood there for a moment or two and just watched his brow furrow as he stared at the screen, his fingers busily flying across the keys.
"If there is nothing left to discuss, I better be going. I have places to be," Zoë said and added, "Thanks for the lemonade," before walking back down the stairs.
"Wait!"
Her eye twitched and she put a finger up to try and get it to stop. This day was driving her nuts. She whirled around to find him running down the stairs and stopping right in front of her. Zoë raised her eyebrows in silent question.
"Will you be stopping by again?"
"Why do you ask, Mr. Rainey?"
"You are the first person to stop by in a while who doesn't seem afraid to be alone with me. It's...nice." He chuckled a bit and rubbed at the back of his neck before adding, "And it would be great to see you again. Who knows...you could help me with my new novel."
You could help me with my new novel. Oh, wonderful. The last novel he perfected was about the murder of an ex-wife, and he had done exactly that. Zoë would rather not be a character in one of his books if it entitled her ending up dead and her body at the bottom of the river.
She forced a smile to her face. "You'll probably be seeing me around," she commented truthfully.
Before she could back away, he quickly leaned over and pressed his lips to her cheek. It was over and done with so fast she didn't know what to think. Zoë's eyes widened and she kept that smile on her face, her cheeks straining with the effort.
"Goodbye, Zoë."
She nodded and walked down the porch, her skin crawling from his touch. Even as she got into her car and drove off, she could see him waving to her in her rearview mirror.
Shit.
When she turned onto the main road, she got a napkin out of her bag and with one hand on the steering wheel, she used the other to scrub furiously at her cheek. In most cases, she wouldn't mind at such a display of friendly affection from a handsome man.
But most handsome men weren't crazy novelists that had their ex-wives buried somewhere in the backyard.
* * *
"Well, someone's in a foul mood this evening."
She stormed into her office and threw her bag on her chair. Timothy followed her inside.
"Your cheek's all red. What happened to you? He didn't throw a hissy fit and slap you, did he?" Timothy teased.
"No, the bastard kissed my cheek for your information," she growled, "And I tried to scrub the psycho cooties off."
"He made a move? Damn, Oltie, you sure have a way with men. Must be your KILLER looks. Ha."
She glared at him and muttered, "That's not funny."
"Sorry, sorry, I don't mean to be an ass. So you up to dinner?"
"Yeah, a quick one. I want to go out there again. Perhaps when he's asleep. He seems like the kind of guy that takes lots of naps."
Timothy scratched his head and messed with his tie a little. "I don't know, Oltie. At night? All alone? That doesn't sound like a very good idea, especially if he's taken a liking to you."
"I need to find the bodies, T. We need proof!"
"He's interested in you, Zoë. That isn't a good sign. Go tomorrow morning. He'll surely still be sleeping then."
"All right."
"You're not going to listen to me, are you?"
"No."
"Goddammit, you are a pain in the ass."
"It's because I'm hungry and I have killer cooties on my face," she pointed out, "Can we go now?"
* * *
It was near midnight by the time she walked up the stairs to her apartment on the fourth floor. She had taken Timothy's advice to stay put until sunrise, but until then she had work to do.
Grabbing her key from her bag, she jiggled the doorknob a few times and it clicked open. Taking a step forward, something soft squished on the sole of her shoe.
She looked down. It was a daisy. So small, yet so perfect, well, at least it had been until she stepped on it. Someone must have tracked it in. She shook her head and walked inside her apartment, shutting the door and locking it.
Zoë took a quick shower, the warm water slowly washing away the fatigue from her aching muscles. She then wrapped a blue bathrobe around herself and sat at her computer, getting out Mort Rainey's file.
God. He looked so innocent, so normal. Rainey even looked like a writer, a bit frazzled around the edges but mysteriously handsome and full of creativity. Unfortunately he had used those personality pluses for evil purposes.
An innocent citizen, a cop, an ex-wife, the ex-wife's boyfriend. Zoë read over the words once more and shut her eyes tight. What brought this on? Clearly mental instability. Did the divorce trigger such a reaction? Had he been a fucked up nutcase from the start? Who knows? Well, the problem was, was that now it was her job to know. And if she didn't know, she would have to find out.
"Tomorrow," she yawned to herself, "Tomorrow I'm going to kick the shit out of this case." Dropping the file next to her computer, she crossed her arms and laid her head down on them. "Just a couple minutes of resting my eyes and I can start that pesky case report..." Slowly but surely, she drifted off to sleep, unable to keep herself from the dream world.
* * *
It was a dark, rainy afternoon. As much as it sounded like the beginning to some dollar store suspense novel, it was true. The dreary weather did not help improve her already foul mood. There she was, rummaging through the trunk of her Honda for a spare flashlight in the pouring rain. It pelted her, stabbing at her flesh like icy needles, annoying her to no end. But she was on a mission and she needed to get this done in order to finally get some decent sleep at night.
She gripped the yellow plastic flashlight and lightly shut the trunk in order not to disturb Mr. Rainey. The last thing she needed was for him to catch her searching for dead people in his yard. Zoë cursed when the flashlight didn't turn on when she clicked the button. Hitting it against her palm, the bulb burst to life and almost burned out her retinas.
"Damn Satan flashlight," she muttered and held it at her side. Crouching by the side of the house, she walked through the murky mud in her boots and came to the old garden. It was full of dying cornstalks. The brown plants waved limply in the fierce wind like arms motioning for her to get the hell out of there.
So this was where he had raised his corn. She had heard about his obsession from the fidgety locals, and the older woman at the tiny grocery store said that every time Rainey stopped by, there would be butter and salt in his hands at the checkout counter. At least, until recently. It had been two months since Mort bought anything that would have suggested he was feasting on corn on the cob.
Zoë read his book. She had done so a month ago when it had been rumored that she would be handed this case. She had studied his picture on the book jacket and read every page, every word to the last line: He got another ear of corn from the steamy bowl, and knew that in time, her death would be a mystery even to him. Or something like that. Hell, she didn't remember. But she knew that he had been trying to live the life of the main character in Secret Window.
He would have buried a body in the garden. That's what Secret Window said, and she supposed that's what Mort Rainey would do. Unless he knew someone would snoop and destroyed the evidence. For some reason he seemed like the kind of man who danced on his toes and waited in anticipation for someone to call the shots, to tell him how many days he had left until he was a dead man himself. It seemed like he wanted to be caught.
Guilt? Hardly. More like being proud of what he did.
Yeah, he was a sick bastard all right. She gritted her teeth and got down on her knees in the mud amidst the eerie stalks of corn. Even more determined now, she began to sift her fingers through the mud, raking them through as if she would find something important. It was worth a try, but if she so much as touched one old dead body part with her bare hands, she was going to barf.
"Come out, come out wherever you are!" she coaxed in a whisper, "Dead bodies, come to mama!"
She was a freaking mud-sicle. It coated her like a second skin. Zoë felt grimy and was an overall unhappy woman. What did she do to deserve digging around in some crazy weirdo's garden? If she didn't find anything, Mort Rainey better fess up or he would have to deal with her shoving her foot up his ass. At least he was occupied at the moment and wouldn't find her sneaking around on his private property.
Well, that's what she thought until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
* * *
Secret Window rocks my socks. Reviews are good! Good times pi.
* * *
A/N: After seeing the movie, inspiration overwhelmed me. To write of course, not to eat corn. I hope you all enjoy the story. It will be a short one, probably going to write it in three parts, but who knows where it could go from here? So I'm not promising anything. Read on!
PineAppleLint
* * *
She didn't know where to begin. Sitting outside in her red trashy Honda in the middle of the dirt driveway, she waited. Nervously, she grabbed a piece of Spearmint gum and gnashed it between her back molars, staring at the log cabin before her. The log cabin that was supposed to be the residence of Mort Rainey.
She had heard the small town talk, the gossip, the secrets that no one else was supposed to know but found out anyway. It was believed that Mr. Rainey had four murders under his belt. Getting out the photo she acquired of him, she took one long gaze at it, studying it to the best of her abilities.
He had blonde-streaked brown hair down to his chin, gently brushing against his cheeks. His haunting brown eyes stared wearily back at the camera, and sharp cheekbones graced his face that made his appearance look mysterious and bold. He wore a black ski cap and big brown glasses pushed halfway up his nose. His mouth was half open as if he had been talking when the photo was taken, and she could clearly see braces on his white teeth. A black scarf was wrapped around his neck. Even in his tostled just-rolled-out-of-bed state, he was a handsome man.
Sometimes the handsome ones were the most dangerous of them all.
Just then, the phone rang and she jumped, letting go of Mort's picture and having it fall to the floor of the car near the brake pedal. Hitting the "talk" button, she held it to her ear and said in annoyance, "What?"
"Something wrong, Ms. Oltie?" Timothy asked. He was her boss, the one who had sent her out on this goddamn mission in the first place.
"Tell me why I'm here again in Tashmore County, T?" she questioned, rubbing her green eyes tiredly.
"The local sheriff's office wanted someone to investigate the situation further, gal. So don't give me any shit today. Plus, that division is full of old fogies. Like they're going to put Mort Rainey behind bars. They'd break a hip first." He laughed at his ridiculous comment.
"At least the sun's up," she said with a smile, "Bad things happen in the dark."
"Damn straight," Timothy commented, "Perhaps you can talk to him. Make him uneasy."
"Well right now I'm the uneasy one, boss," she informed him with a smirk, "This place, out here all by it's onesies, it's bound to give you the willies."
"Especially if there's a cold killer on the loose," he added.
"Oh, thanks for making me feel a bit better," she replied dryly.
"You're welcome. Now hurry up, do what needs to be done, and get the hell out of there. Maybe I'll buy you dinner if you get back early, Zoë."
"All right, sounds good. Bye, T."
"See you later, alligator." The phone crackled and the call ended. She sighed and threw her cell phone back in her forest green messenger bag that was littered with loose change, her wallet, feminine products, and candy wrappers. Zoë gathered up her loose brown hair and wiped the sweat from her nape. Her Honda wasn't privileged in the air conditioning category, and that was the reason why she had her window rolled down. The breeze tickled her nose and she sneezed.
Looking down at her Reeboks, she realized the picture was still down near her toes. Bending over, she felt for it in the cramped car, letting out an 'mmpf' as she failed a couple of times in her persistent grabbing. "Come on, you bastard," she muttered and practically whooped for joy when she felt the photo between her fingertips. Straightening in her seat, she placed it on her dashboard and was about to check her appearance in the rearview mirror when she let out a cry of surprise.
Mort Rainey was standing right next to her car door.
"Can I help you?" he asked in a hushed tone.
"Um...I..." shit. Now could she have been caught off guard like that? He sensed her uneasiness and smiled. He motioned towards his own picture on the dashboard.
Where did you get that?" he questioned, still smiling eerily.
"I see you got rid of your braces," she said confidently, smiling wearily back.
"Yup. Just needed to straighten a few things out. Would you...like to come inside? For a soda or something? It's a bit warm outside."
NO, her mind screamed, GET THE HELL AWAY FROM ME!
"Sure," she said boldly, ignoring her screaming thoughts, "That would be nice. I would also like to ask you a few questions."
He opened the car door for her politely and she got out of the car. He slammed the door shut for her and she thanked him. He was almost TOO polite. He made her feel like a cornered animal.
As an instinct, her fingers touched the cold steel of her gun in its holster. That one touch reassured her more than calm words ever could.
"Who do you work for, Mrs....?"
"It's Miss Oltie. Actually, Agent Oltie of the FBI." She wasn't afraid to tell him. If he was interested enough, he would find out anyway.
"Pleased to meet you, Agent Oltie. Now I don't know what you've come down here to find, but..."
"Mr. Rainey, this is just a friendly little visit," she reassured him, lying through her teeth, "Just checking up on you, that's all."
His brown eyes met hers, and it felt weird, almost intimate. "Do you have a badge, Ms. Oltie?"
"That's AGENT Oltie, and yes, I do." She grabbed it out of her pocket and flashed it to him. He took a step closer to examine it. Zoë squirmed, feeling the need to back away or snap her badge shut again, but forced to keep that smile plastered on her face as he studied it. She didn't want him to sense her uneasiness.
Zoë slowly put the badge back in her pocket and followed him up the creaky porch steps. He held the screen door open for her and she slipped inside.
"It's been a long time since I've had a beautiful woman in my house," he said with a grin.
"Oh? And why is that, Mr. Rainey?"
"Call me Mort." He shrugged and added, "People talk. Most people don't trust me."
"And should they have a reason not to trust you, Mr. Rai...I mean, Mort?"
He replied while wiping a few strands of hair behind his ears, "Don't act stupid. I think you know the answer to that question." That answer sent a chill up her spine. Hopefully he didn't notice her shiver.
Mort motioned for her to sit on his messy couch while he walked casually into the kitchen. She heard the refrigerator door open, slam, and then the clinking of glass. She folded her hands in her lap as he reappeared with two glasses of lemonade.
"I hope this will suit your fancy," he commented, handing her a glass.
"Oh, this is just fine, thanks," Zoë nodded. Yeah, like it was an every day occurrence that she had lemonade with psycho murderers.
He sat across from her in the lumpy sofa chair and took a sip of lemonade. Trying to be polite, she did the same, except more cautiously. Who knows what he could have done to the drink?
He stared at her for a moment. It was unwavering, solid, and utterly creepy. It was as if he was counting how many eyelashes she had, or playing connect-the-dots with the freckles gracing her cheeks.
"What?" Zoë asked, tilting her head to the side, "Is there something wrong?"
"You have pretty eyes."
"Thank you." She flushed. Awkward silence ensued.
"So," he said at last, "Wasn't there some questions you had for me?"
"Okay, Mort." She set her glass down on the table and stared back at him. "Let's cut to the chase. What made you do it?"
"Do what, Agent Oltie?" he questioned with a small, innocent smile, "You are going to have to be more detailed."
"Kill those people," she said in exasperation, "Murder them. Four people, am I correct?"
"That's a bold accusation," he said, the smile never wavering. Silence wafted through the air once more, making the atmosphere seem humid and heavy.
She took a big gulp of lemonade and brushed away the bead of sweat that was rolling down her brow. "If that's how you want to play the game, fine. I can't make you tell me anything. But I WILL find out, sooner or later."
"I didn't know a game ever started," he responded in amusement, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, "And that sounds like a threat."
"It's not a threat." It's a promise, she wanted to say, but kept her mouth shut. "I'm just doing my job."
"Ah."
"Well, is there anything you want to say for yourself?"
He blinked at her. He ran a hand through his messy hair, then sat up from the couch and began to walk up the creaky stairs. Zoë, being relentless, followed him. She found Mr. Rainey typing on his laptop with quick, precise key strokes.
"What are you doing?" Zoë said with a frown, placing her hands on her hips.
He opened a package of Doritos that was sitting on his work desk and began munching thoughtfully. He offered the bag to her but she shook her head in silent refusal.
"You gave me inspiration, Agent Oltie. I've had writer's block for a week straight."
"Well, glad to be some help to you," she commented, on the borderline of having a sarcastic tone. She stood there for a moment or two and just watched his brow furrow as he stared at the screen, his fingers busily flying across the keys.
"If there is nothing left to discuss, I better be going. I have places to be," Zoë said and added, "Thanks for the lemonade," before walking back down the stairs.
"Wait!"
Her eye twitched and she put a finger up to try and get it to stop. This day was driving her nuts. She whirled around to find him running down the stairs and stopping right in front of her. Zoë raised her eyebrows in silent question.
"Will you be stopping by again?"
"Why do you ask, Mr. Rainey?"
"You are the first person to stop by in a while who doesn't seem afraid to be alone with me. It's...nice." He chuckled a bit and rubbed at the back of his neck before adding, "And it would be great to see you again. Who knows...you could help me with my new novel."
You could help me with my new novel. Oh, wonderful. The last novel he perfected was about the murder of an ex-wife, and he had done exactly that. Zoë would rather not be a character in one of his books if it entitled her ending up dead and her body at the bottom of the river.
She forced a smile to her face. "You'll probably be seeing me around," she commented truthfully.
Before she could back away, he quickly leaned over and pressed his lips to her cheek. It was over and done with so fast she didn't know what to think. Zoë's eyes widened and she kept that smile on her face, her cheeks straining with the effort.
"Goodbye, Zoë."
She nodded and walked down the porch, her skin crawling from his touch. Even as she got into her car and drove off, she could see him waving to her in her rearview mirror.
Shit.
When she turned onto the main road, she got a napkin out of her bag and with one hand on the steering wheel, she used the other to scrub furiously at her cheek. In most cases, she wouldn't mind at such a display of friendly affection from a handsome man.
But most handsome men weren't crazy novelists that had their ex-wives buried somewhere in the backyard.
* * *
"Well, someone's in a foul mood this evening."
She stormed into her office and threw her bag on her chair. Timothy followed her inside.
"Your cheek's all red. What happened to you? He didn't throw a hissy fit and slap you, did he?" Timothy teased.
"No, the bastard kissed my cheek for your information," she growled, "And I tried to scrub the psycho cooties off."
"He made a move? Damn, Oltie, you sure have a way with men. Must be your KILLER looks. Ha."
She glared at him and muttered, "That's not funny."
"Sorry, sorry, I don't mean to be an ass. So you up to dinner?"
"Yeah, a quick one. I want to go out there again. Perhaps when he's asleep. He seems like the kind of guy that takes lots of naps."
Timothy scratched his head and messed with his tie a little. "I don't know, Oltie. At night? All alone? That doesn't sound like a very good idea, especially if he's taken a liking to you."
"I need to find the bodies, T. We need proof!"
"He's interested in you, Zoë. That isn't a good sign. Go tomorrow morning. He'll surely still be sleeping then."
"All right."
"You're not going to listen to me, are you?"
"No."
"Goddammit, you are a pain in the ass."
"It's because I'm hungry and I have killer cooties on my face," she pointed out, "Can we go now?"
* * *
It was near midnight by the time she walked up the stairs to her apartment on the fourth floor. She had taken Timothy's advice to stay put until sunrise, but until then she had work to do.
Grabbing her key from her bag, she jiggled the doorknob a few times and it clicked open. Taking a step forward, something soft squished on the sole of her shoe.
She looked down. It was a daisy. So small, yet so perfect, well, at least it had been until she stepped on it. Someone must have tracked it in. She shook her head and walked inside her apartment, shutting the door and locking it.
Zoë took a quick shower, the warm water slowly washing away the fatigue from her aching muscles. She then wrapped a blue bathrobe around herself and sat at her computer, getting out Mort Rainey's file.
God. He looked so innocent, so normal. Rainey even looked like a writer, a bit frazzled around the edges but mysteriously handsome and full of creativity. Unfortunately he had used those personality pluses for evil purposes.
An innocent citizen, a cop, an ex-wife, the ex-wife's boyfriend. Zoë read over the words once more and shut her eyes tight. What brought this on? Clearly mental instability. Did the divorce trigger such a reaction? Had he been a fucked up nutcase from the start? Who knows? Well, the problem was, was that now it was her job to know. And if she didn't know, she would have to find out.
"Tomorrow," she yawned to herself, "Tomorrow I'm going to kick the shit out of this case." Dropping the file next to her computer, she crossed her arms and laid her head down on them. "Just a couple minutes of resting my eyes and I can start that pesky case report..." Slowly but surely, she drifted off to sleep, unable to keep herself from the dream world.
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It was a dark, rainy afternoon. As much as it sounded like the beginning to some dollar store suspense novel, it was true. The dreary weather did not help improve her already foul mood. There she was, rummaging through the trunk of her Honda for a spare flashlight in the pouring rain. It pelted her, stabbing at her flesh like icy needles, annoying her to no end. But she was on a mission and she needed to get this done in order to finally get some decent sleep at night.
She gripped the yellow plastic flashlight and lightly shut the trunk in order not to disturb Mr. Rainey. The last thing she needed was for him to catch her searching for dead people in his yard. Zoë cursed when the flashlight didn't turn on when she clicked the button. Hitting it against her palm, the bulb burst to life and almost burned out her retinas.
"Damn Satan flashlight," she muttered and held it at her side. Crouching by the side of the house, she walked through the murky mud in her boots and came to the old garden. It was full of dying cornstalks. The brown plants waved limply in the fierce wind like arms motioning for her to get the hell out of there.
So this was where he had raised his corn. She had heard about his obsession from the fidgety locals, and the older woman at the tiny grocery store said that every time Rainey stopped by, there would be butter and salt in his hands at the checkout counter. At least, until recently. It had been two months since Mort bought anything that would have suggested he was feasting on corn on the cob.
Zoë read his book. She had done so a month ago when it had been rumored that she would be handed this case. She had studied his picture on the book jacket and read every page, every word to the last line: He got another ear of corn from the steamy bowl, and knew that in time, her death would be a mystery even to him. Or something like that. Hell, she didn't remember. But she knew that he had been trying to live the life of the main character in Secret Window.
He would have buried a body in the garden. That's what Secret Window said, and she supposed that's what Mort Rainey would do. Unless he knew someone would snoop and destroyed the evidence. For some reason he seemed like the kind of man who danced on his toes and waited in anticipation for someone to call the shots, to tell him how many days he had left until he was a dead man himself. It seemed like he wanted to be caught.
Guilt? Hardly. More like being proud of what he did.
Yeah, he was a sick bastard all right. She gritted her teeth and got down on her knees in the mud amidst the eerie stalks of corn. Even more determined now, she began to sift her fingers through the mud, raking them through as if she would find something important. It was worth a try, but if she so much as touched one old dead body part with her bare hands, she was going to barf.
"Come out, come out wherever you are!" she coaxed in a whisper, "Dead bodies, come to mama!"
She was a freaking mud-sicle. It coated her like a second skin. Zoë felt grimy and was an overall unhappy woman. What did she do to deserve digging around in some crazy weirdo's garden? If she didn't find anything, Mort Rainey better fess up or he would have to deal with her shoving her foot up his ass. At least he was occupied at the moment and wouldn't find her sneaking around on his private property.
Well, that's what she thought until she felt a hand on her shoulder.
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Secret Window rocks my socks. Reviews are good! Good times pi.
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