Coin-Operated Machines Part 2

Angel wasn't certain if the axe man was addressing her. "They always overreact. Why can't they learn it's only temporary? Telling them isn't enough. Telling them is never enough."

The man dropped the axe onto the concrete floor. Then he went to work picking up the dismembered pieces. She heard the dripping of fast-flowing blood, then the plastic thuck of something being dropped into a bin until each body part was accounted for.

Angel would've screamed if she had lungs when the man with the golden axe's hands caressed her face with his cold and red hands.

He spoke in a rasp, "I'm going to fix you next."

ANGEL'S LETTER.

Brock, I got your address from a friend, and I hope you don't mind me writing you. It's been years, and I hear you've sobered up. I struggle with it all the time. I relapse a lot, but I'm convinced I can't move forward without talking to you first. Maybe if I learned how you did it, I could beat this too. In any case, I need to see you, Brock. Can you visit me? I've included a map and directions to where I'm staying. Come as soon as possible. I promise we'll have a serious talk. We might argue. No, we will argue, but I promise we'll catch up on old times too. I can't believe it's been two years since I last saw you. I don't want my last memory of my brother to be at rehab. The place I'm staying is scenic. It's calming. I'm on another sober kick. Three weeks sober. What amazes me, no matter where you are, somebody has a drug connection, even in the middle of nowhere where I'm at now. I need help, Brock. I'm ready to start over. I know we're not best friends, or even act like brother and sister, but maybe we could try to salvage something. What do you say?

Angel * * *

It had been instinct to rip open the oversized manila envelope when Brock first saw it, especially when he caught Angel Richards's name on it. The letter left him standing by the table uncollected. The mood went from sky high to slum low.

It's your fault she's still a c.o.kehead.

You did this, and you left her.

No, she left you.

We failed each other.

Brock clutched his head and sat down, feeling dizzy. His fault or not, her life was in turmoil. Knowing that, his conflict wasn't if he'd see her, it'd be what he would say to her when he finally arrived in Blue Hills, Virginia.

Brock couldn't sleep that night. He lay in bed and images and memories would play out in his mind. He tossed and turned long enough that he gave up on sleep and walked to the kitchen table with his brand new spiral notebook and began writing his thoughts down, the tell-all memoir only he would read.

There's no order to this confessional, so I'll just start writing, he thought.

So he started writing.

Poor Angel is in some place in Virginia. She wants me to meet up with her. I'm so nervous. I have to go. I have a few things to take care of tomorrow but it'll be fine. A road trip will get my mind off of my mind. It's better than doing a puzzle alone at the apartment.

What can I bring to the table to help Angel? 'Stay busy,' wow, that revelation will knock her on her a.s.s. No, I'll make her move in with me. She can't leave until she's two months sober. Then four months sober. That's what I'll do. Yeah right. That won't work.

"This isn't going to be easy. She'll want to claw out my eyes. All the s.h.i.t I've done to her."

Brock couldn't pin down his thoughts any longer. It was already three in the morning. In a few hours, he would wake up, plot out his trip, and then figure out just how he was going to help his sister.

Angel had gained sensation in her body again to an extent. Her fingers would bend and straighten, then curl up again because of the razor sharp agony cycling through her defiled body. Not defiled, she realized. She was laying flat on a steel gurney as the man with the golden axe pivoted her body, flexing her limbs. Testing them. She kept hearing the squeak of hinges, springs loaded into tight crevices, ratchets turned, and nuts and bolts tightened and greased up...

BLUE HILLS, VIRGINIA.

9 Days Ago, an Hour After Piedmont Cemetery Melted.

Something didn't feel right, and Martha Bonnard's instincts were keen when it came to bad feelings. Something just didn't feel right. For starters, her back was sore. The ache was a nag between her shoulder blades. The muscles were tender, as if she'd just undergone surgery. She didn't feel like this last night. Whatever had happened, it occurred overnight. It occurred without her knowledge. Martha wanted to check her back in the bathroom mirror when she heard the crack of Bernie's rifle ring out.

"Stay the h.e.l.l out," Bernie shouted, poised in front of the open bay window in the living room. "There's nothing here for you. What's ours is ours!"

"Bernie what's happening? Why are you firing your gun out there?"

Three shots fired in succession, then Bernie re-loaded. "I told Ray to stay out of my yard. I warned him. I stood my ground. I warned the dumb b.a.s.t.a.r.d. Told him I was a d.a.m.n good shot. He'll take that to his grave. I'll have to check his pockets when the coast is clear. Hey, he's dead. It's not stealing. Why let it go to waste?"

Her husband was muttering nonsense to himself. Bernie was in his bath robe. The cloth at his back was soaked in traces of blood in the shape of a square.

"Honey, put the gun down. Why are you shooting out the window? You're making me nervous."

"You stay back, Martha. I can't trust anyone. You'd kill me too. People like you would do anything for money. I'm not being taken in my own home."

"Bernie, listen, you have to calm down-"

"You take another step, I'll cut you down! You're like the rest of them. They're all thieves. I was about to take my morning walk, and I saw it happen. Everybody's out of their minds. We'll all be slitting each other's throats soon enough. I'm not dying for anyone. Not them, and not you, Martha, so if you don't mind, take that wedding ring off of your finger. Place it on the coffee table. Then I want you to give me the key to the lock box, and that's if you haven't already taken everything from it already. It's my money. I worked for it. You were a f.u.c.king housewife all your life. You should be the first to die. It most certainly won't be me."

The intensity in Bernie's words was downgraded when she looked at her hand. Her wedding ring was gone. It stayed on her finger at all times. In the past, it took soap and a good yank to remove it, the band was so tight. But it was gone. She didn't take it off. So where was her wedding ring?

Martha suddenly smelled the reek of death cross her nose. The foul odor traveled inside through the front bay window. It was a cloud of ugly yellowish air. She heard voices on the wind. Subtle voices, but each owned individual character. Martha's Grandmother, then her best friend who died two years ago from cancer, and her high school sweetheart who lived in town (who she always harbored a fancy for long after their break-up) who pa.s.sed away because of a drunk driving accident, each of their voices said what she needed to hear in that moment. The pain in her back was explained, as was the blood on Bernie's robe, as was Bernie's need for her wedding ring.

Not that he'd be getting it!

Someone else crossed their yard, and Bernie unloaded three rounds into their body. Martha didn't give him a chance to re-load. She jammed the steak knife she stole from the kitchen through the back of his neck and out his trachea. Then she stole Bernie's rifle and pushed him out of the bay window.

She had to protect herself.

n.o.body was going to take what was hers.

PLANNING A TRIP.

Brock checked the Internet for Angel's location in Virginia. She was staying at a bed and breakfast called the Piedmont Inn hidden near a series of foothills connected to the Appalachian Mountains. The website bragged of its isolated locale. "Twenty miles of seclusion in each cardinal direction, this tourist spot is known for its crisp, clean air and renewing scenery."

Maybe the high alt.i.tude has cleared her head, he thought. Or maybe the air's thin enough, she's gone crazy enough to contact her brother again.

He checked the Internet for directions, trying to choose the best route to get there from lower Beverly Hills. He could fly out, but he decided the next two months were going to drag themselves out without Hannah to kick around or any work to do on the TV show. He had also heard of a writer named Wynona Wild who only wrote while traveling on the road. She would stop at hotels, bed and breakfasts, rest stops, or any place that would let her park her vehicle, and write. She had written an article about how the open road gave her the best ideas. Wynona's mind was as open as a stretch of country back road. He liked the idea enough to adopt it as his own. His memoir had to be written, and this was the way he'd do it.

Brock rented a Land Rover from U-Rent-It-Automobile service since he didn't have a vehicle of his own. He couldn't afford the payments with the tax debt he owed the government. He required goodies for the trip, what consisted of a pound of licorice, four Snickers bars, a bag of cheese curls, and a family size bag of M&M's. Afterwards, he hit an ATM machine for cash. He could pick up the rental vehicle tomorrow morning. He would've drove out to Angel today, but he had a few loose ends to tie, namely visiting his support group and asking advice from a knowledgeable friend about confronting his sister.

He was still at a loss on how to first approach Angel. What do you say, Sis? Are you keeping your nose clean?

Afraid he'd get to a bad start with Angel, he decided to take the bus out to Sun View Rehab Clinic and ask Dr. Schmitz, the woman who practically saved his life by dishing out tough love and understanding. The doctor would have solid advice about Angel.

Brock walked a block to the bus stop. The bus was just coming down the street. Getting on for a ride, it wasn't long before he caught sight of Gene Richards' old mansion. The iron bars around the property and the extended lawn made the three-story lavish house appear so far out-of-reach to the average citizen. The mansion was the reason why he had such an enormous debt. He had to take out a bank loan just to make the repairs on the mansion so the realtors could sell the property. Angel had literally flown the coup and vanished off the face of the earth, so that left him with the responsibilities, the paperwork, and the financial burden of their father's estate. Up to now, that's why Brock kept such a cheap living situation despite descent paying work. The bus made his stop, and Brock got out and walked two blocks to the Sun View Rehab Clinic. He didn't have an appointment. That was one thing he didn't think about on the way there. He'd have to wait to speak to Dr. Schmidt.

Inside the resort-like building with swimming pools, elaborate sun decks, an outdoor workout center, and a nature trail around the perimeter, Brock didn't have to wait very long for help. The receptionist said Dr. Schmitz would be ten minutes, so he sat in the waiting area with his legs crossed staring out at the swimming pool. Ten people were sun-bathing, nervously lighting up cigarettes, or clutching their heads in their hands as if working off a ma.s.sive hangover. He could see the beginning of the living quarters down the hall. He had stayed in room 14 during his tenure at Sun View. Not wanting to face up to the memories he created here, Brock prayed the doctor would arrive soon and convince him that he didn't ever have to face this kind of reality again.

Before Dr. Schmitz arrived, a familiar woman walked up to him. Her name was Liza. He couldn't remember her last name. She had a cruel heroin habit. Liza had acted alongside some of the greats in Hollywood as a co-star, then she went through a stint of unemployment, and when her agent dropped her, that's when she plunged herself completely into drug use. She had checked herself in recently, he thought, noting her chalky white skin, bluish lips, and deep set eyes, and how she clutched her track marks on her forearm as if shielding them from rogue needles. She was wearing a loose t-shirt and jeans with holes at the knees, the back of her black hair suffering from bed head. She froze on Brock and snarled. Before he could defend himself, she was sitting in front of him, her hands on his knees to anchor him in place.

She interrogated Brock. "So did you fall off the wagon, Brock?" She didn't let him respond. "I've seen you on that show. It's lame, even for you. You're like a bottom feeder. Who else did you drag down with you this time? I haven't seen Angel in a very long time." Her eyes rolled into the back of her head, a deathly show, but it was only her combing her mind for the right words. "'Pale as snow, pale as snow, she sucked him off to get some blow,' isn't that what they used to say about Angel? Don't talk, it's my turn to say something. You'll get another job because Daddy will always save you. Dead or alive, he'll look out for you. I've heard all about you from Dr. Schmitz. You're a success story. Put you on a poster, or some s.h.i.t. You'll go to elementary schools and tell the kiddos 'Say no to drugs, kiddies, or else you'll end up washed up like me.' Don't forget what you did to your sister. I might be a heroine junkie, but I never dragged anyone down with me. Fate lets the bad people prosper and the good ones suffer. You don't deserve to be sober. You don't deserve to bop in and out of here as if rehab was an option.

"Remember what you used to be, Brock? The first time I saw you, you had your face stuck in a toilet puking your guts out, and then you s.h.i.t your guts out. G.o.d, it makes me laugh picturing you change positions on the s.h.i.tter. You were one powder-puff looking sorry excuse for a human being, like Casper the s.h.i.tting ghost, and looking at you now, I see right through you. You're trying to find Angel, aren't you? You're going to reclaim your life. Start over. f.u.c.k you, Brock, for even trying. Angel hates you. She told me she hates you. She always will."

Brock kept opening and closing his mouth to speak, but Liza forced his words back down. Now Liza was growing manic, reaching her tipping point, her words nonsensical gibberish of hatred as she dug her nails into his knees, slapping his face, crying and shrieking out, and he tried to calm her, but she was inconsolable. She ripped the clinic walls with her words, "No-don't talk-don't you talk to me!"

Before Brock could be thrown against the ground by Liza's force, two white-clothed orderlies grabbed a hold of her and dragged her to her room. Her shrieks faded as the two orderlies carried her away.

Brock touched his cheek. She clawed him once, though the marks didn't bleed. He hung his head down, blowing out a deep breath of air and feeling his heart settle in his chest. "I guess I deserved that."

"No you didn't, Brock."

A gray haired woman in her late forties dressed in a lab coat, jeans, and an aqua green midriff approached him. Dr. Schmitz had suffered more wear and tear on her face from the last time he'd seen her. The doctor's everyday routine involved a mix of movie stars, rock stars, and average people with enough money to afford Sun View who fought withdraw with varying success rates. She was happy to see Brock because he wasn't one of the troubled. She hooked her arm though his and kindly ushered him to her corner office.

Edging the door closed, she then sat behind her desk and offered Brock a seat. "So what brings you by, besides being mauled by Liza Stanfield?"

"Stanfield, that's her last name. I'm so sorry me being here caused that."

"She's on suicide watch, but I don't believe locking up a person in that deplorable condition is healthy. They need sunshine, human interaction, and who knows, maybe taking the jabs at you will make her feel better."

"That woman blew her top. She wanted me dead."

Dr. Schmitz pointed at his neck. "Are you sure you're okay?"

He waved her concerns aside. "I'm fine. I needed a wake-up call. I came here without an appointment. It's Karma catching up with me."

"I never believed in Karma. Or luck. Things happen, or they don't, and whether you get what you want in life or not, its earned. Only the timing is luck, and still, it's up to the person to react and deal with their situation, good or bad." She picked up a snow globe on her desk of Sun View Rehab Clinic inside it and shook it up. "Take Liza, for instance. She was doing great four months ago. She was determined to quit drugs. She was going to New York for work in the Broadway musical Cats. Sure, it's a smaller role, but it's work, and she gets caught up in how she used to be an A-lister, and how she deserves better, and then the drugs creep back in, and back here to rehab she goes. Liza's got a long road ahead of her to recovery."

She placed the snow globe back onto the desk. "I'm proud of you, Brock. I watch "America's Got Flair" every Tuesday when the new ones are on. You're always good at pointing out the obvious in a deadpan kind of way to the contestants." The way she asked the question, the doctor seemed to be afraid he was here to check himself back into rehab. "So what brings you back to us, Brock?"

He was proud to rea.s.sure her he wasn't returning for a stay at California's best rehab clinic. "I received a letter from my sister. I guess she's holed up," he laughed, "at a bed and breakfast in Virginia. Can you believe it?"

"What is Angel doing these days?"

It was terrible her own brother didn't know these things, he thought. "I don't know. But she wrote me saying she wanted to see me. It's been two years since I've had any contact. I'm driving out tomorrow on a little road trip to visit her."

"Oh fun. So you're probably wondering how you should handle the visit."

He nodded, overhearing another raucous cry from down the hall. When it tapered off, he continued, though he wondered if it was poor Liza again. "Yes. I don't want to say the wrong thing, or scare her off again. I don't know if she's sober, happy, needing money, or just wanting to kick my a.s.s."

Dr. Schmitz thought for a second. "Then don't go into the visit thinking she needs anything except a friendly conversation. Talk to her. If she needs something more, whether it be money, or," she softly bit her lip, "kicking your a.s.s, she'll let you know. Women are good at that, I promise."

"So be cool, is what you're saying."

Dr. Schmitz smiled. "Be cool."

Liza makes me remember rehab. I guess everything does at some point. I was Casper the s.h.i.tting ghost, haunting the pot, flushing down vomit, s.h.i.t, bile, and cocaine, and G.o.d knows what else down into the sewers. I feel sorry for the janitors at any rehab clinic. People do anything to get the drugs off of their mind. They tear up the walls, break furniture, rip the paint off the walls with their fingernails, and one dude named Norman would scuff the floors with his shoes until there wasn't an inch of blank s.p.a.ce left.

Forget Liza's problems, Angel was worse off. She'd shove safety pins between the skin of her thumb and forefinger to abate the cravings. Angel was caught doing that in rehab, and her room was cleaned out. I think that was when she decided rehab wasn't for her. She wasn't ready to quit. She just couldn't do it.

I think both of us had the same reaction after our father's inheritance that the average Joe Blow does who makes thirty, forty grand a year and then suddenly they win the lottery. They don't know what to do with the fortune that's fallen into their laps. They quit their jobs. Pay their debts. And then what? They have no plan. Nothing to waste the hours away, so they start drinking, getting depressed, sinking into that deepening hole, and they end up worse off than they were without the money, and that's where Sis and I ended up, worse off than before Dad died and we had nothing else left to do but blow our fortune on self-destruction.

There was a TV special about how we dismantled the Richards estate, and I even remember the TV spot. Some Australian home interior guru and tabloid personality saying, "Room by room, we'll recreate the destruction, and play-by-play, we'll have real witnesses give their true accounts to the rise and fall of the Gene Richards estate."

Brock's wrist ached, so he concluded the writing session. He wasn't used to committing anything to paper except signatures on checks. Brock left his apartment and walked down the block and ate a hot dog from a street vendor. After eating, he sat under a tree overlooking the Beverly Hills Open Air Park, feeling guilty for eating a piece of greasy meat, but also frustrated he was still afraid to completely open himself up on the page. Oh well, I guess I have an entire road trip to figure it all out.

It was already mid-afternoon. He still had to pack his clothing, but at seven o'clock, he had a date with his most favorite blue hairs in the universe.

BAD ROAD TRIP.

Present Day Private investigator Mike Kinsley drove on the back roads of Madison, Virginia, seeking Hampton Hills. It was a small town along the foothills of the Appalachian Valley. His trek had turned into an aimless one, being lost, though he swore he had the directions right. He stayed on the back road surrounded by dense deciduous forest seemingly driving in circles. Everything looked the same. There were no breaks in the woods, road signs, or any indication he was going the right way. After battling to decide if he should check his GPS again, a road sign appeared with the words "Hampton Hills" painted crudely in yellow paint.

No fancy road signs in this place.

Mike sipped his morning coffee in victory, awaiting the jolt he needed to get his day going. That was the problem all along, he thought. The coffee wasn't working its magic yet.

Driving along the b.u.mpy terrain, rea.s.sured he was finally on the right track, his thoughts drifted to his mission. He flipped open the top of the file sitting on the pa.s.senger seat and viewed the picture of a woman named Peggy Albright. She was thirty-one. Single. Friends said she was visiting Hampton Hills to hook up with an old flame. She didn't come back. The bills were stacking up. Friends and family were concerned. They called the police. The police's case was ice cold. Then Mike had been hired to investigate Peggy's disappearance by her family.

Rumors Mike was hearing involved other people going missing in the general area, though the investigation was slow-in-the-coming because the people missing weren't just from this area. They were located across the United States in random pockets of the nation without an obvious pattern. That wasn't his problem. His problem was Peggy Albright.

"Whoa, something stinks." Mike pinched his nose. "Did I run over a dead carca.s.s?"

The tires didn't b.u.mp over anything in the road. He checked the rearview mirror, and the road was clear.

"Seriously, what was that?"

The vents kicked out more fetid air. So strong, it was visible. The color was a dark tint of yellow. The tendrils curled from the trees around the road too, wrapping around their trunks, bending, and twisting, and spreading to obscure the distance. He turned, and Peggy Albright's file was suddenly blank and dripping with ink. No, not ink, he thought, but a strange black oil. It was growing soggy until it started to smolder and smoke the strange color of earthy brown until it vanished into thin air.

Mike reached out to his police frequency radio when the receiver itself softened, the plastic melting into his hand, threading through his fingers, latching on, and burning through his skin. He slammed the gas, trying to escape whatever was surrounding him. He was speeding ahead and gaining distance until the terrain turned rough. The tires popped, and once the car swerved, skidded, spun out, and then stopped, the dirt had changed into a lake of tar black oil stinking of death. Human bones floated on the surface belonging to hundreds of bodies. Absorbing the macabre scene, Mike's car was sinking fast. Steam obscured the windshield. Everything was so hot so fast, the gla.s.s burst, the pieces slicing him up mercilessly.

Picking gla.s.s shards out of his eyes with his free hand, the steaming, boiling, popping oil filled up the car, sloshing in from all the windows. He was scorched alive, the skin melting from his bones instantaneously.

The last thing Mike processed was the sound of many voices talking or shouting over one another. As they were speaking, he too became one of the voices among the dead.

NEW PLANS MADE.

Carlos Miloh was blowing gra.s.s clippings across the parking lot when Brock crossed paths with him. The super was wearing a white shirt underneath a checkered yellow and black flannel shirt that clung to his sweaty body. Carlos took a break, turning off the blower, and intercepted Brock before he could make it to the staircase.

"Busy man, eh? Too busy to enjoy your vacation?"

Brock shrugged his shoulders. "I'm visiting my sister in Virginia. I haven't seen her in two years."

"I have sisters in Mexico, down the Tijuana way, but they have no green card. They speak English as good as they can work a chainsaw. Being a Mexican, you have to be able to work every tool in the shed, or else it's the unemployment line for you."

Carlos had known him for two years, and the man had the uncanny ability to read people. He surveyed Brock's face and withdrew the truth from him. "This isn't a fun visit, I take it." He pressed his fingers at each end of his lips. "You're not smiling."

"I'll say one thing, and I'll leave it at that."

"Sure, senor."

"I don't think my sister's curbed her drug habit. She's looking to big brother for help. I'm ready to do what it takes to save her from herself. It's a big challenge. I'm not stepping out of her life ever again. I want her to be healthy."

"You mean that, don't you?" Carlos leaned down to turn on the blower again, but first said, "I'll keep an eye on your place. Good luck, friend. Family is all you got."