Coin-Operated Machines Part 8

"s.h.i.tting my pants is more like it." Hannah took the lead as the terrain once again turned steep. Their shins ached. "You had a point earlier. Maybe we should've kept the cell phones."

"It would've been proof."

Hannah dismissed the idea again. "Yeah, but I still don't want the d.a.m.n things near me."

"I'll add this story to my memoir. Wait, oh s.h.i.t! I left it in the car. All that writing up in smoke. Those sons-of-b.i.t.c.hes."

Hannah made no attempt to comfort his loss. "You shouldn't be worrying about that right now. You can start over some other time." Hannah jerked his arm and stole his attention. "I can see the back porch from here."

Ah, thank G.o.d. "It was only a matter of time we'd find it."

Hannah was already ahead of him, determined to exit the woods and enter a cleared area. Ferns surrounded the house among tulip poplars and mountain laurels. The back of the house on the second story was designed as a deck to view the scenery, their position facing the dark blue waters of some far-off body of water.

Brock scoured the area for any obvious signs of a presence in the house, and after counting each window without lights or movement, each of the window curtains drawn or the white shutters closed, he decided they should take a closer inspection of the property.

Cupping his hands into a megaphone, he called out, "Is anybody home? My name is Brock, and this is my fiance, Hannah. We need to use your phone. I'm sorry to barge in on you like this. We need help."

Hannah scowled at the axe head driven into the bare stump of a chestnut tree. Nervous by the sight of it, she was drawn to Brock, waiting beside him for a reply from within the house. After minutes pa.s.sed in silence, Brock called out again, serving up the same rendition of S.O.S.

Brock turned to her, shrugging his shoulders. "I say we go to the front door and knock. Maybe they can't hear us. Or they're not home. In that case, I guess we have to hang around and wait for someone to come home. Either way, I'm using whatever phone's inside."

Walking up the short cobblestone path, they arrived at the front porch. Brock tried the doorbell. They could hear the sharp ding echo within the house. Ringing it one more time after ten seconds of not hearing footsteps or a reaction from the inside, he conferred with Hannah. "No one's home."

She rubbed her arms, her aqua green sweater unable to block out the cold. "I don't want to stand out here too long. I'll freeze. And we really need to call the police as soon as possible."

Brock was cut off by the strangest noise. The ground emanated with a ba.s.s throb for miles. Hannah's nails dug into the skin of his arm. Her words were cold against his ear, "I say we go inside right now."

Still listening to the unusual noise that emanated from the ground, the unique tremors under his feet, Brock couldn't stop trying to understand what he heard.

For a moment, Brock swore it sounded like words.

THE HOUSE.

The front door was open a crack. Hannah urged it all the way open with two fingers, as if using two fingers denounced the notion of trespa.s.sing. Raising her voice, she spoke into the entryway. "Is anybody home? Please, we need help. I'm sorry to enter your place like this, I know it's rude...ah G.o.d, what is that smell?"

Brock could hear her throat close upon taking in the offal. He too was knocked back a half-step by the punch of raunchy air. Brock covered his hand over his mouth to fight the waft. Something was dead, Brock evaluated, and it stank like the animal blood in packaged raw meat.

Brock insisted, "I want you to stay here and let me check it out."

He couldn't believe what he had just said, though he wouldn't dream of taking it back. It was all a matter of finding the nearest phone and dialing the police, he reminded himself. He entered the living room, looking at the loveseat, the recliner, and the large screen TV sandwiched by two shelves of DVD's. Brock continued to follow his nose, the knot of apprehension in his belly growing heavier as his eyes waved from one end of the room to the other in preparation of any sudden movements or the owner crouching down with a shotgun aimed at him.

He called out once again, "My name is Brock Richards. I need to use your phone. I apologize for intruding. Is anybody here?"

After no responses, Brock decided the owners weren't home.

Then Brock caught the phone hanging against the far wall next to what looked to be the entrance into a kitchen. Running to it, he also discovered the answer to the other question lingering in his mind.

The source of the smell.

Hannah kept calling him, and Brock didn't answer. Staked in place by a bout of shock, Brock a.n.a.lyzed and re-a.n.a.lyzed the corpse of the man on the floor. The body was face-first on the ground. Palms turned back so the insides were facing up. No struggle, it seemed; there wasn't a fleck of blood beyond what had soaked into the man's clothing. Between his shoulder blades, a square hole the size of a shoe box was carved out clean, as if performed by an instrument that could carve perfect right angles into bone. Someone had just reached in and pulled whatever out in the shape of a box. The flesh inside the hole was pink and gummed up from puckering in the open air for too long. The flesh itself was slowly turning shades of blue, purple, and blackening in sections where blood had congealed. What he had been smelling was vile gases escaping the corpse's body.

Brock's jaw ached from his mouth hanging open so long. His hands were clutching the counter for grip. This house was supposed to be a salvation, not a crime scene. Spotting the phone again, he rushed right to it, clutching onto the handle, his hands slippery with nervous sweat. He pulled back so hard, he ripped the phone from the wall. The device crashed to the floor, the receiver and the box breaking into many plastic pieces.

"Oh s.h.i.t." Bending down to pick it up, he noted the metal plate over the phone's number keys and the thin slot in the center. The slot reminded him of the hole you'd see for a coin to be inserted into a pay phone. He tossed the phone aside, fearing if he touched the altered device, his hands would become contaminated. "What in the h.e.l.l is going on here?"

Hannah called out again, more insistent and on the verge of a scream, "Brock, answer me right now! Where are you?"

"I'm right here!" He shouted back, using up what little gall left in him to speak. "I'm right here, Hannah."

She detected his location and began stepping into the house with determination. Ripped from his throat without conceiving the words, he warned her, "Wait in there, Hannah. Do not come in this room. I mean it."

"What's happening in there?"

She was panicked, but so was he, and if he was going to maintain any sense of calm in the next few moments, he had to perform his best version of damage control possible. Stepping into the next room in search of a blanket to cover the corpse with, his blood boiled when he heard her scream again. Too late. She had stepped into the room. Hannah had seen the body. When he re-entered the room, she threw herself against him and unleashed hysterical tears.

Brock hugged her, shielding her face from the corpse and talking low to soothe her. "It's okay. I'll cover it up. You won't have to see it again. I'm sorry you had to see the body. It's okay now. Everything's going to be fine. I'm here."

Mumbling nonsense, the words she said next were lost in a soup of tears. He stroked her head and let her cry while he sized up the rest of the scene for clues. No blood on the walls. No obvious murder weapon. The box carved out of the man's back, it seemed too clean and too perfect. The wound didn't look real. A tool or instrument would create jagged edges, but what knife could cut into bone with such smooth precision?

After Hannah calmed some more, he said, "Stay in the living room. Sit down. I'm going to cover up the body."

Hannah heard him but didn't respond. She simply sat down on the recliner with her head in her hands, sobering up from the cry. Brock wasted no time locating a blanket, but also stealing a moment to himself to figure out their next move.

They had no phone.

There could be another phone in the house that works. You have to keep looking.

Brock couldn't wrap his mind around the metal covering over the phone's number pads. What did it mean? Failing to lock onto any logic to solve the dilemma, Brock moved on to the task at hand. He moved through the kitchen, then into a side room and located a hallway. From there, he entered an empty bedroom. The bed was made and everything looked untouched. He pulled the wool blanket from the top of the bed and folded it into his arms. He knew there was another body in the house. The smell was too strong in the direction he was walking.

Forging on, he kept the blanket in his hands, ready to drape it over another corpse if need be. Brock knocked on the door. "Is anybody in there?"

He expected no answer and didn't receive one. Edging open the door, the pungent scent filtered free. Brock held his breath, and clenching his body, he turned on the light. He gasped, throwing the blanket over the naked woman lumped inside the bathtub. The same shoe box slot was removed from her back. Beads of gel thick blood had crawled down her backside and across her b.u.t.tocks, staining the flesh. The bathtub was otherwise clean, no other traces of blood or what kind of weapon was used.

Brock threw the door closed. He returned to Hannah, immediately covering the corpse on the floor in the kitchen with a different blanket. With the task out of the way, he noticed Hannah was staring out the nearest window, her fingers bending two blinds back to peek out.

"Do you see anything out there?"

"It's getting dark. I can't see anything."

The wheels in Brock's head turned. "I think we should pick a room in this place and hide out for the night."

"I have a better idea. I'm sure who owned this house has a car. We find the keys and drive out of here. I don't want to be in this town a moment longer than I have to. This place is scaring me."

"Okay, that makes sense. Keys first, and if there's a gun in the house, we take that too." He thought back to the naked woman in the bathroom. "We can search the place out, but be careful going down the hallway. I've covered the other body. It's in the bathroom."

Hannah began searching the kitchen for the keys. Brock joined the search, going down into the bas.e.m.e.nt. He discovered most of the bas.e.m.e.nt s.p.a.ce was taken up by a large loom used for sewing rugs and blankets. Through another door, Brock discovered a woodshop with a table saw, drill press, and an entire wall covered by varieties of common tools.

He didn't happen upon any keys, though he located a hunting knife with a five inch blade that was cased in a leather satchel. He looped it in his belt to feel safer.

Returning up the stairs, Hannah called out, "Hey, I found 'em!"

Brock doubled his stride and met up with her in one of the bedrooms. She had located the keys on top of a bureau next to a wallet. He smiled at her and then hugged her. "Good job. Let's get the h.e.l.l out of here."

They marched out the front door together seeking a match for the keys.

NO WAY OUT.

Walking down another cobbled path outside, they reached an open garage. Inside was a Land Rover that was parked among wheel barrows, shovels, bags of mulch, cedar chips, and the necessities to inject new life into a garden. Hannah moved ahead of him, and when she tried the first key in the vehicle, her face locked up in frustration.

"f.u.c.king thing, it's blocked!"

Brock stared at where the car's keyhole used to be. A square of steel covered the slot with a slit in the center centimeters wide, the same that covered the cell phone's keys.

Hannah leaned up against the car, channeling her distress by pounding the hood with her fists. "What do we do now, Brock? We're stuck in the middle of nowhere without a phone and without a way out of here. We're screwed."

Brock shook his head. "No we're not."

"What do you mean?"

Brock moved towards the lawn and picked up a brick from a large pile. The owners had been in the process of laying down a new path. Brock heaved it through the driver's side window, the gla.s.s shattering instantly upon impact.

Hannah clapped her hands. "Good thinking!"

"Despite my age, I still have moderate brain function."

Brock reached through the window and unlocked the door. Opening it, he grabbed the keys from her hands anxiously. His moment of victory was squelched when the key tinged against steel. "G.o.dd.a.m.n-it!"

Hannah examined the keyhole herself. "There's just no way."

"I don't know how to jumpstart a car, but if I did, I have a feeling there would be something preventing me from doing so too."

"None of this makes sense."

"I think we should go inside and get a few locked doors between us and the outside."

"But what are we hiding from? I know there's people out there, but maybe this s.h.i.t is what's making them carry guns. There's something else happening, and I want to know what it is."

Brock had other questions. "Why is Angel here, of all places? So she sent me a letter, wanting me to get in touch with her. That was days ago. Maybe she was calling out for help."

"Then why didn't she outwardly tell us this was happening? Why did she lead us into this dangerous situation?"

"I have to find Angel either way." Brock was determined to win back his sister, but also to escape Blue Hills with everybody safe. "When we find her, that's the first thing I'll ask her. Just what the h.e.l.l is going on."

"I don't know who can explain the steel panels over the phones and the keyholes. Angel didn't do any of that. Angel didn't make that man at the mountain climbing store take our fifty cents and run. And she certainly didn't have anything to do with the four who burned up our car. She's in the middle of something weird here, and it's a strange coincidence that while this is going on that she makes contact with you, and then off you go on a whim to see her. There's something sinister behind what your sister contacting you."

She was scared, he kept telling himself, and she had a right to be bitter and mad at him and his sister. This was surreal, and he couldn't shake the feeling this was still an imaginary occurrence, a bad dream, and someone would pull back the curtain and tell them this was an elaborate magic trick.

The dead bodies aren't a magic trick.

"I admit Angel's reasons for having me come here are suspicious, but I know for certain it isn't her doing these things. We know nothing. We would know more if we were in town, not in these woods."

Hannah turned her head up to the sky, what was dark purple with the sun on the very edge of the horizon ready to kiss the day goodbye. "I guess we're not going anywhere until tomorrow."

"Right," Brock said, taking her by the arm and leading her back into the house. "It's not like we have much choice. The answers aren't here. We calm down, lock ourselves in tight, and try and sleep."

She scoffed at the idea. "I won't sleep in ten years." She turned her nose. "And I can't stand the smell of those bodies."

Brock pointed at the guest house to the right of the garage. It was the size of a large shed. "Then we stay in there."

Hannah sighed. "I guess we have no choice."

THE GUEST HOUSE.

The guest house was used for extra storage. Another large sewing loom took up a quarter of the s.p.a.ce. After blocking the front and only door with a set of fine oak chairs, they were convinced the barricade was enough protection to flag their attention if anybody tried to break in. The windows were locked and would have to smashed, and that would surely wake them being in such short vicinity of the noise.

Hannah rushed to the phone hanging on the far wall and was once again disappointed there was no access to the digits thanks to the steel covering. She trailed her finger along the center slot. "What's this hole for? I mean, seriously."

Brock turned his head at the phone. "I don't know. And any guess can't be proven right or wrong. I really don't know." He walked towards the corner sofa and entered the small alcove for a kitchen and was startled by the sight. "What in h.e.l.l is this about?"

Hannah followed him to the kitchen. She saw it too. They both approached it like a fallen meteor that could spread cancer if they came too close. The handle of the refrigerator was bolted down by a strip of steel, making it impossible to open. And there was the thin slit in the middle of the steel square. He imagined the slit where one placed a quarter into a vending machine, but it was longer, and wider, and purposeless.

"First the phones, and now the refrigerator."

Hannah rubbed nervously at her eyes, and then ran her hand through her hair, issuing out a long exaggerated breath. "I can't take anymore of this s.h.i.t."

Brock agreed. "Let's just sit and relax. There isn't anything we can do until sunup."

He urged her towards the couch with a coaxing arm. Hannah lowered her head into his chest. Brock rocked her softly, easing each scene from the day from her mental slate. He catalogued his thoughts during the quiet time, imagining what they'd be doing tomorrow to get out of Blue Hills.

The main roads aren't safe. Or maybe they are. It could be just those four people we have to worry about. Maybe Michael from the store knew they were coming, or he was with the four, and he later joined them. If the phones aren't working, then I have to locate the actual police station. And I can't leave without seeing Angel. I don't even know if she's here. She didn't say how long she was staying. It's only been a few days since she contacted you. Either way, I have to find the Piedmont Inn. I have a feeling the way things have been going, she's still here. Maybe she knows why things are growing locks on them.

After fifteen minutes, Hannah spoke. She sounded like she was on the verge of sleep. "It's a strange feeling being in someone's house. Using their stuff, making ourselves at home, I feel like I'm intruding. It's interesting."

"Interesting?"

"Yeah, it's interesting." Brock knew she was speaking for the sake of speaking, to alleviate the tension in her body that was slowly unwinding itself. "I wonder what it'd be like under different circ.u.mstances to crash someone's house. A better house. If they had good liquor, or a hot tub, or what about a sauna? That'd be nice."

A laugh escaped him, alien sounding. "What if that was our honeymoon? Breaking into vacated houses and enjoying their amenities, I mean. You would save money on expenses. We could hit twelve different houses before the honeymoon was up."

"You wouldn't have to make the bed."