Experiment in Terror #Book 1 - Page 14

I clicked to the next one and saw another picture of him and her together, but this time Rebecca was on his other arm. It must have been taken the same day, as they were all wearing the same clothes. They were all laughing in the picture, a charming and affable bunch. Rebecca herself had written in the comments below: “So Dex, when ARE we going to have that ménage a trois? Lol.”

I did not see the “lol” in that and quickly clicked through the rest of the pictures. Most of them were of Dex on location with a camera in hand. Sometimes he was at a bar or a concert and sometimes he was just posing with random people. What was most interesting about the pictures was that though his smile was very becoming, with his nice straight teeth and all, there was something unnatural about it. And when he wasn’t smiling, he was glaring at the camera with sharp, brooding eyes that were so intense at times that he seemed to be a different person altogether.

“Who is that?”

I jumped a mile in my seat. I whirled around to see Ada standing behind me, staring at my screen inquisitively.

“You scared the s.h.i.t out of me!” I exclaimed. “How did you get in here?”

She gave me a funny look. “Through the door, you moron.”

I noticed she was dressed in her normal (and presumptuously ugly) Alexander w.a.n.g gear, which meant she was feeling better. She nodded at the screen again.

“Is that Satan’s Facebook account?”

I looked back at it. In this particular picture he was grinning like a madman, head tilted down, eyes like a falcon. With the Johnny Depp facial hair, I could see where she was coming from. I felt somewhat embarra.s.sed.

“I’m not sure,” I replied truthfully.

I looked up at her. She was waiting for me to continue and obviously knew that something was up.

I decided to indulge her. “Ada, can you keep this between you and me? Just until next week?”

She nodded excitedly, happy to be included. I took a deep breath and told her everything. By the end of it she was rendered impressed. And annoyed.

“You get your own f.u.c.king TV show for doing three blog posts? On my blog? Where the h.e.l.l is my TV show?”

“OK, it’s not a TV show, it’s a webcast that isn’t going to be viewed by many people. And nothing is confirmed. Dex just wants to try it out and see what happens.”

“Dex,” she snorted. “You talk about him as if you know him. You don’t know him. I don’t care if he’s some low-budget cameraman and has a Facebook page. Most psychotic killers and rapists have Facebook pages...that’s how they get you. Plus he looks like Satan. Don’t you think that’s a sign?”

“It’s a sign that the Errol Flynn ‘stache is coming back in style.”

“Who the h.e.l.l is Errol Flynn?” She threw her hands up. “Perry, seriously, you should reconsider this.”

“Oh, whatever, come on, Ada. You’re just jealous that something good is happening to me for once. Can’t you just let me enjoy this? Writing for your blog, all the attention this week...I haven’t felt this happy in a very long time. Maybe ever. This might be bulls.h.i.t in the end but it’s my bulls.h.i.t and it makes me think there might be a place for me in this crazy world.”

She rolled her eyes but her face softened. “Fine. Whatever makes you happy. I think you should Google him first, though, just in case. See if he’s on the America’s Most Wanted list.”

That made sense. I went to Google and typed in his name.

A lot of pages came up. They were all connected in some form or another to his work on the webcast. Nothing too interesting.

“Well, that’s a good sign,” said Ada.

I nodded, then typed in Declan instead of Dex.

Another set of pages came up. I clicked on one that said “Funkiest band to rock New Jersey,” thinking it must be another Declan Foray.

It was an online magazine article about a lounge act called Sin Sing Sinatra. The band, consisting of a keyboardist, ba.s.sist, drummer and a singer (who was called Declan Foray), was mildly successful playing small clubs and bars on the East Coast. They were described as “Rocker Crooners” and did hip, lounge-y covers of rock songs. The singer, Declan, was described as having a “smooth, yet formidable voice” and he was someone to watch for. I clicked to the next page and saw a picture of Dex, my Dex (I guess you could call him that), singing into an old-fashioned mic.

His face was thinner and the moustache was gone, but it was definitely him. His floppy dark hair was more subdued and a white suit adorned his body. He looked like as total s...o...b..ater. He also looked very young. I looked up at the URL to see the date: 03/09/02. He would have been around my age.

“So he’s a singer, too?” Ada pondered.

“I guess so. At least he used to be.”

“Maybe he changed his name because he sucked.”

I glared at her. “Dex is short for Declan. Somehow. And it says here that they were the opposite of suck.”

“Then how come I’ve never heard of them before?”

“A, you’ve barely heard of any of the best bands. You blindly believe that talent is what the radio tells you. And B, there are tons of excellent bands, groups, singers, whatevers out there who do quite well for themselves despite never becoming well known.”

“Oh, whatever. He’s a cameraman now, not a singer, so he failed somewhere along the way. This conversation is boring me now. Good luck with your thing.”

Ada turned on her heel and left my room, slamming the door behind her. Come in quietly, leave loudly.

I shook my head at her teenage dramatics and turned my attention back to the screen. It didn’t really matter to me whether Dex was a singer or not. But I couldn’t help but be even more intrigued. I had a huge respect for all musicians; they were sort of my weak spot. I could barely write notes, my songs were terrible and though I had heard I had a strong and pleasant singing voice, it wasn’t anything to make a career of.

Curious, I started cruising torrent sites trying to see if I could find any recordings of Sin Sing Sinatra or Declan Foray. I found nothing and eventually fell asleep on my keyboard.

CHAPTER SEVEN

I woke up on Friday morning a few minutes before my alarm went off. I tried to remember if I had any dreams during the night and I was coming up blank. Then I remembered the phone call...Dex...the webcast...Google. Everything. Could that have been a dream?

I quickly looked onto my bedside table and saw the piece of paper with his name and number scrawled on it. It was definitely no dream then. Dex was real; the proposition was real. And I knew in the deepest recesses of my being I had to be a part of it, no matter what.

Grabbing my phone, I quickly dialed his number, ignoring the fact that it was early in the morning and he might be sleeping. I was afraid that the longer I waited, the more likely he would be to change his mind.

With each unanswered ring my nerves tightened sharply. All these doubts started to flood my brain: What if he doesn’t remember? What if he had changed his mind? What if his boss, Jimmy Kwan, changed his mind? What if I’m waking him up and it’ll p.i.s.s him off so much that he’ll cancel?

That last thought scared me most of all. I was entertaining the idea of hanging up when he answered.

“h.e.l.lo?” Though it sounded groggy, there was no mistaking that voice. My heart skipped a beat.

“Uh, hi, Dex. This is Perry calling,” I said as brightly as possible. “I’m sorry if I woke you up.”

“Who?”

My insides swirled. “Perry. Palomino. We spoke yesterday about my blog. The potential webcast. I met you in the lighthouse…”

“I’m sorry, I was absolutely wasted yesterday. I don’t remember talking to anyone about anything. What did you say your name was again?”

I could not breathe. “Um, Perry.”

I was pretty sure he could hear the sadness in my voice.

“Perry,” he repeated. I could almost hear him running my name through his head. “That’s an unusual name. I guess you would know that. Most people think of Matthew Perry, I bet. Or Perry Mason.”

“Yeah…” I trailed off.

“But there’s always Peri Gilpin. You know, Roz from Frasier. She was a real firecracker, that Roz. I would have married that woman, you know, if she was real and didn’t have that horrible ‘90s hair.”

My head started to reel.

“It’s Swedish,” I managed to say.

“Aha!” he exclaimed. “That would explain your mother’s accent.”

“You remember talking to my mother?”

“Of course I do. Do you think I’m a tard?”

Yes, I thought. Big time.

“Oh,” he continued, “you must not get that I’m pulling your leg. You know, about being wasted last night. And the whole not remembering thing.”

What the h.e.l.l was this guy on and so early at that?

“Oh kiddo, you really shouldn’t be so gullible.”

“I’m not gullible,” I said defensively. “I’m just not used to dealing with crazy people.”

Silence. Then a small, awkward laugh from his end. “Well, I am sorry if I misled you, Miss Palomino. I have, in fact, been waiting for your call.”

“I thought I woke you up.”

“I’ve been awake for hours. Already showered, cut my toenails, had pancakes and ten cups of coffee. Now what say you, Miss Palomino?”

I pushed the mental image of toenail cutting out of my head.

“Yes. Yes, I would love to do this,” I said, hoping I projected absolute certainty in my voice.

“Fantastic,” he said in a terrible French accent. “Now, what I need from you is to make sure we can have access to the lighthouse for tomorrow night. Might as well ask if you can stay over as well.”

“Well, I’m pretty sure you’d be able stay there too, if I am.” Uncle Albert would probably welcome the company.

“I appreciate the offer, but I’m set to stay at the motel. Either way, just pack light-colored clothing. Black doesn’t show up so well on film. Perhaps bring some makeup, too, in case I need to doll myself up. I’ll be bringing the equipment in the car and yeah...what’s your address?”

I told him.

“See you tomorrow at ten a.m., sharp. Be sure to have your game face on.”

“Oh, I will,” I said. Nervous p.r.i.c.kles (the good kind) shimmered along my spine. The excitement was almost too much.

We hung up. My alarm started blaring. I turned it off inattentively.

You know those times in your life when you feel like you’re in a movie? I have those moments often, usually due to the music I am listening to. Maybe I’m walking down the street in the rain, wind whipping my hair around my head, people pa.s.sing me by in a quick, faceless blur and I’m listening to something moody (like Ma.s.sive Attack) and just like that, it feels like I’m being observed by an outside source. Like I’m having an out-of-body experience and watching myself go about my life. Only it’s my life turned infinitely more interesting, like every step I take, every puddle I splash or pair of eyes I meet has more meaning than normal.