 
CHAPTER ONE

"Wait a minute! Maybe—I'm dreaming all of this?" How else could I explain it? One minute I'm sitting alone, minding my own business in the backseat of my mother's newly restored 1955 Silver Cloud Rolls-Royce, then—

POOF!

I'm in Disneyland, sitting across from the Pirates of the Caribbean on an old, wooden park bench—next to Sigmund Freud? Well—that's what the business card he handed me says. Oh! Did I mention—he's naked?

Not easily rattled, two questions immediately popped into my head. First, what guy sits on an old, wooden park bench naked? One wrong move and he'd be serving up one painful plate of shish ka-balls! And second, where does he carry these business cards? Somewhat reluctant to think about the—disturbing possibilities, I tossed the card over my shoulder and wiped my hand off on my—skirt?

Still somewhat baffled with my current situation, I grudgingly glanced over at my bench buddy—from the waist up of course. Oddly enough, the old man did look like Freud; with the white hair, glasses, and even the cigar. I should know I have a degree in psychology from Queen's College in New York City. I've seen hundreds of pictures of him.

"Hang on! That's it!" I'm pulling a memory out of my subconscious and interweaving it into this dream. I'm obviously remembering a photograph of him, I saw in one of my textbooks.

Although my logic clearly had merit, I found it highly unlikely Freud would've been pictured naked in any of my books. This left me with several more rather unsettling questions. Why was he naked now? Why is he—staring at me? And why—am I wearing a skirt, high heels, and carrying a purse? I'm a guy! A pretty macho guy if I do say so myself. I was a New York City police detective. You don't get much more macho than that.

Closing my eyes, I took several cleansing breaths. "Calm down! You're fine! You're obviously—dreaming all of this." But before I could even nod in agreement, another thought hit me. "Why was I dreaming—"

"I hope I have not upset you?"

Startled—by the unfamiliar voice, I took a moment to analyze it. It definitely sounded like an old man's. It was frail and raspy. Plus, surprisingly enough, there was a slight inkling of a Southern twang to it. Like I said, I used to be a New York City detective. I miss nothing.

Opening an eye, I found the naked old guy still—staring at me. I hate people—staring at me. I was thankful though he'd crossed his legs.

Being a cop for more than eighteen years, I've testified in hundreds of criminal cases—and in that world, there are two rules you don't forget. Never show fear! And lie! A lot! "Nope," I said, nervously opening my other eye. "Why—would I be upset?"

The old man's lifeless gaze slowly morphed into a curious grin. "Tell me, are you still a bed wetter?"

I mentally nodded. This guy is good.

"Well?" he asked impatiently. "Are you?"

Not liking his tone, I openly scoffed. "Of course not! And—what's it to you anyway? Who are you?"

He took a suggestively long drag on his cigar before answering. "You read my card. I am the world famous Dr. Sigmund Freud."

Who did this clown think he was dealing with? "If you're really Sigmund Freud, what's with the Southern accent? You grew up in Austria."

He took another drag on his cigar. "Southern Austria."

I took a minute to ponder his reply. It made sense, I guess. I've never been to southern Austria. Maybe they do talk like that. But—why didn't I think of that? Had my absence from the force affected my powers of observation, more than I thought?

Just then, I found myself engulfed in a cloud of foul smelling cigar smoke.

"You do realize," he said, "you are dreaming all of this."

I let out a hardy cough-like laugh. "I—I thought so! For a minute there, I was afraid I was going nuts."

The old man raised an unsympathetic brow. "You are nuts."

"Am not!"

He tossed me a quick nod. "Yes! I am afraid you are. Remember, I am the world famous Dr. Sigmund Freud."

The old guy was clearly beginning to piss me off. Not only didn't I like his insufferable arrogance, I didn't appreciate the way—he was fondling his cigar. I found it a little too Bill Clinton-ish for my liking. "I'm—not nuts!" I quickly reiterated.

"If you are not nuts," he asked, "where is your chauffeur taking you, then?"

"Dammit," I growled softly. I needed a lie and I needed it quick. "To my—pedicure appointment!" I immediately winced at my lack of imagination.

He chuckled openly. "I believe he is driving you to Providence for your weekly ten o'clock appointment with your court-ordered psychiatrist. Am I correct?"

The old man—was good. I had to give him that. "So what's your point?"

"You are insane."

"Hey!" I shot back. "I'm cured! Dr. Benjamin says so!"

"I say you are not cured and I can prove it."

I had him. He fell right into my trap. If I were truly dreaming this, it was obvious my subconscious was putting the words into his mouth. My subconscious would never—stab myself in the back. "All right!" I said boldly. "Prove it!"

"Very well," he countered. "Why are you dreaming about me, when you could be dreaming about, let us say, being stranded on a deserted island with Pamela Anderson? Or being the world's first reusable tampon—at the Playboy mansion?"

After some fairly deep soul searching, I had to concede; I was more confused than ever. Why would he think—I'd want to be a tampon? Who in their right mind wants to be a tampon? Now, if we were talking Q-Tips—

He took his cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at me. "Would you like my professional opinion?"

"Not really."

"You are what we refer to in the psychiatric field as—Fucked in the Head."

I couldn't believe my ears. "I'm what?"

"Fucked in the Head," he repeated as he viciously slapped me across the face. And believe me—it wasn't your old, naked dead guy slap either! I sailed over the back of the bench and hit the ground like a wet mop. Dazed, I just layed there, face down in the dirt.

"Is this what I've become?" I asked myself. "A six foot four inch—two hundred and twenty pound punching bag—for some old, naked dead guy? Is this how far I've fallen?"

"Excuse me, sir?"

"Just two years ago, I was receiving a citation for heroism from the city of New York! The mayor presented it to me, personally!"

"Vee have arrived, sir."

Recognizing the voice, I immediately put my mumblings on hold, raised my head—and said, "Heinrich? Is that you?"

Getting to my knees, I found myself on the floor of the Rolls' backseat, with Heinrich's cataract infested eyes—staring down at me from the rearview mirror.

Heinrich Mueller has been my mother's chauffeur for what seems like forever. She met him one summer while she was touring Europe. What she saw in him, that motivated her to drag him back to Rhode Island and give him a job has always baffled me. Personally, I've never really liked the guy. Maybe it's because he keeps an autographed picture of Hermann Goring hanging above his bed. Or maybe—it's just his annoying inability to speak English correctly, after all these years.

"We!" I snapped. "We—have arrived!"

He didn't answer me, and I wasn't too surprised. He seldom did. Heinrich will be eighty-six next month, and I truly believe—only Ludwig van Beethoven had worse hearing. Keeping that in mind, I moved in closer to his supposedly good ear—but not too close. Ear hair! I'm talking—Amazon jungle! Tarzan could build Jane a summer home in there.

"Heinrich!" I yelled. "What happened?"

"You fell asleep, sir."

Remembering my dream, I promptly checked behind me for any unauthorized naked dead guys. Still unsure of what just transpired, I continued my inquiry. "How did I get on the floor?"

"You fell on the floor vhen I drove up on the curb, sir."

I nodded. "Ah! Yes!" Heinrich's eyesight! The truth is—he had none. I'd be willing to bet Stevie Wonder has a better driving record.

"One moment, sir," Heinrich said. "I vill get your door."

I peeked over his boney shoulder and watched him feebly fumble with his own door. "Vould you like me to help you—vith yours, first?" I growled back sarcastically.

Heinrich didn't answer. Like I said—he seldom did.

Anticipating a lengthy wait, I jumped up onto the backseat, put my feet up, and settled in for the duration. "Take your time, Heinrich!" I yelled. "I'm in no hurry. And—do you know why I'm not in a hurry, Heinrich?"

Once again, he didn't answer.

"Because—I'm not nuts!" I yelled again—to no one in particular. "What does that naked dead guy know anyway? So? Maybe I do have a few issues! Who doesn't?"

Suddenly, a thought occurred to me. "If that was a dream and everything he said, came out of my subconscious, then—I basically told him what to say!" I shuddered at the thought. "If he thought I was—Fucked in the Head! Then—I must think I'm—Fucked in the Head!"

All of a sudden, my car door swung open. Startled—I shrieked, rather girlishly. Realizing what I must've sounded like, I took my thumb out of my mouth, scrambled over to the other side of the car and checked my wrist for a pulse. "Focus!" I told myself. "Cleansing breath! In—and out! In—" I'm forty-two years old! I've shot drug dealers without batting an eye! "—and out!" I've hung Mafia hit-men out of twenty story windows! I've dragged child pornographers down fifteen flights of stairs and then beat them senseless! "Now—look at me! I'm carrying on like some ten-year old girl who can't find—" I nervously checked my other wrist. "Her pulse!"

Heinrich opened my door a bit wider. "Are vee ready, sir?"

"Noooo!" I shrieked again—still rather girlishly, I'm afraid.

Heinrich nodded obediently and stepped away from the car door.

"Pull yourself together," I mumbled, still unable to find my pulse. "Come on! You can do this!"

Giving up on ever finding my pulse, I hesitantly stepped out of the cool confines of the Rolls and into the blistering Providence sun.

Heinrich gave me another nod. "I vill get your door."

As I watched Heinrich struggle to close my door, it dawned on me how it was oddly reminiscent of my late father—in one of his drunken stupors. "Come to think of it—" I quickly scanned the top floor of the Bank of America building. "I think he had an office up there?"

It all started to come back to me. "He did have an office up there," I said as I began to remember a particular afternoon—a warm summer afternoon. I was up in his office, standing by his desk. He was at the mini-bar, pouring himself a drink when suddenly—he turned and stumbled over to me. Smelling like a freshly vandalized liquor store, he put his hand on my head and announced, "Alex, my boy! Life sucks!" He then proceeded to spill his entire drink on me.

Being only about five years old when he shared those words of wisdom with me, I don't think I completely grasped the depressing enormity of it all. The fact my name isn't Alex, probably didn't help. It's Ash. It's actually Ashley. Ashley Wilkes Hard! My mother is a huge fan of Margaret Mitchell's, Gone with the Wind. It's just my luck—she couldn't like Rhett Butler. Oh! No! She had to like sissy boy, Ashley Wilkes. I guess it could've been worse. She could've liked—Prissy.

Alex was my dog. My father inadvertently killed him a few years later, during another one of his drunken episodes. If I remember correctly, he ran him over with a golf cart. As I mentioned earlier, my father was known to drink. A lot! And often! But to be honest, it doesn't really matter who he thought he was talking to that day; I think—I finally understand what that drunken old fool was trying to tell me. The last eighteen months have shown me the light. "Life does suck!"

"Vill that be all, sir?" Heinrich asked, jerking me back into reality.

"You can go home, Heinrich," I yelled. "I'll take a cab to the train station and grab the train back to Newport."

Nodding, Heinrich shuffled back towards the driver's side door. Heinrich always shuffles. He has an enlarged prostate the size of Larry Bird's sneaker. I'd like to stress, I personally don't have firsthand knowledge of that fact. I only know—what I've been told.

However, before I knew what was happening, he put out his hand and flagged down a cab. "Heinrich?" I shouted. "What are you doing? I said I'll call for a cab after—" Totally dumbfounded, I just stood there and watched him climb into the cab. "Heinrich!"

As the cab pulled away from the curb and merged into the mid-morning traffic, I gazed up towards the heavens and pleaded my case. "And—I'm the one who has to see a psychiatrist?"

Just then, a Providence motorcycle cop pulled up behind the Rolls. Grabbing his pad, he got off his bike and walked towards me. "Is this your vehicle, sir?"

I gave the Rolls a cursory glance. "Sort of."

The patrolman just stood there—staring at me. I assumed he needed clarification of my last statement. "It's actually my mother's."

"Did you know this is a no parking zone, sir?"

"Actually Officer, my chauffeur is the one who—"

"Are you in the habit of parking your Rolls-Royce up on the curb, sir?"

I had no reason to doubt him—so I didn't look. "Actually Officer, my chauffeur—"

"Have you been drinking, sir?"

"Nooo!" I said, with an uneasy chuckle. "My chauffeur—"

He flipped open his pad. "Sir, may I see your license and registration?"

Like I said—I've never really liked Heinrich.

The burst of cool air that rushed passed me as I stumbled into the lobby of the Bank of America building, was a small consolation for the ten blocks I just sprinted to make it back in time for my appointment with Dr. Benjamin. "What idiot plans out a city and forgets to put in enough parking garages?"

Wiping the deluge of sweat from my eyes, I staggered towards the elevators. "You can be sure someone in the city planning department will be getting a vicious letter in the morning."

Gasping for my next breath, I fell against the elevator door and groped blindly for the up button. "What's happening to me? I used to run a five minute mile. I've ran the New York City Marathon—eight times!" Finally finding what felt like a button, I pushed it. "I would've won it that one year—if only those eight thousand people didn't cross the finish line—before me."

The elevator door suddenly opened, sending me crashing to the floor. "Dammit."

"Hold the door, please!"

Hearing the faint voice, I cringed. I wasn't in any condition to deal with some—stranger. With the little strength I had left, I got to my knees and pushed the close button. "Dammit." I broke a nail.

I was right in the middle of a cleansing breath when I noticed an elderly woman with a walker gingerly step onto the elevator. She smiled and weakly pointed her finger. "Would you please push seventeen?"

I warily got to my feet and pushed seventeen—with my thumb though. That nail never seems to get too long for some reason.

"Thank you," she said.

Even with my eyes averted, I couldn't help but feel the old woman was—staring at me. Why do people do that? It's not like I'm the Elephant Man or anything. I was voted 'Best Smile' in high school. And I was runner up for 'Best Looking'. I would've gotten that one too, if Billy Wilson wasn't banging the student council advisor responsible for counting the ballots.

Unable to take any more of her—staring, I felt it only fair that I stare at her for a while. Taking my thumb out of my mouth, I turned and faced her.

I immediately stepped back. She was a vision of—purple-ness. Literally! The old girl was dressed all in purple; a purple dress, purple shoes, purple earrings. Everything on her was one shade of purple or another. Even her hair had a purplish tint to it. She obviously liked the color purple—or was Dr. Benjamin's eleven o'clock appointment.

Suddenly, her head cocked to one side. "Aren't you Marjorie Hard's son?"

Even her voice sounded a bit purplish. "May—maybe," I answered cautiously.

She immediately tensed up. I could tell by the way she gripped her walker. Her white knuckles made her purple rings stand out.

I eyed her suspiciously. "Are you—a friend of my mother's?"

She nodded politely. "I'm Violet Jordan."

"Violet?" I questioned carefully as I inspected the huge purple bow in her hair. Actually, the purple bow didn't bother me as much as—The Twilight Zone theme song playing over and over in my head.

"Your mother and I belong to the same gardening club."

For some reason, I had a difficult time suppressing my yawn.

"You must be the famous New York City homicide detective, then!"

An alarm suddenly went off inside my head—I think. How did she know I was a homicide detective? What was my mother telling her gardening club? Where did she get that purple lipstick? And who told her—it looked good on her?

"Well—" I said modestly. "I wouldn't say famous."

Violet's eyes narrowed to just slits. I could actually see her caked-on purple mascara crack right before my eyes. "Is something wrong?" I asked.

"Did you really try to cut off your—"

She abruptly fell silent. Call me paranoid—and most mental health experts would, but I wasn't too pleased with the direction our conversation was heading. Nor did I find Violet gawking at my—groin, too comforting either. Starting to sweat like some overweight farm animal, I eased myself back to the elevator's control panel and began pushing buttons. I figured one of them had to make this thing go faster.

Suddenly, another alarm went off. But this time, I was pretty sure it was the elevator as it violently jerked to a stop. "Dammit."

Violet forced a rather squeamish grin. "Your mother told us you tried to cut off your—" Her eyes again shot to my—groin. "Little friend."

I froze with embarrassment. "She told you what?"

Little friend! Who the fuck is she callin' little?

I vigorously shook my head. "Oh! No! Nooo!"

No one fuckin' calls me little and gets away with it!

Cupping my trembling hands over my ears, I flung myself back against the wall. "No! Go away! Do you hear me! You can't come back!"

You need me.

I buried my head into the corner of the elevator. "No!" I yelled. "I—I don't need you!"

You're a fuckin' lunatic without me. Who in their right mind dreams about old, dead naked guys? That's fuckin' sick! And what's with this Q-Tip shit? Need I remind you, babes put Q-Tips in their ears! They put tampons up their fuckin'—

"Shut up!" I yelled. "Shut up! I'm not listening!"

Don't worry. I'm back. I'm here for you.

I shook my head again. "Oh! No!"

The first thin' we do, we take care of Old Purple Puss. Whip me out.

"Wh—what!"

Whip me out! That bitch, you call a mother, is tellin' everyone that I'm little! We need to show Old Purple Puss here, that I'm fourteen fuckin' inches of pure pulsatin' protein!

I fervidly shook my head. "No! No—you're not!"

Yes! I am! Where's a fuckin' tape-measure? I'll prove it to you.

"Shut up!" I wailed. "Do you hear me? Go away! Don't talk to me!"

All of a sudden, an eerie hush fell over the elevator. Gathering the little courage I had left, I carefully stepped away from the control panel. At that moment, the elevator shook and again started to go up. After a quick cleansing breath, I cautiously peeked over my shoulder and saw Violet trembling uncontrollably in the corner of the elevator. I immediately pushed out one of my more soothing smiles. I used it a lot on victims or family members who just lost a loved one.

"Please don't hurt me," she pleaded.

Obviously, the last year and a half has taken a toll—on my smiles too. "I'm not going to hurt you."

"I didn't mean to upset you!"

"No!" I said. "You don't understand. I—I wasn't yelling at you."

Clearly confused, Violet glanced around the elevator. "Who were you yelling at? No one else is here."

It's none of the bitch's business anyway. Do you still have your fuckin' gun?

"It's—a long story," I answered. "It started about two years ago. My wife and I were having some marital problems—"

From Violet's reaction, she didn't have time for my story—long or short. She scurried over to the control panel and pushed the stop button. "I think I'll take the stairs."

I politely directed her attention to the control panel as the elevator door opened. "This is only the tenth floor. I thought you said, you wanted the—"

"I can use the exercise!" With that—she picked up her walker and ran out of the elevator.

Has anyone ever told you, you have a strange effect on women? No wonder you can't get me any pussy.

"Shut up, Timmy! Just—shut up!"

Still rattled by the incident in the elevator, I stood outside Dr. Benjamin's office door pondering my situation—along with my sanity.

"Steady, Ash!" I told myself. "Steady! Let's think this through rationally. Okay?"

I nodded.

"You've obliviously had a slight relapse. It's nothing to worry about. Okay?"

I nodded again.

"You've been doing really great up until now. Even Dr. Benjamin mentioned how well he thought you were doing last week. Remember?"

I proudly nodded once again.

"He said—he's seen incredible progress! I'm sure—everyone has one or two of these setbacks now and then. I think overall—you've gotten things pretty well under control."

That reminds me, what normal person calls his fuckin' penis—Timmy?

I immediately lunged for the door, opened it, and ran inside.
CHAPTER TWO

Two thousand and sixty-eight. Two thousand and sixty-nine. Two thousand and—

"Ashley?"

Hearing my name, I paused—and listened.

Don't look at me, I didn't call you.

"Ashley! Are you all right?"

Somewhat confused as to where I was, I raised my head up off the couch and glanced over my shoulder. It was Dr. Benjamin calling me. Dr. Jules Benjamin. He was sitting in his steel reinforced Lazy Boy—staring at me. Well, I could only assume he was—staring at me. From my angle, I couldn't quite see his whole face. His stomach—was in the way. Not only was Dr. Benjamin considered one of the top psychiatrists in Rhode Island, he had to be the biggest—little man, I had ever seen. He had to be at least four hundred pounds, and what made him even more amazing—he was only five feet tall. The guy was a walking—talking Volkswagen Beetle.

If he's ever diagnosed with one of those flesh-eatin' diseases, I bet he'll still live another fuckin' fifty years.

I smiled weakly. "Excuse me?"

The doctor repeated his concern. "Are you all right? You haven't said a word in the last thirty-five minutes."

Now, I was concerned. "I haven't?"

Suddenly, I heard the Lazy Boy creak as Dr. Benjamin struggled to lean forward. "We're not having any more problems with Timmy, are we?"

I forced out a crazed laugh. "Of course—not!"

You lyin' bastard.

Dr. Benjamin continued his inquiry. "What were you thinking about, then?"

I could feel my panic start to churn in the pit of my stomach as I desperately tried to remember.

You were thinkin' about my name. Timmy—just isn't a name for a fuckin' penis, especially one with my stature. Do you realize I could get my own goddamn reality show! I could call it—The Appendage.

"Why don't you just—fall off," I growled under my breath.

Just because you have a fag name, doesn't mean I have too.

"Come on, Ash," I growled again. "Think of something! Or he'll start thinking you're blacking out again."

What about—Stallone? That would be a fuckin' cool name.

Before I could stop myself another inappropriate laugh spilled out of my mouth.

Appearing rather worried, Dr. Benjamin continued to struggle in his chair. "Are you sure you're all right?"

I nodded weakly.

My nod obviously didn't ease the doctor's concerns as he continued his third degree. "You can remember what you were thinking about, can't you?"

I nervously licked my parched lips. I had nothing! My mind was a complete blank. No matter how hard I tried—I couldn't remember! I didn't even have—a convincing lie!

You fuckin' idiot. You were countin' the damn holes in the ceilin' tiles.

"Wh—what?"

I wouldn't tell Fatty that, though. It's fuckin' weird, if you ask me.

"Ashley," Dr. Benjamin said cautiously. "You do remember what you were thinking about, don't you?"

A thought finally hit me. "The dream!"

Oh! Shit! You're not goin' to tell him about the fuckin' naked dead guy, are you?

"The dream—I had last week," I eagerly amended. "The one—we didn't get to last session."

Looking rather relieved, Dr. Benjamin settled back into his chair. "Good. Let's hear it."

As I layed back down on the couch, I cautiously observed his chair for any obvious stress fractures.

Don't worry; I'll keep goin' on the ceilin' tiles. Two thousand and seventy. Two thousand and—

"Well—" I started weakly. "It was Christmas. I'm in New York City—on the corner of Fifth and West Fifty-first, right across the street from St. Patrick's Cathedral. It's snowing. There are shoppers everywhere. I'm talking with a hot dog vender about something. I don't really remember about what, though."

You were bettin' him a hundred bucks he didn't have a fuckin' bun long enough to hold me.

"Then—" I snapped nervously, "all of a sudden, this guy comes running out of St. Patrick's carrying one of those big Macy's shopping bags—filled with money! Naturally my first thought was—he was one of the priests taking the Sunday donations to the bank. But then—I notice the guy has a pair of pantyhose pulled down over his head."

Aren't you goin' to tell Porky, the pantyhose were crotch less?

Somewhat distracted, I pushed on nevertheless. "Then—without any provocation, he pulls out a gun and starts shooting at the shoppers."

How's Two-Ton Tony supposed to analyze your fuckin' dream, if you don't tell him everythin'?

Clearing my throat, I again focused on my dream. "I—I immediately threw away the donut, I'd just bitten into and pulled out my gun—"

"What kind of donut was it?"

Confused with the question, I rolled over and glanced back at Dr. Benjamin. "Excuse me?"

"What type of donut were you eating in your dream?"

I was still confused. "Does it really matter?"

"Ashley, my boy," Dr. Benjamin said while struggling to lean forward again. "When you're dealing with the subconscious, nothing can be overlooked. Everything matters! You can be screaming for help through your subconscious without really knowing it. It can communicate its wants and desires in strange, sometimes demented ways."

I nodded. "Really?"

Whatever you do, don't tell him you were eatin' one of those donuts with the colored sprinkles. He'll think you're fuckin' flamer.

"I—I think it was—just a plain donut."

Dr. Benjamin grabbed his pad and started writing on it. "Interesting."

Shit! You should've said it was a jelly donut. They're a lot manlier.

"Please continue, Ashley," Dr. Benjamin said. "You were about to confront the man. What did you do next?"

"I—I started to walk towards him. When I got about halfway across the street, he finally noticed me. He turned and raised his gun—"

Did you know penis is Latin—for tail?

Fighting to regain my focus, I suddenly heard a loud—

CRUNCH!

Turning, I caught Dr. Benjamin tip-toeing back to his chair, carrying a large tin of peanut brittle. As he plopped down in his chair, he saw me watching him. "Oh! Forgive me, Ashley!"

His reddening face troubled me, somewhat. I wasn't sure if it was from the embarrassment of getting caught, or the strain on his heart—from trying to tip-toe.

He finally threw a handful of peanut brittle into his mouth. "I missed breakfast."

Well—that's what I assumed he said, anyway. All of the peanut brittle in his mouth did distort things a bit.

Remember that Monty Python movie where the really fat guy explodes. That's not really fuckin' possible, right? That wasn't like, based on some true story, was it?

Dr. Benjamin politely held out the tin. "Would you like a piece?"

I watched a piece of peanut brittle fall out of his mouth and bounce down his massive stomach. It was like a tiny boulder careening down a steep hill. I shook my head. "No! No—thank you."

This guy's so fat, if I took a picture of him, I'd need two fuckin' frames to put it in.

He shoveled another handful into his mouth. "Please continue."

Having a slight problem focusing at the moment, I impatiently sat up. "Would you mind if I stand up? It might help me remember things—more clearly."

Dr. Benjamin grabbed another handful of peanut brittle from the tin and nodded. "Not at all! Please continue. What did you do then?"

Getting to my feet, I watched several more pieces of peanut brittle fall out of his mouth and bounce down into his crotch. I expeditiously turned towards the windows and forced myself to answer the doctor's question. "I—I raised my gun and fired."

Strangely enough, retelling my dream to Dr. Benjamin soon had me reliving the dozen or so incidents, where I had to use deadly force in the line of duty. Fortunately, I only had to relive the first one—when something yanked me back to reality. Unfortunately, it was Dr. Benjamin's—horrendous fart.

Holy shit! Somebody break a fuckin' window!

"Excuse me, Ashley," the doctor said, once again red faced. "Please go on. What happened next?"

Holding my breath, I scooted over to the other side of the office. "He—he exploded," I said. "Blood—and guts were everywhere."

So is the fuckin' stench. I'm beggin' you! Break a goddamn window!

"It was total chaos," I said as I continued to search out pockets of fresh air. "The Christmas shoppers were running—and screaming. It was horrible."

It's pretty horrible in here, too!

Suddenly, Dr. Benjamin farted again. But this time, it sounded—a lot juicer.

Oh! Good God! Where's the fuckin' Febreze when you need it?

"I do apologize, Ashley," he pleaded. "I must have eaten something that didn't agree with me."

Probably that missin' gas station attendant we heard about on the fuckin' radio this mornin'.

Trying not to breathe too deeply, I continued. "I—I walked over to him and bent down. The only thing still intact—was his head. I—I picked it up and slipped off the pantyhose."

The crotch less pantyhose.

"And who was it, Ashley?"

I paused a moment to reflect on the doctor's question. "My father."

Wow! That's spooky shit.

"What did you do then, Ashley?"

"I—I picked up his gun and put it down—the front of my pants."

"And?" he asked as if he already knew the answer.

I shamefully looked away. "The gun went off."

"Shooting off your penis," Dr. Benjamin calmly added. "Again! Am I right?"

Murderer! You fuckin' assassin!

"Ashley, my boy," Dr. Benjamin said, with a rather disturbed sigh. "Your dreams are revealing themselves to be quite predictable."

"You think?" I retorted sarcastically.

"Let's see! Three weeks ago, you had a dream where you went deep sea fishing with your father. Somehow, he got tangled up in the outboard motor and was brutally cut into little pieces. Then, while you're using him for fish bait, a crazed sea turtle jumps into your boat and bites off your penis."

You're truly one disturbed sick mother-fucker.

"Two months ago, you dreamt the two of you went to a meat-packing plant and—"

"Okay!" I snapped. "I get the picture! My dreams seem to have a recurring theme to them. What does it mean?"

You're a fuckin' psychopath. That's what it fuckin' means.

With a herculean effort, Dr. Benjamin lifted himself out of his chair and began to waddle over to me. "It means, Ashley! I believe we're finally making some real progress."

I couldn't believe my ears. "You really think so?"

"I do," he said. "You weren't very close to your father, were you?"

I shook my head. "No."

"And from what you've told me, he didn't take much interest in you, did he?"

I didn't have to think too hard about that one. "No! No—he didn't."

"I also remember you saying he never really worked a day in his life, either."

I nodded. "He lived off the family's money."

"And it's pretty obvious he wasn't very faithful to your mother. How many times did you walk in on him in a compromising position with a member of the household staff?"

"Six," I said, lowering my voice.

Actually, it was seven. You keep blockin' out the Chinese gardener. What was his name again? Woo Suck Yoo?

"That's a lot for a child to go through," Dr. Benjamin said somberly. "I'm not surprised; you built up a substantial amount of hostility towards him."

I nodded again. It made sense.

"Knowing all of this, Ashley," the doctor said, "let's analyze your dream, shall we?"

What choice did I have? The hour wasn't up yet.

"Your father comes running out of the church with a bag of money. What do you think that means, Ashley?"

He couldn't find a liquor store to rob?

You moron! He's goin' to say, the church represented your goddamn mother.

I finally just shrugged my shoulders.

"I'll give you a hint," Dr. Benjamin said. "The church is your mother!"

Told you.

"Wh—what?"

"You see, Ashley, in your dream, St. Patrick's represents your mother. You see St. Patrick's as a secure and loving place. The same way, I'm sure; you remember your mother growing up."

I mentally scratched my head. Why couldn't I remember any of this?

Because it's all fuckin' bullshit! The woman is a psycho-bitch.

"She was always there to help and protect you. Your father, robbing the church, is how your subconscious interprets his unacceptable treatment of your mother. You disapprove of your father's actions, so you keep killing him off in your dreams."

To hell with his father! What about me? Why is he always killin' me off?

Dr. Benjamin politely directed me back to the couch. "You must understand, Ashley, that a poor parent-child relationship during the formative years can cause deep seeded emotional problems later in life. Sometimes it's difficult for those people to develop the trust or confidence in their relationships with others, especially in adult life."

That's code—for your fucked in the head.

"The fewer bonds you have growing up, the more anxiety you may encounter as an adult. Do you understand what I am trying to say, Ashley?"

I nodded. "I—I think so."

No you don't, you fuckin' liar.

"So here you are," continued the doctor, "you've grown up. You're extremely wealthy. Very successful! Good looking!"

Watch it! Homo alert!

"Along comes marriage! More social demands are thrown at you. You extend yourself at work to prove yourself. At home, you try to be the best husband you can. Your biggest fear is turning into your father. The stress in your life is increasing."

So is my fuckin' boredom level. Will this hour ever end?

"To top it off, you get a case you can't solve. A small child is brutally murdered. And you're stumped! You have no clues! No suspects! You've never had an unsolved case. It starts eating away at you."

I actually found myself nodding.

"Soon the stress from work begins to spill over into your home life. You start experiencing problems in the bedroom."

Hey! Just for the record, Doc, it was him! Not me! It wasn't my fuckin' fault. I was fuckin' ready!

"Unfortunately, being—well equipped, doesn't really help when one is going through a period of impotence. It's what I like to call the—Stud Factor."

What the hell does he mean—well equipped? What the hell have you been tellin' him? I'm fuckin' off—the fuckin' chart! Whip me out! I'll show him! Where's a fuckin' scale? I'm at least forty-two pounds of fuckin'—

"Peanut brittle!" I shouted wildly. "May I have—a piece?"

Dr. Benjamin graciously held out the tin. "Of course! Help your—"

I ripped the tin out of his sticky, little fat fingers and threw a handful into my mouth.

The doctor eyed me carefully as he continued. "You must've felt an incredible amount of pressure on you during this time."

I nodded vigorously. "I—I did!"

"It's only natural your mental faculties shut down—resulting in a schizophrenic break."

Still nodding—and still rather confused, I stepped forward. "Why—did it happen at the strip club?"

Dr. Benjamin took back the tin. "Freud believed that an ego not strong enough to cope with unacceptable id impulses can sometimes break down—totally!"

That's code too—for you're fucked in the head.

I casually checked the office for any signs of a—old, naked dead guy.

"Simply put, it all comes back to your father!" Dr. Benjamin waddled back to his desk and set the tin down. "Tell me, Ashley, when you entered the strip club, were you on duty?"

I nodded. "I was checking into a lead we got on the little girl that was murdered. Someone said they saw the club's owner talking to her, several days before she was murdered. I went there to ask him a few questions."

"I assume the strippers were already dancing when you entered the club?"

I nodded again as I felt a bead of sweat trickle out of my right arm pit.

"You mentioned, I believe, you felt sexually aroused seeing the girls dancing? Is that right?"

Thinking back to that night, I remembered exactly what I was feeling. "Maybe—a little," I said—rather sheepishly.

Remember the blonde with the huge happy pillows?

My left eye suddenly began to twitch. "All right!" I screamed. "Maybe—a lot!"

Dr. Benjamin quickly forced out one of his soothing smiles. "It's only natural that you were sexually aroused, Ashley! You were surrounded by dozens of naked women. Don't forget, it's their job to get men sexually aroused."

Totally frustrated, I turned away. "I was investigating a little girl's murder! I should've been more focused on—"

"Are you sure you're not confusing your feelings, Ashley?"

"I—I don't know," I said as I tried to cover up my eye with my hand. "May—maybe."

"I think we may have hit on something here, Ashley!" Dr. Benjamin said as he rubbed his stubby little hands together excitedly. "I believe your subconscious interpreted the feelings you felt for the dancers—as cheating on your wife! You were feeling the very things you loathed in your father! So what happened?"

I told him to jump the blonde—but did the little sissy-boy do it? Hell no! He completely ignored me, the fuckin' pansy!

I shrugged my shoulders again.

"Naturally, your id and ego clashed!" he finally blurted out, answering his own question. "You couldn't bear to see yourself acting like your father. So you projected your hatred onto—"

I raised a quizzical eyebrow. "My penis?"

"Exactly," he said, beaming with pride. "You blamed your penis for the arousal you felt."

Hey! What fuckin' choice did I have! She was bent over shakin' her fuckin' sugar melons at me! I couldn't just stand there—

I turned and aimlessly gazed out the window as I pondered the doctor's theory. "That sort of makes sense—when you think about it."

What does?

"That this whole mess—is your entire fault!" I sneered under my breath.

Me? You're the sick bastard who whipped me out in front of everyone and tried to cut me off with that fuckin' broken beer bottle!

Suddenly, the timer on the desk buzzed.

"I'm sorry," the doctor said as he reached across his desk and shut off the alarm. "That's all the time we have today. But—I want you to start getting out more! You're making giant strides, Ashley!"

If you ask me, you tryin' to cut me off like that, clearly showed a definite lack of fuckin' class.

I hurried back towards the desk as a bead of sweat trickled out of my left armpit, this time. "Out more? You mean like—out more? With people?"

"Exactly," he said. "You need to get back into the game. You've been sitting on the bench long enough. All you need is your confidence back." He slowly circled his desk. "You're truly a very special person, Ashley, with very special talents. I know those talents are still inside you. All you need to do—is find them! You're not your father, Ashley. You never have been! You never will be! I can promise you that. I think you're going to be okay."

I wonder what your old man called his Captain Winky.

I coerced out an uneasy smile as I reached into my jacket and pulled out my wallet.
CHAPTER THREE

My limp was clearly becoming more pronounced as the pain started to radiate out from my heel to the rest of my foot. "You can make it, Ash," I winced. "One more block."

I probably shouldn't tell you this, but there's another parkin' garage.

"Shut up."

I believe that's the third one you obviously drove right by. What the hell were you thinkin'?

"I said—shut up."

This is exactly why you should listen to me. You're not focused! Think of all the fuckin' pain and sufferin' I could've saved you.

"Will you give me a break? I have a blister on my foot—the size of Queens!"

And how many fuckin' times do I have to tell you? Say, the Bronx! It sounds more macho.

"I knew it was a bad idea to wear my new pair of Bruno Magli's today."

Toughen up! Didn't O.J. supposedly kill two people in a pair of Bruno Magli's? You didn't hear him complainin', did you?

"He didn't have to hike two miles in ninety-five degree heat afterwards—now, did he?"

You're talkin' to yourself again. People are startin' to stare.

Sure enough, two well-dressed women walking towards me were giving me a peculiar look. I quickly forced out a smile. "Good morning, ladies! Lovely day—isn't it?"

Very smooth. Now they think you're a polite lunatic.

Making sure the two women were out of ear shot, I let loose a frustrated sigh. "This day is turning into a complete nightmare."

Are you kiddin'? A nightmare is when you find yourself strapped into an electric chair, then—just as the executioner is about to pull the switch, Siegfried and Roy come skippin' in and levitates a gallon of Rocky Road ice cream down the front of your pants. Now! That's a fuckin' nightmare!

I limped up to my mother's car with that bizarre vision still swirling around in my head. To be honest, I had mixed feelings about it. I rather liked Rocky Road ice cream.

You're such a fuckin' fruit. You know that?

"Dammit," I snarled as I spotted the parking ticket on the windshield.

It appears someone didn't put enough money in the fuckin' meter.

I grabbed the ticket. "Leave me alone."

I wonder who that someone was.

"I'm warning you."

This is exactly why you need me. I could've told you, you needed to put in another fuckin' quarter.

I felt myself nearing—the edge. "Shut up! Do you hear me? Just—shut up!"

We're a little hostile today, aren't we?

"Hostile!" I screamed while throwing down the ticket. "You want to see hostile? Hostile is taking you out—and slamming you in the car door a few dozen times!"

Go ahead! Give me your best shot, you fuckin' limp-wristed bastard! You're the one who's goin' to have to explain to your insurance agent how you broke the fuckin' car door!

"That's it!" I immediately grabbed for my zipper. "I'm through talking!"

Fuck you! You don't scare me.

"Oh! Yeah! Wait till I get my hands on—"

Hey! What's that?

As I reached my hand into my pants, I stopped. "What's what?"

The ticket! There's somethin' written on it.

To my surprise, there was something scribbled on it—with a heavy black marker of some kind. I reached down with my free hand and picked up the ticket.

Notice the sloppy hand writin'. If you ask me, whoever wrote that is obviously psychotic.

"No one asked you!" I inspected the ticket carefully before reading the message, "Don't do it!" I didn't have a mirror handy, but—I'm sure I had one of those perplexed expressions on my face as I read it again, "Don't do it!" I looked up—somewhat baffled. I had no idea what it meant. "Don't do what?"

Maybe it's a reminder from your mother about, you know, not slappin' the ol' salami so much.

"I don't masturbate."

Yeah! Right! What's that stack of Victoria's Secret catalogs by your bed for?

"I don't masturbate!" I yelled. "I repeat! I don't—masturbate!"

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I saw a very attractive woman walking towards me while—staring at me rather oddly. Sensing an unusual draft, I hesitantly glanced down and found my hand still inside my zipper. "Oops."

Quick! Whip me out and introduce me!

Red faced, I looked up and forced out another smile. "Good morning! Lovely day—isn't it?"

Look at that ass on her! Quick! Ask her out before she gets away! I—I think I'm in love!

"Shut up!" I screamed. "Just shut up—and leave me alone!

Now you fuckin' did it.

"Wh—what?" I tentatively looked up and noticed the woman sprinting down the street.

How do women run in those fuckin' high heels?

Realizing what I just did, I painfully eyed the heavens. "Why me?"

It's obvious she works out. I bet she'd have no fuckin' problem doin' the Reverse Cowgirl position.

I naturally fought off the inevitable vision as it bounced up! And down! And up! And down—in my head! Well, I tried anyway.

Hey! Would you mind! It's gettin' a bit cramped down here.

Finally noticing my hand was still in my pants; I stealthily pulled it out and quickly zipped up my zipper.

Hey! Hey! Watch it!

Once again focused, I found my full attention back on the ticket—and the strange note. "Why would someone write that on my ticket?"

Maybe it has to do with us bein' followed all mornin'?

"Wh—what?" I anxiously scanned the street. "Who's following me?" Everything seemed normal. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary—although, the woman who just saw me with my hand in my pants, was now talking to a police officer—and pointing in my direction. "Why must everyone—point at me?"

Across the street, Einstein!

"Wh—what?"

Look across the fuckin' street!

I eagerly checked out the other side of the street. There were a few people walking on the sidewalk. Nobody looked that suspicious—which was good. And nobody appeared to be pointing at me—which was good too.

Must I do everythin'? The red BMW!

"Dammit." There was a red BMW—with tinted windows. I immediately questioned why I hadn't noticed—I was being followed. "I've been trained to notice these kinds of things. What's happening to me?"

In case you were wonderin', it's been followin' us since we left the house this mornin'.

Obviously realizing I was on to them, the BMW abruptly pulled out into traffic and disappeared down a side street.

Red alert! I repeat! Red alert!

I hastily peeked over my shoulder. "Is someone else following me?"

The hottie, with the nice ass, is walkin' this way. With the fuckin' cop!

"Dammit." I folded up the ticket and slid it into my coat pocket. "Something like this could get my probation revoked." Needing a plan, I nervously plotted out my escape. "If I started to run, I probably could—"

He who fuckin' flashes—and drives away, will live to fuckin' flash—another fuckin' day!

I eyed the Rolls and smiled.

You can thank me later.

"Shut up!"

I caught myself peeking into the rear view mirror again for the red BMW. "Why would someone be following me?"

It's probably a Hollywood agent. I could be a fuckin' porn star! You're holdin' me back; you know that, don't you?

"Maybe it's somebody from one of my old cases? Someone—I put away years ago, and now they're out for revenge." I nodded. I liked that. "That's possible."

Hey! Slow down! Isn't that Heidi Klum comin' out of that German deli?

I didn't even bother to look. "No! No—it's not!"

Are you sure?

"Yep!" I stomped on the gas pedal leaving the German deli in the dust. It's amazing how fast a Rolls-Royce can hit sixty—and in city traffic too.

Passing the Old State House, I took a right onto Bennet, followed by a left, through a red light and onto George. Unfortunately, as I raced towards South Main—the Rolls started to sputter. A moment later, it rolled to a dead stop. "I don't believe this!" I said, in disbelief. "This can't be happening! Rolls-Royces don't just stop!"

They do if they run out of fuckin' gas.

I openly growled at the empty gas gauge. "Damn you, Heinrich!"

Two hours later, I was finally on my way. I didn't want to call the guy from the auto club a liar, but—I did find his explanation for the unusually long wait somewhat suspicious. A tow truck getting a flat tire—seemed a little too ironic.

The asshole was lyin' through his bug infested teeth. He was eatin' lunch! Didn't you notice the fresh mustard stain on his fuckin' shirt? And did you smell his breath? Pastrami!

Whether he was lying or not, it didn't matter. I was out of Providence and minutes away from home. Newport, Rhode Island! The rich man's Disneyland! A real genuine sightseeing mecca!

Holy shit! Do you see her! The woman comin' out of McDonalds! The one with the two really Big Mac's! Quick! Blow the horn!

"Perhaps, that's why I've never really felt comfortable—growing up here."

You're not listenin' to me, are you?

The place is constantly overrun with vacationers and sightseers. They're always—staring! Or pointing! Or pointing and—staring! Or whispering and—staring! Or whispering and pointing! Or pointing and—

Thank you! I think you've covered all of the fuckin' possibilities.

"It's the mansions! That's what everybody comes to see."

Hey! You just missed your fuckin' turn.

"What normal person—needs a forty-eight room house?"

What normal person talks to himself so much he misses his fuckin' turn?

"That's why as a kid, I knew Newport wasn't for me. I wanted—New York City! The Big Apple!"

Please! Enough with the reminiscin'! I've heard this damn story about a million times. If I have to hear it one more time, I swear, the next time you take a fuckin' leak, I'm goin' to throw myself on your goddamn zipper and slit my fuckin' throat!

"I wanted the real world. I wanted to walk—the mean streets! You know what I'm saying? To be with real people—with real problems! I wanted to be like—"

Kojak! Yes! I know! The bald headed cop who always sucked on a fuckin' lollipop.

"Yeah!"

You do realize he was a fictional TV character, don't you?

I nodded absentmindedly.

Oh! No! Don't tell me, you're thinkin' about shavin' your head again? The last thin' I need to see in your hands right now is a fuckin' razor!

"I wanted to help people. You know! I wanted to get out there—get my hands dirty."

You watched way too much fuckin' television growin' up. Shit! Your street! Quick! Turn!

I took a quick right. As the Rolls catapulted over the curb, it hit me—I should've taken a quick left.

Hey! You can't blame me! I just said fuckin' turn!

"Shut up," I growled as I slowly opened my left eye and found myself parked in the middle of someone's—once immaculately groomed front lawn.

What's the big deal? You take out your wallet and pay them off. The fuckin' Kennedy's do it all the time.

I slowly opened my right eye. "Dammit." I recognized—the front lawn.

Uh! Oh!

It was the Steinberger's! Old lady Steinberger and I went way back. Growing up, my friends and I would sneak into her backyard and steal apples off her precious apple trees. It seemed my only consolation at the moment—was that the old girl had to be dead and buried by now.

Suddenly, I heard a scream. "What the hell are you doing?"

An icy chill quickly shot up my spine. "Dammit." I recognized—the scream too.

Uh! Oh!

As I tentatively gazed out my window, I cringed in disbelief. "Mrs. Steinberger?"

The frail old woman walked up to the Rolls and screamed again. "Who the hell taught you to drive?"

I couldn't believe my eyes. How could she still be alive?

I'll bet you ten bucks; the old girl sat next to Jesus in second grade.

Surprisingly, she hadn't changed much; she still had the same hooked nose, the crooked front tooth, the pink feathered morning coat, and she was still carrying—that cane of hers.

Just run over the old bag and let's go.

"You're still alive?" I asked her—somewhat mystified.

"Look!" she yelled as she took her cane and hit the car's hood with it. "Look what you did to my beautiful lawn!"

Look what she did to your fuckin' car!

"Wait a minute—" she said as she bent down and—stared at me through the window. She then slowly raised her cane and pointed it at me. "I know you."

"Again—with the pointing," I growled openly.

"You're Marjorie Hard's rotten little brat!"

Who the hell is she callin' little?

Sensing impending doom, I eased the Rolls into reverse.

Suddenly, she jabbed me in the shoulder with her cane. "I'll teach you, to steal my apples!"

Shoot her.

"Wait! Mrs. Steinberger!" I pleaded. "I'm not here—to steal your apples!"

She jabbed me again—even harder.

SHOOOOOOT HER!

I again pleaded my case. "Mrs. Steinberger! I—I just made a wrong turn!"

"Police!" she screamed. "Police!"

Again—with the police!

Runaway! Runawaaaaay!

With the fear of violating my parole once again reeling in my head, I stomped on the gas pedal and launched the Rolls back over the curb, right into the path of several unsuspecting motorists. Ignoring the screeching brakes and blaring horns, I slapped the Rolls into drive and sped off down the street.

You want me to steer?

"Shut up!"

My eyes immediately shot to the rearview mirror. Old lady Steinberger was now standing in the middle of the street, still screaming—and still pointing her cane at me. "That old woman—is totally nuts!"

Yeah! Right! She's the fuckin' nut. You keep tellin' yourself that.

I eagerly turned the volume up on the radio, hoping to drown out any further comments.

You're a fuckin' asshole.

"Shut up."

Turnin' up the fuckin' radio doesn't work, does it?

"Shut up!

Totally frustrated, I eased down on the brake and stopped again.

This fuckin' sucks.

"Will you please, shut up! And leave me alone!"

If you didn't miss your fuckin' turn back there, we wouldn't be stuck in this goddamn traffic.

As much as I hated to admit it, driving along Bellevue at this time of the day, did suck. Again—it's the tourists! They're everywhere! Every few blocks you have to stop to let another pack of them cross in front of you, so they can get to another mansion tour. "And—all the while they just—stare at you."

Or rub up against the damn car! Hey! You! Hands off the car! Did you see him? The Chinese guy! Fuckin' foreigners!

"It's the mansions! They're the problem. Especially, The Breakers over there. Seventy rooms! Who needs seventy rooms?"

Fuckin' showoffs.

"Then there's Rosecliff, down there!"

More fuckin' showoffs!

"Although," I said, with a slight grin, "I do remember watching the movie True Lies shoot a few scenes there. That was pretty cool."

Remember how Jamie Lee Curtis kept lookin' at me. She wanted me.

I immediately shifted my attention down Flemish. "Down there you have Treasure Hall. I think that one has like—fifty-four rooms."

I think Schwarzenegger gave me one or two looks too.

"To be honest, I've never really liked Treasure Hall. The place has always given me the creeps. It looks like an insane asylum."

Will you forget Treasure Hall! Another asshole just touched the fuckin' car!

Losing my patience, I rolled down the window, stuck my head out, and sternly addressed the passing crowd. "Why are you people wasting your time on the mansions? There's a lot more to see in Newport than—just the mansions!"

An elderly woman stopped in front of the Rolls and—stared back at me. "Like what?" she asked.

My mind immediately went blank. I wasn't really prepared—for any questions.

Hey! There's me!

"Shut up," I mumbled as I rolled up the window.

Hell! We could sell fuckin' tickets! Why haven't I thought of this before?

Having heard enough, I jumped on the gas pedal, pulled around the old woman, and roared off down Bellevue.

Hey! We could designate Monday, Wednesday and Friday nights as—Ladies' Night! Every hot babe gets to fuckin' fondle me for free!

Taking a sharp left at Ledger, I was now—thankfully, about a hundred yards from home. It's not The Breakers, but it still cost my great-grandfather five million in 1890.

If you're through with the fuckin' history lecture, might I suggest you look in the rearview mirror again?

"Adjusted for inflation—I figure that's about 105 million dollars today."

Hey! Moron! Look in your fuckin' rearview mirror!

I groaned openly. "Why?"

The fuckin' BMW is back.

My eyes immediately shot to the rearview mirror. "Dammit." There was a red car behind me. I grabbed the mirror and readjusted it for a better view. "And it's a BMW—with tinted windows!"

Told you.

Keeping him in my rearview mirror, I slowly pulled over to the curb and stopped. "If he is following me—"

Following us!

"I needed him to know, I'd caught on to his little game. It was his move, now."

Who the hell are you callin' little?

Interesting enough, it didn't take him long to make his move. The BMW's tires started to squeal. Then—like some crazed Tasmanian devil, it careened into a half-dozen twists and turns, then fish-tailed up Ledge and disappeared back onto Bellevue.

Are you sure that wasn't Heidi Klum back there at the fuckin' deli? Maybe—you should spray paint me black anyway, just in case.
CHAPTER FOUR

I could almost smell my brain's synapses overheating as my mind bombarded me with a series of relentless questions. Who's in the BMW? Why is he following me? Should I follow him? Should I call the police? Where should I—

Hey! I have one! When the hell are you goin' to get me some pussy?

"Shut up!"

Let's see you make me.

I closed my eyes as I tried to refocus. "I—I can't call the police! I have no proof he did anything wrong! All I have is a strange note—written on the back of a parking ticket. No crime has been committed."

If you keep fuckin' whinin', you're goin' to kill me.

My eyes sprang open. "Wait!" I started up the Rolls while I checked my pockets for my cell phone.

You dropped it in the fuckin' toilet two weeks ago, remember?

"Dammit. I did—didn't I?"

Just use the fuckin' Nazi's. The old fart left it on the seat right next to you.

Seeing no harm in that, I grabbed a hold of Heinrich's phone. "I'll call Roger," I said as I started to punch in his number. "He'll be able to help me."

Must you?

Roger Marsh has been a Newport cop for years and one of the few people I feel I can still trust in Newport. I've known him since first grade, and we were practically inseparable in high school.

Does he still have that nasty habit of pickin' his fuckin' nose?

"You know," I said absentmindedly. "Sometimes I find myself wishing—I was back in high school." As the phone started to ring, I caught myself smiling in the rearview mirror. "They were good times."

Remember that time you slipped into the girl's locker room and took those pictures of Cindy Campbell?

"I—I was referring to being picked Homecoming King, my junior year!" I snarled. "And—Captain of the football team, my senior year!"

Captain of the football team! Don't make me fuckin' laugh. You sucked.

"I did not!"

You lost every goddamn game, except one.

Finally getting Roger's voice mail, I left him a quick message, "Hey, Roger! It's Ash! I need a favor. Could you stop by—if you get a chance? Thanks!" Hanging up, I slid Heinrich's phone into my pocket and returned to pleading my case. "It wasn't my fault we lost all those—"

Oh! Please! The only reason you got the startin' quarterback job was because The Bitch built the high school a fuckin' new gym.

Truthfully, I couldn't refute that. My mother was always trying to help me—whether I wanted her too or not.

She wasn't helpin' you. She was fuckin' controllin' you!

"Shut up!" I pulled into the driveway and drove through the open gate. "Okay! She's no Donna Reed! I'll give you that, but—where would I be without her?"

In the fuckin' slammer havin' your slop popped by some guy named, Big Bubba.

I was about to nod in agreement when—Hardly appeared through the trees. Well—technically, Hardly Manor. A moment later, it filled the entire front windshield. It has forty-eight rooms, nine hundred and thirty three steps, and one hundred and two panes of glass. I know this only because my father had me count them one day when I was seven or eight. I never really understood why.

How fuckin' naive are you? He wanted you out of the way so he could dip his little wick in one of the upstairs' maids.

"Th—there's eighteen imported crystal chandeliers from Russia!"

Don't forget the nudie statues.

"Dozens of rare tapestries from—"

Don't forget the nudie statues!

"Th—there's even several ancient—"

What about the fuckin' statues!

"Yes! Yes! All right!" I shouted. "I heard you!" I drove around the circular drive and parked in front of the house. "My grandfather collected—Geek and Roman art!"

Is that what he called them?

"All right!" I snapped annoyingly. "He collected—nudie statues! Okay! Are you satisfied?"

Remember the time you chipped your front tooth while you were suckin' on that statue's tit in the upstairs hallway?

"I tripped and fell!" I screamed. "I wasn't—sucking on it! I was running down the hallway—"

"Ashley! Who are you talking too?"

Startled—I turned to find Joanie Cooper approaching the Rolls—and giving me one of those looks.

Someone's fuckin' busted.

Joanie's been my mother's personal assistant for years. She's a tough cookie. She reminds me a lot of Hillary Clinton.

Joanie's a fuckin' lesbian?

I forced out a tense smile as she walked up to the car. "Hello," I said sweetly.

"Where have you been?" she asked coldly. "Your mother was getting worried."

I chuckled openly at the thought of my mother—worrying about me. I couldn't actually remember ever seeing my mother worried about—anything. She once told me, she was too rich to worry.

Joanie snapped her fingers in my face. "Ashley!"

Refocusing, I forced out another smile. "Yes?"

"Your mother's on the main terrace. I suggest you tell her you're back." Joanie then walked towards her car. "I'm going to pick up your mother's pills. Do you need anything from the pharmacy?"

Some hand lotion.

I contemplated a moment why I would need—hand lotion.

Your right hand is like goddamn sandpaper. You could write a fuckin' book—Murder by Masturbation.

I cringed as I heard a crazed cackle spill out of my mouth. Before I could recover my composure, Joanie had already jumped into her car and sped away.

I think you scared her.

I nodded. "Sometimes—I scare myself."

I walked out onto the main terrace, rubbing my temples. "I—I don't need this right now, okay! Can we drop it?"

I was just curious.

"Why are we even having this conversation, anyway?"

I'm just wonderin' why the hell you feel compelled to wash your goddamn hands every time you take a fuckin' leak! I find it rather insultin'.

I caught a glimpse of my mother standing by the railing; just looking out over the ocean. "Be quiet," I said while lowering my voice to an inaudible mumble.

It's not like I was fuckin' Rock Hudson's decayin' asshole all mornin'.

After running my fingers through my hair—and reciting a quick prayer, I started across the terrace. If my mother was as worried as Joanie said, I'm sure I was in for one lengthy lecture on how selfish I was for not calling.

Look at her, starin' out over the ocean. The Bitch probably thinks she fuckin' owns it.

If she could figure out how to make money on it, she probably would try to buy it. My mother loves money. The only thing she loves more than money—is making more money. And from all indications, she's rather good at it. I don't know how she does it, but since she took over the Architectural Society, they never have been more successful.

She's fuckin' evil, that's how.

I remembered another prayer.

I say, you sneak up behind her, whip me out, and beat her to death with me.

Forcing my hands into my pockets, I quietly walked up behind her and gently kissed her on the cheek. "Hello, Mother."

Shit! There goes the element of surprise.

With little effort, my mother graciously returned my greeting with a sharp slap to the side of my head.

This is perfect! You can claim self-defense. Quick! Whip me out!

I took a step back. "What—was that for?"

She didn't answer me, but she did give me one of her patented scowls.

You probably forgot to lift the fuckin' seat again this mornin'.

She quickly slapped me again. "What in heaven's name, have you been doing today!"

Two slaps! "I wonder if I forgot to flush too."

"Well?" she swiftly added. "And—will you please stop mumbling!"

Not really knowing the correct answer, I figured I'd play it safe and have her tell me. "Wh—what?"

Her expression turned to one of total frustration. "You're going to be the death of me!"

I could live with that.

She immediately pointed a stern, but rather—emaciated finger up into my face. "First, I get a hysterical call from Violet Jordan!"

"Oops!"

"She's claiming you tried to kill her this morning!"

I hastily pointed my finger at her. "Wait a minute—"

She viciously slapped my finger before continuing. "Then—I hear you forced poor Heinrich to take the train back from Providence!"

I was losing ground fast. "No! Wait! Let me—"

Her nostrils suddenly flared. "Then—"

I quickly hid my finger behind my back.

"—Mrs. Steinberger calls me, screaming something about you stealing her apples!"

"Mother," I interjected sweetly while gently grabbing a hold of her finger.

Here's your chance! Snap that little fucker right off!

"I—I wasn't stealing any apples! I—I accidently ran the Rolls—up onto—her lawn."

Her expression said it all. "What am I going to do with you, Ashley?"

"Well—"

With a frustrated sigh, she broke out of my finger hold and stormed off.

I needed a diversion—and quick. "What—are you going to do about Heinrich?"

She stopped and spun around. "What happened to Heinrich?"

"Nothing," I said, reassuring her. "Don't you think—it's time he retires? The man's a menace."

"Nonsense! What would I do without Heinrich? Who would drive me around town? You?" She broke out into one of her dry laughs—as she again walked off. "You can't even drive home from Providence by yourself, without running up on someone's damn lawn!"

The Bitch does have a point.

I hurried after her. "Will you let me explain?"

She stopped at the patio table and turned around. "How is Dr. Benjamin? I heard he was losing some weight."

Sensing an uphill battle on the Heinrich front, I retreated for the time being. "His earlobes did appear—slightly more buff than usual."

"What did he say about your little problem? Are you normal yet?"

Is she callin' me—little?

Feeling rather close—to the edge once again, I grabbed a donut off the table and violently bit into it.

My mother casually handed me a napkin. "I hope you washed your hands?"

"Wh—why?" I asked while secretly wishing I hadn't.

"Just in case, you've been in one of your—moods."

I gave her a swift sneer. "And which mood, would that be—Mother?"

"Where you—have an overwhelming urge to hack off parts of your anatomy."

Ouch! I still think you could get away with the self-defense plea.

"Thank you, Mother," I said indifferently.

"For what, dear?"

"For proving to me, Dorothy and Toto were right."

My mother gave me a rather confused grin. "About what?"

I forced out one of my more sarcastic smiles. "There's no place—like home."

As my mother's confused grin turned to one of annoyance, I sensed our conversation had come to an abrupt end. "I think I better go change and head off to work."

Before we fuckin' kill you!

Just then, Joanie walked onto the terrace, diverting my mother's verbal assault momentarily. "Oh! Joanie! Were you able to pick up my prescription?"

"Yes," she said. "I left it on the hall table."

What are the chances, the pharmacist made a mistake and accidently gave her arsenic?

My mother reached out and gently took Joanie's hand in hers. "Thank you, dear! I can always count on you—unlike some others!"

Is she talkin' about you—or me?

As Joanie took her usual spot alongside my mother, she weakly pointed in my direction. "Did you tell Ashley about the phone call he got this morning?"

Curious, I delayed my exit temporarily.

"Yes," my mother said, quite confidently. "Yes, I did."

"You did?" I asked, somewhat befuddled. "Where was I?"

My mother glared at me, like—I was some kind of insignificant insect.

What did I tell you! The Bitch is tryin' to control you again!

"You didn't tell me about any phone call!" I barked.

"Haven't I?" she asked coldly. "I could've sworn—"

I shook my head. "No! You haven't!"

Are you sure? You didn't black-out again, did you?

"Dammit," I mumbled. "Maybe—I did. I do have a headache."

You idiot! I was just fuckin' with you! The Bitch didn't tell you shit!

"I believe it was woman," my mother finally said, rather indignantly. "I think?"

Somewhat relived to know I didn't black-out; I urgently pressed my mother for more information. "Did she have a name?"

My mother turned to Joanie for some guidance. "Did I mention her name?"

Joanie thought for a moment. "I believe you said it was a—Bryce Williams?"

My mother immediately dismissed Joanie's comment with a wave of her hand.

I threw my arms up in frustration as my mother took Joanie by the arm. "You worry too much, Ashley," my mother said. "If she has something important to tell you, I'm sure she'll call back."

I watched in silence as the two of them walked towards the house. "Oh! One more thing," my mother said as she glanced back over her shoulder. "Don't be late tonight! Trish called. She's driving up for dinner."

I grabbed one of the patio chairs and quickly sat down—as I felt my entire body go limp.

Hey! Hey! Speak for yourself! Nobody down here is fuckin' limp!

"Who—" I yelled across the terrace. "Who's coming to dinner?"

Sidney Poitier.

"Your ex-wife!" my mother shot back as Joanie opened the patio door. "So don't be late!"

My head started to swirl. "Trish—is coming here for dinner?" My breathing suddenly became rather labored as my throat started to close up. "Why? What could she want?"

Fifteen inches of magnificently molded meat!

"I—I haven't seen her since she walked out on me—eighteen months ago."

Actually, it's eighteen months, twenty-three days, nineteen hours, twenty-six minutes and four seconds. Make that five seconds. Make that six—

I got up and hurried over to the terrace's railing and looked out towards the horizon. "I—I don't know—if I'm ready for this? What am I going to say to her?"

Fancy a fuck?
CHAPTER FIVE

As I stepped out the front door and into the bright afternoon sun, I had a difficult time deciding what hurt more; my heel—or my head.

You don't know what the fuck you're talkin' about!

It was definitely—my head. "Leave me alone."

It wasn't my fault Trish wound up in the goddamn emergency room on your second date.

"I'm not blaming you. Okay!" I glanced over at the Rolls and noticed that Heinrich wasn't waiting for me, like he said he'd be. "So do me a favor and shut up—will you please."

Damn right you're not. I'm not the one who talked her into lettin' you fuck her chesticles in the back seat of that old Mustang of yours.

"Heinrich!" I eagerly called out. "Where are you? I'm late for work!" I immediately cringed at my declaration. "Work? That's a joke. I cut lawns. How pitiful is that? One day you're a homicide detective—and the next day you're cutting lawns."

Remember how cramped the three of us were in that backseat?

"Heinrich!" I called out a bit louder while unconsciously wringing my hands together. "Where are you?"

Remember how I nearly broke out the back window when you whipped me out?

"Heinrich!"

If you ask me, it was Trish's fault! If she didn't look down at me, I would never have poked her in the eye and tore her fuckin' cornea.

With no sign of Heinrich, I couldn't help but sum up my feelings. "This sucks."

I think you meant to say—you suck! Right?

I took a moment to think it over. "Maybe—I do," I said, totally defeated. "If I didn't snap, like I did—I wouldn't be in this mess right now. I wouldn't be divorced. I wouldn't be suspended from the force. And I definitely wouldn't have had to go crawling back to my mother!"

"Hey! Ash!"

Turning, I finally noticed Roger leaning against his patrol car.

This is a first. He's not pickin' his fuckin' nose.

Roger hadn't changed a bit since high school; he was still skinny as a rail, he still had that flaming red hair, and he had—

The fuckin' intelligence of a retarded amoeba.

As I hurried down the steps, I couldn't help but reflect on the good times we had growing up together and the wild pranks we inflicted on Newport.

Why did you ever hang out with this fuckin' loser?

"Thanks for coming, Roger," I said, extending my hand. "I really appreciate it."

Ignoring my hand, Roger stepped up and gave me a hug.

Hey! Hey! Homo alert!

"It's good to see you, Ash!" he said, stepping back and giving me the once over. "It's been awhile. How have you been?"

"Well, I've been—"

"Why didn't you tell me you were going to raid old lady Steinberger's place? I would've gone with you—like the old days!"

Dammit. How did he know about my run in with Steinberger? "How did you—"

"She called in and made a formal complaint," he said while struggling to hold in his laughter.

Bitch.

"That's just great," I snarled. "That's all I needed. The whole town probably knows about it by now."

"Don't worry about it," Roger said, trying to reassure me. "She does it all the time. No one pays any attention to her."

Hoping to shift Roger's attention away from Old Lady Steinberger, I put my arm around his shoulder and steered him back towards his patrol car. "I need your help."

What the fuck is this? Brokeback Newport? What the hell are you doin'? Real guys don't fuckin' touch!

I casually let my arm drop to my side. "I—I need you to do me a favor," I said, my voice barely above a whisper. "I think someone is following me."

Roger appeared somewhat puzzled. "Does this have anything to do with the Rolls?"

It was my turn to appear puzzled. "Wh—what?"

As Roger directed my attention back to the Rolls, I noticed the rear tire. It was completely flat.

You're lucky; it's only flat on one side.

Ignoring the joke, if that's what it was—I bent down and inspected the tire.

Hey! Fuck you! They all can't be fuckin' gems.

Running my fingers along the top of the tire, I counted about a half dozen deep slashes in the brand new tire. "I have a feeling someone is trying to tell me something."

Yeah! You need a new fuckin' tire.

Crouching next to me, Roger examined the damage. "What do you think—a knife?"

Wow! Sir Isaac Newton's pretty sharp. I was thinkin' more along the line of maybe—a fuckin' spoon.

"A sharp one too," I said, pointing to one of the cuts. "See how smooth these tears are, it was razor sharp."

Roger nodded. "Who do you think did it?"

If I had to guess, I'd say someone with a big fuckin' knife.

I swiftly patted his shoulder. "That my old friend—is what you're going to find out."

As Roger scratched his head; his patented blank expression crossed his face. I remember he got it a lot in Mrs. Hudson's third period chemistry class.

This guy's so stupid, he probably thinks Thailand is a fuckin' men's clothin' store.

"Me?" he questioned. "Why me? You're the big time New York City detective."

I shook my head sadly. "Not anymore."

"I'm still a lousy patrolman." Roger leaned into me and lowered his voice. "I flunked the sergeant's test again last week."

I don't think this guy has any grain in the silo, if you know what I mean.

"That's okay," I said, patting him on his shoulder again. "I'm sure you just need to study some more."

His voice dropped even lower. "It was the fourth time."

What a fuckin' loser.

This time, I gave him a hardy pat on the back. "I—I have confidence in you,"

You lyin' bastard.

As we stood up, Roger reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out a small pad. "Well—" Pressing his pen to his lips, he contemplated his first question. "Can you describe who you think is following you?"

I nodded. "It's a late model BMW."

Roger paused a moment. "It's not a red BMW by any chance, is it?"

I was amazed. "How did you know?"

"One was parked outside your gate as I pulled into your driveway."

"Did you see the driver?"

Roger shook his head. "Sorry."

I walked off while trying to make sense of it all. "Why would someone follow me all day? Then leave me a note—telling me not to do something! And then—slash my tire?"

"You have no idea who it is?" Roger asked, dragging me back to reality.

I shook my head. "Not a clue."

"Did you get a license plate number?"

I slapped the side of my head in frustration. "Dammit. Why didn't I think of that?"

You two fuckin' knuckle-heads aren't related are you?

I shook my head in disgust. "No."

It was a New York plate. The first three numbers were—four, two, eight! You can thank me later.

"Wait!" I said, trying to gather my thoughts. "I—I think it was a New York plate."

Roger scribbled in his pad. "Is there anything else you can remember?"

"I—I think the first three numbers were four, two—" I paused momentarily, before repeating the first two numbers again, "Four, two—"

"I got those," Roger said. "What was the third one?"

I slowly repeated the first two numbers—a third time. "Four, two—"

You fuckin' forgot the third number, didn't you?

"Nooo," I mumbled under my breath.

You're certainly not the sharpest canyon in the box, are you?

"Five?" I guessed.

It was eight! You fuckin' moron!

I quickly motioned to Roger to cross out the five. "Sorry! I meant to say eight!"

"Good," Roger said, sliding his notepad back into his pocket. "I'll get right on it. I'll let you know what I find out."

"Thanks Roger," I said. "I owe you one."

What the hell would you be without me?

"Mentally sound."

I was goin' to say a fuckin' transsexual.

As I pondered the slashed tire, I remembered an article I recently read about some poor guy out in California who got killed while changing a tire on his car. The car somehow slipped off the jack and crushed him to death.

Are you fuckin' thinkin', what I'm thinkin'?

"May—maybe," I said as I looked up and sang out, "Oooh! Heinrich!"

Oh! Hell! Just strangle the fuckin' Nazi with some piano wire—and get it over with.

As I mentally compiled names of people, who I knew owned a piano—a rather disconcerting thought crossed my mind. "I don't think I'm alone."

You're not. I'm right here.

Quickly glancing over my shoulder, I noticed several bushes lining the driveway—move slightly. "I think—I'm being watched."

It's probably one of those damn photographers from 'Entertainment Tonight'. I hear Nancy O'Dell offered a million bucks to the first one to get a picture of me.

As I continued to scan the grounds, another thought hit me. "If someone is out there—watching me? They could just as easily be pointing—a gun at me!"

Why would anyone—

With cat-like agility, I whirled around and launched myself across the Rolls' hood—

Nooo!

—right into—

AAAAGRH!

—the hood ornament!

Off—officer—fuckin' down!

Holding my—

Smoked meat log.

—I rolled off the hood and collapsed onto the ground. "I—I watched Starsky and Hutch slide—across their hood—hundreds of times! Nothing like this—ever happened to them!"

You fuckin' moron! That's because Torinos don't have goddamn hood ornaments!

Opening my eyes, it dawned on me I was sprawled out on the ground—in full view of any potential assassin. Grabbing on to the front bumper, I dragged myself behind the Rolls and crouched down, out-of-sight.

Must you crouch! You're creasin' me!

"Shut up," I winced. "Someone is out there. I can feel it."

That's me swellin', you moron! I need a fuckin' ice pack!

Easing myself up, I peeked over the front fender.

You don't see a doctor out there, do you?

"No," I whispered. "But—whoever is out there obviously has the upper hand at the moment. There's no way, I'll be able to sneak passed them, now."

Stop whisperin'! I can't fuckin' hear you!

"What I need," I said, raising my voice slightly, "is to get on an even playing field with them. I need to draw them out into the open."

What you need, besides a competent psychiatrist, is to get them out of that fuckin' BMW! You'll never catch them in that.

Agreeing totally, I crouched down behind the Rolls again and contemplated my situation while looking back towards the rear of the house.

Again with the fuckin' crouchin'!

"Wait a minute—" I said. "That's it! Cliff Walk! Of course!"

What the hell are you babblin' about?

"Next to the mansions, Cliff Walk is Newport's biggest attraction. It's a 3.5 mile public access trail that was built along the coast and runs in back of a lot of the mansions. It gives tourists—sort of a glimpse of Newport's architectural history."

Why are you tellin' me all of this shit? I know what Cliff Walk is. I didn't just step off some fuckin' banana boat, you know!

"Fortunately for me, today—it's going to be my escape route!" I excitedly rubbed my hands together in anticipation. "It just so happens—Cliff Walk runs behind both Hardly—and Treasure Hall."

Treasure Hall?

"If someone is following me, they'll have to do it on foot. Which will give me the perfect opportunity to see who they—"

You have to mow Treasure Hall's fuckin' lawn today?

I carefully peeked over the hood again. "Yes! Yes—I do! And—I don't want to hear any complaints."

I hope you brought along the fuckin' pillow.

Although, Treasure Hall fell well short of—let's say, The Breakers in square footage, it certainly made up for it in acreage. Treasure Hall is on one of the largest plots of land in Newport. With the right wind conditions, Ray Charles probably could've landed a 747 on the front lawn—it's that huge.

I'm sorry! I must've dozed off. Were you talkin' about me?

Refocusing on my present dilemma, I cautiously stood up and hobbled towards the row of large lilac bushes that lined the north wing.

What the hell are you doin'?

"Shhh!" Taking one more casual look around, I carefully moved into position. "Watch this."

What the fuck are goin' to do, now?

Taking one last cleansing breath—I threw myself into the bushes and out of any cross-hairs that happened to have a bead on me.

This is so fuckin' embarrassin'! If anyone asks, I don't know you.

I quickly began to claw my way through the bushes. "This is perfect!" I chuckled. "These lilacs should give me plenty of cover to the end of the house. From there—I'll use the row of oak trees! I'll then circle around the gazebo to the old garden wall, where it's a short hop, skip and a jump to the back wall!"

Hey! Hey! No fuckin' skippin'!

"Then it's over the wall and onto Cliff Walk!"

Hey! Did you hear me? No fuckin' skippin'! I still have the goddamn bruises from the last time you skipped!

"Wh—what?"

It was like your thighs were usin' me as a fuckin' punchin' bag.

"I must've been in grade school—the last time I skipped."

Hey! Something's—you don't fuckin' forget!
CHAPTER SIX

It's been years since I've stood out here on Cliff Walk—and gazed out over the water. As a kid, I remember coming out here a lot. I used to try to imagine how it must've been way back when real pirates, like Captain Kidd and Toothless Tommy sailed these waters.

Remember watchin' the X-rated version of 'Pirates'?

"Go away."

Remember how that one really hot chick stuck that lit candle up that blonde's ass? Talk about—Yo! Ho! Ho!

Suddenly, a seagull swooped down into my field of vision. As I watched him effortlessly soar higher and higher, it dawned on me—I'd forgotten how peaceful and tranquil it was out here.

Excuse me! But aren't you forgettin' somethin' else?

"Was I?" I immediately pushed myself up and away from the wall. "Dammit. I was! I should've been at work hours ago."

Yeah! But that's not exactly what I was referrin' too.

"Shut up!" I snapped as I ran off towards Treasure Hall.

Ouch! Must you fuckin' run? I bruise easily.

I hesitantly swung my leg over the riding mover—and paused a moment to reflect. "Here I go again."

You forgot the fuckin' pillow.

Done reflecting—I eased myself down on the tattered seat and eyed the acres—and acres of green lawn in front of me. "I hate my life."

I second the motion.

Resigning myself to the task ahead of me, I reluctantly started up the mower. "I want you to know—it's because of you, I'm forced to do this."

Bite me.

I slowly leaned forward—

Hey! Hey! I was just kiddin' about the 'bite me' comment! It's a fuckin' figure of speech! I really didn't want you to—

"Shut up!" I yelled. "And—calm down! I was just going to adjust the choke."

Oh! Okay! Well—can you blame me? You've done some strange fuckin' shit lately—

"Shhh!" I hissed as I paused—and listened.

What the hell is wrong now?

"Someone is watching me."

Shit! Here we go again.

I cautiously straightened up and gave the area a cursory sweep. Before I could finish though, another thought hit me. "Dammit. I forgot to check to see if anyone followed me over here from Hardly."

That's what I was tryin' to tell you back there on Cliff Walk.

"Why don't you just—fall off?"

Fuck you!

I closed my eyes and forced myself to focus on my problem. "Deep breath! In—and out! In—"

Which problem? You have three or four dozen.

I opened my eyes and vigilantly continued my sweep. "I know someone is watching me." Unfortunately, there was no way of telling if it was the same person who was watching me back at Hardly.

You are so fucked in the head.

"I'm being watched," I growled. "I'm positive! And—I'm not paranoid!"

I hate to tell you this, but you are fuckin' paranoid. However—you're not this time. You are being watched.

"I knew it!" My senses kicked into high gear. "Where?"

Ten o'clock.

"Ten o'clock?" I asked, somewhat bewildered. "It must be closer to three, isn't it?"

You idiot! Ten o'clock! Look over there! To your left! By the fuckin' pine tree! Ten o'clock!

My gaze shot across the lawn.

That's a fuckin' maple. I said the pine tree!

Readjusting my focus, I recognized him immediately; the shaved head, the bushy mustache, the nasty sneer—

The foul stench of a goat's penis on his breath.

It was my supervisor, Abba-Dabba! Abdulla Hussein Dareem—to his fellow jihadists!

Fuckin' terrorist.

My mother hired him after the first Gulf War. He claimed he fled Iraq because of his political beliefs. Personally, I've always felt it was because General Schwarzkopf was about to insert a patriot missile into one of his orifices. We've never really been close.

Close? He's tried to fire you a dozen times in the last eighteen months.

I really don't know what he has against me, but—I'd have to admit—having your mother as his immediate boss does have its advantages.

Maybe he found out you're the one who told the Feds he was Sadam's personal hairdresser.

"Hard!" he yelled, in his heavy Iraqi accent. "You are late! Again! What have I told you?"

If he was trying to hide his displeasure with me, he was doing a lousy job of it. "Wh—what?" I yelled back as I decided to have a little fun with him.

"You are late!" he repeated a bit louder. "Do you not remember what I said, if you were late one more time?"

I quickly revved up the engine. "No thanks! I already ate lunch!" Even from this distance, I could see the veins on his bald head start to throb.

"This is your last warning, Hard! One more time and you are fired! Even your mother will not be able to help you!"

Smiling, I revved the engine one more time. "I'm really sorry about Sadam!"

Furious, he pulled a pair of shears from his belt, grabbed a pine tree branch, and violently snipped off the end of it.

If we were in Iraq, that would've been your fuckin' finger.

I calmly popped the mower into gear and stepped on the gas. "I'd rather have it—be you!"

You are one sick fuckin' bastard.

Smiling for the first time today, I bounced off across the lawn.

Sitting on a riding mower for eight hours a day, six days a week, certainly gives you time to think about things.

Like Candice Swanepoel's yazoos, right?

"Wh—what?"

Candice Swanepoel! That really hot Victoria Secret model!

I shook my head. "No."

Her ass?

"No!" I growled. "Like—like the deep philosophical questions that man has been pondering since the beginning of time!"

Her thighs!

I shook my head. "Noooo!"

Her fuckin' feet?

"Noooo!"

Give me a break! I'm runnin' out of fuckin' body parts.

I wracked my brain for an example. "Like—like is there really a god?"

Oh! Please! I'm right here! How much more proof do you fuckin' need?

"Wh—what?"

What the hell do you think he was makin' on the fuckin' eighth day?

"What I'm trying to say is—I have a lot of time to think about things. Important things! Like the global economy! Or what are we going to do about the Middle East?"

Hey! I think about stuff! Did you know sperm travels only 7 inches an hour?

I pondered that for only a second, before continuing, "Just last week, I came up with a solution to the Middle East situation! It was while I was cutting the front lawn over at—"

Big whoop! I say, let's just fuckin' nuke'em.

"You just can't nuke the entire region!"

Woo! Babe alert!

"I have an eighty-four point peace plan! The first thing they need to do—"

As much as I enjoy listenin' to one of your psychotic rants, may I interrupt to call your attention to the incredibly hot piece of ass walkin' this way?

Oddly enough, there was a woman crossing the lawn. And—she did appear to be walking straight towards me.

She obviously has heard about me and wants to meet me.

"The likelihood of her hearing about me is pretty—"

Who the fuck said anythin' about you?

She probably just got turned around and needs directions. "All though—" I thought out loud. "She isn't dressed like your typical Newport tourist."

Check out those massive bikini stuffers on her.

She looked like she just stepped off the runway at one of those fashion shows in New York City during Fashion Week, with her skin tight designer jeans, black knee-high stretch boots with four inch heels—

The sweater melons! Let's focus on the fuckin' sweater melons!

"—and a skimpy low cut halter top."

That's better.

She suddenly waved in my direction.

Holy shit! She's wavin' at me! Quick! Whip me out and wave me back at her!

"Hello," she called out while flicking her long blonde hair away from her face.

I struggled to think of a witty response.

What about—EAT ME!

I just about had my opening line when the mower came to an abrupt—and may I say, unexpected stop. Unprepared, I flew forward head first into a large bush of some kind. From the small leaf rubbing up against my cornea—it appeared to be a Boxwood.

What the fuck are you doin'?

Totally embarrassed, I sat back down on the mower's seat and pulled a small branch out of my mouth. I was right—it was a Boxwood.

Let's hope this broad is totally blind and didn't see that.

"Are you all right?" she called out as she—jogged over to me.

Holy shit! Look at those jelly bells—jiggle.

I leapt off the mower and crouched down next to the front wheel.

What the fuck are you doin'?

"Pretending to be assessing the damage," I mumbled. "So—shut up!"

You are such an ass.

To be honest, I couldn't care less about the mower—or the bush. The mower could be fixed. The bush could be chopped down. It was my ego I was worried about. "Fine," I said sheepishly while keeping my head down. "The tours—start over there." I quickly pointed towards the east wing.

"I've already taken the tour," she said. "I'm here to see you."

My interest clearly peaked.

Don't get too excited, she's obviously talkin' about me.

I looked up to find her—and her—

Wah-wahs.

—leaning over the mower—staring down at me.

Watch it! The left one looks like it's about to pop out of there! Get ready to catch it!

"You're Ashley Hard, aren't you?"

"Deep breath," I mumbled nervously. "In—and out! In—"

She reached out and gently touched my arm. "Are you sure you're all right?"

Startled—I stood up and stepped away from her. "Fine! Just fine!"

She slowly retracted her hand. "You are, Ashley Hard?"

I took a moment to think it over—just to make sure. "May—maybe."

"I thought so," she said, rather relieved. "I recognized you from that article Newsweek did about you, a couple years ago."

I still can't believe that liberal rag didn't mention me.

She held out her hand once again and smiled. "I'm Bryce Williams."

Wiping my hand off on my jeans, I shook her hand. I marveled at how soft and smooth it felt. It was like—grabbing a hold of a puffy white cloud.

Quick! Whip me out and introduce me.

"When I called your house, your mother said I'd find you here."

I was stunned. "My mother—actually admitted she knew me?"

Will you please fuckin' focus! And whip me out! I want to touch the puffy white cloud too.

I did focus—on Bryce though. "You said—you came here to see me?"

She reached into the oversized handbag hanging from her shoulder and began to rustle through it. "I'm a reporter with the New York Daily News." A moment later, she handed me her press credentials.

You're not goin' to introduce me, are you?

"I'm writing a series of articles on some of the unsolved mysteries surrounding Newport's rich and famous."

Oh! The rich and famous line! That's all I needed. More pointing and—staring!

Don't go all fuckin' psycho on me now!

I handed back her press credentials as she continued. "I was hoping that you might be willing to help me with some of the background—"

I quickly jumped on the mower and started it up again. "Sorry!" I snapped. "You've got the wrong guy. I'm—I'm just a lousy groundskeeper."

"You're Peter Hard's grandson, aren't you?" she yelled, over the roar of the engine.

I took another moment to think it over. "May—maybe."

Ask her if she spits or swallows?

Appearing somewhat bothered that she had to yell over the engine, she abruptly reached down and turned the key, shutting off the mower. "You're also New York City's top homicide detective!"

As painful as it was, I felt compelled to correct her. "I used to be."

She shot me a coy little smile. "I've done my homework on you, Lieutenant," she said, pulling a small pad from her handbag. "Some of your exploits are what legends are made of." She glanced up from her pad and smiled again. "Your arrest record is quite impressive."

That's code—for you have a huge slab of man-meat!

"Please," I winced. "It's—Ashley!"

Look that those fuckin' Hindenburgs on her! Hey! I just thought of somethin'! Why don't you help her! Maybe she'll let you—touch them.

My eye suddenly twitched. "Help her?" I mumbled to myself. "I'm the one who needs help! Who's going to help me?"

I will! I'm here for you!

"I'm sorry," I said, starting the mower up again. "I'm really busy right now."

You lousy rat bastard! I hope you die! I hope you die tomorrow!

I directed her attention towards the vast lawn in front of us. "See! There's no way I could help you right now."

Bryce leaned forward and yelled into my ear. "Would you be willing to answer a few questions?"

Not wanting to appear as a total jerk—

Too late, jerkoff!

—I forced myself to look up at her again. To my chagrin, my gaze didn't quite make it passed her—glistening cleavage.

Do you think she'd mind, if you'd floss in between Sir Galahad and King Arthur—with me?

"I—I guess so," I blurted out as I once again turned off the mower.

"What do you know about the Howell's jewel robbery?"

"Wh—what?" I asked as I finally tore my gaze away from her—

All day suckers.

"The Howell's jewel robbery?" she repeated while pointing towards Treasure Hall. "It happened right here ..."

Any memory of the robbery I might've had was instantaneously forgotten as I watched her remove her sun glasses—revealing the most gorgeous pair of green eye's—I'd ever seen.

"... over thirty years ago!" She slid the pair of sun glasses up on her head and continued, "It happened during one of Mrs. Howell's infamous Christmas in July parties. Three point four million dollars in precious jewels—just vanished."

Do you think she's one of the 7 percent of women that sleep in the nude?

My eye began to twitch again. "Miss—"

"Bryce," she insisted, interrupting my thought process.

I nodded politely as I massaged my eye. "If I'm not mistaken, they arrested—"

"Lester Page," she blurted out, interrupting my train of thought once again. "He died three weeks ago in prison."

"Really," I said, fighting back a yawn.

"Page's widow contacted me a week ago and told me some interesting facts concerning the robbery, which never came out in the trial."

I knew exactly where this was going. Page's wife probably came to her, with some sob story—how she believed her husband was framed for the robbery. She then probably offered Bryce the exclusive story if she would come up to Newport—and poke around.

I know where I'd like to poke around.

"Shut up," I growled.

Do you even remember the last time you had me inside a woman?

Caught off guard with the question—I struggled to remember.

It was the goddamn Stature of Liberty!

Once I got myself refocused, I quickly found Bryce's little plan—rather transparent. She was clearly trying to peak my curiosity, so I'd help her. Unfortunately, if I remember correctly, it was pretty much an open and shut case against Page. Even if I did help, the likelihood of Bryce finding any new evidence seemed slim. Finalizing my decision, I again started up the mower. "I'll look forward to reading about it."

Bryce obviously didn't like my decision as she immediately reached down and switched off the engine again. "I think you should hear what she had to say first. It concerns your father."

I had to admit, she had my attention.

Do you think she reads Penthouse?

Unfortunately, it wasn't for long. "Wh—what?"

I read somewhere 58 percent of women who read Penthouse say they would have sex with a total stranger for a million bucks.

Bryce quickly continued. "Your father died the same night as the robbery, didn't he?"

You have your checkbook, right?

Finding myself having to refocus once again, I took a moment to mull over Bryce's—

Massive banana squeezers.

"Noo!" I growled softly. "Her comment—about my father!"

Yeah! Right!

I figured there was no sense in denying it, she obviously knew he did. "Yes!" I blurted out. "Yes—he did! And if you must know—my father was a life-long drunk! Everyone knew it!" I paused a moment, just in case Bryce had anymore little tidbits she wanted to add. When she didn't—I continued. "The police figured he was walking to the Howell's party along Cliff Walk totally plastered. It was dark. He stumbled—and fell over the wall. He was found the next morning, exactly how he enjoyed his gin—on the rocks."

Good one! I wish I said it.

I again started up the mower, hopefully for the last time. The starter was sounding rather stressed. "Now—if you'll excuse me, I'll be getting back to work." I stomped on the gas pedal and—

BANG!

—drove right into the Boxwood. Again!

Nice goin', Betty Butt-fucker.

"Shut up."

You do realize you'll never get into her pants, if you keep actin' like a fuckin' lunatic.

Appearing quite willing to overlook my slight blunder, Bryce stepped forward. "Page's wife told me that her husband swore on his death bed that Howell hired him to steal the jewels."

I plucked another branch out from between my teeth and calmly tossed it over my shoulder. "Why would Howell hire Page to steal his own jewels?"

"For the insurance money," Bryce countered as her breasts heaved with excitement.

Oooh! Yeah!

I hastily averted my eyes, not only to get the image of heaving breasts out of my mind; I also wanted to consider Bryce's theory. Strangely enough, it had merit. Both Howells were legendary for spending money. Mrs. Howell constantly threw incredibly lavish parties, while old man Howell seemed to be constantly renovating Treasure Hall, not to mention adding as much—grass as he could.

"All right," I said, trying to keep my focus somewhere in the vicinity of Bryce's green eyes—and full moist, red lips.

I wonder what color her areolas are.

I recoiled painfully. Eye cramp!

"He also told his wife," added Bryce, "that on the night of the robbery as he was running away from Treasure Hall—he bumped into someone on Cliff Walk."

Wouldn't you just love to lick the inside of her thighs?

I continued massaging my twitching eye. "Is—is that so?"

She nodded. "Unfortunately, being so dark, he couldn't tell who it was. He said he pushed the person away and ran off. But when he got to his place, he realized that he didn't have the jewels anymore."

Do you think those fuckin' radar domes are real?

Thankfully, I didn't have the time to give it much thought as Bryce pushed on. "Thinking he dropped the jewels somewhere on Cliff Walk, he went back to where he had the scuffle. But when he got there, there were no jewels—and no sign of the person he bumped into."

I had a sneaky suspicion I knew where this was going too.

I know where I'd like to go. Right between her—

"You're going to tell me," I blurted out, "that Page bumped into my father, aren't you?"

"Who else could it be?" she asked. "It all fits! That's why Page never told anyone about it. Hearing about your father falling to his death, he figured if he said anything, he might be accused of not only stealing the Howell's jewels, but killing your father too."

I couldn't help but chuckle.

Unfortunately, Bryce wasn't chucking. "You don't believe it, do you?"

I shook my head. "No! Sorry."

She appeared somewhat disappointed. "You've never wondered if there was a connection between your father falling to his death—just feet from the Howell's mansion—where on the same night, the largest jewel robbery in Newport history took place?"

You got to admit she's has a point. And I don't mean those two fuckin' points that are tryin' to push through that top of hers.

"No—nope!" I said, with a slight stammer. "My father was a low-life, womanizing, fall-on-your-face drunk."

Bryce's silence was deafening.

"It was an unfortunate accident," I swiftly added. "And that's all. There's no story! No mystery!"

"Are you sure?"

I nodded. Unfortunately, it wasn't the over powering confident nod I hoped for. I couldn't help but think—was I having second thoughts? Could she be right? Did Page run into my father on Cliff Walk that night—and accidently push him over the wall?

All good questions! But I have a better one. What the hell is keepin' Tango and Cash over there from poppin' out of that fuckin' top of hers?

"So—" she said sounding rather disappointed. "You won't help me?"

I reluctantly shook my head. "Sorry. I'm afraid not."

Are you fuckin' insane! Have you taken a good look at her!

"I—I wouldn't be much help to you anyway, really," I told her, trying to justify my decision, not only to her—but to myself too. "I'm still working through—some issues, right now. I'm not ready yet."

Don't be too surprised, if you wake up one mornin' and find out that I've fuckin' strangled you in your fuckin' sleep.

"Well—" she said while struggling to slide her hand into the front pocket of her—tight jeans.

I really do fuckin' hate you. You know that, right?

She pulled out a business card and handed it to me.

Quick! Sniff it!

"Just in case you change your mind," she said.

I whimperishly shrugged my shoulders. "I—I really am sorry."

A disappointed smile crossed her face. "I am too." With that, she turned and walked off across the lawn.

You ass! Look at that ass!

I was.
CHAPTER SEVEN

As I watched the sun's last speck of light disappear behind a large pine tree across the street, I lifted my foot off the gas pedal and allowed the mower to coast to a stop. I was finally done. Throwing my head back, I closed my eyes and exhaled a well-deserved sigh of relief.

You missed a spot.

As sighs of relief go—it was a short one.

I'm not kiddin'. Over there, by that pine tree, look!

I didn't need to look. I'd been mowing this lawn for the last eighteen months—I knew the spot. "That patch of grass is always like that. There must be a root or something under there that pushes up the grass like that."

Are you sure? It looks like shit.

"I'm positive!" I gingerly stepped off the mower and took a mental inventory of my body parts. Legs? Numb. Back? Aching. Neck? Stiff. Head? Throbbing.

Penis? Fuckin' horney.

A cold ocean breeze suddenly swirled around me while sending an icy chill up my spine.

A spine? If you had a fuckin' spine, you would've told Bryce that we'd help her and she'd be unzippin' your goddamn pants, right now!

"Hey!" I snapped. "I would help her if I could! I'm—not ready."

You puss! That Weight Watcher reject, you call a psychiatrist, thinks you are. He fuckin' said so this mornin'.

"Well—he's wrong!"

You're a goddamn chicken! Admit it! Kluk! Kluk! Kluuuuuuuk!

"Shut up!"

Kluk! Kluk! Fuckin' kluk!

"What would I be afraid of?"

That Bryce is right about your worthless old man.

I gave it some thought. Then—I gave it some more. "I guess it could be possible," I said, thinking aloud. "Although—I've never heard anyone ever link the two events together before." But—if Page was telling the truth, I could see where he'd be less than eager to tell the authorities what happened that night.

I agree! Call her! She's probably steppin' into the tub to take a bath.

I continued to assess the possibilities. "If my father and Page did bump into one another that night—and Page did push him away like he claimed—I'd have to admit, my father in his drunken condition, could easily have tripped and fallen over that wall."

I agree! Call her! She's probably soapin' herself up.

"No!" I said, shaking my head. "No bath! No soap—soaping up!"

Fair enough! We'll take it slow. Invite her to dinner tomorrow night and we'll talk over—

"Dinner! I forgot about dinner! My mother is going to kill me!" Panic stricken, I checked my watch.

You don't have a fuckin' watch. You smashed it in one of your crazed frenzies, when you couldn't figure out how to change the time for daylight savings.

"Whoever heard of having eight buttons on a watch?"

There were only four!

"Shut up!" I screamed as I desperately searched for a solution to my present problem.

Suicide is always an option.

I looked up at the darkening sky. "It's almost dark!" There's no way I'll make it home in time now. "It must be close to eight. My mother always has dinner at seven! Sharp!" I'm a dead man! Totally exasperated, I let loose with an ear piercing scream.

I immediately heard a gasp behind me. Turning, I saw a somewhat startled young couple, out for an evening stroll—staring at me through the front gate.

Nice goin'.

Composing myself, I nodded. "Hello!" I started walking towards them. "Good evening!"

The young woman backed away from the gate with a frightened expression on her face. I seem to be getting a lot of those lately. Her male companion didn't look much better. He nervously stepped in front of her as if to protect her from some crazed evil demon.

It's your fuckin' eye. It's twitchin'.

I casually put my hand over my eye and smiled. "Would either of you have the time?"

The guy cautiously checked his cell phone. "Eight-thirty."

I screamed again.

Will you calm down! You sound like a ten year old boy who just saw Jerry Sandusky walkin' towards him, holdin' out a fuckin' lollipop.

As I watched the two love-birds run across the street and disappear down Windermere, the obvious solution to my problem—suddenly hit me. "I'll run home!"

No! No more fuckin' runnin'!

"What else can I do?" I snapped. "I have no car! I left Hen rich's cell phone back at the house!"

I did mention suicide, right?

My thoughts immediately went to Trish. "I have to see Trish before she goes," I quickly added as I swung open the front gate and stepped out onto the sidewalk. As I glanced up and down the deserted street, an unholy quiet seemed to swirl about me.

Hardly's to your left.

"I know the way!" I snapped as I reluctantly ran off down the street.

You forgot to lock the fuckin' gate!

"Shut up!"

Hey! Fuck you!

I collapsed onto Hardly's front lawn, gasping for my next breath. "I—I made it!" I said, in between gasps.

Speak for yourself. I think I lost one of my boys back there on Bellevue.

Still gasping, I crawled towards the house while mentally finalizing my plan. All things considered, I thought it was a pretty good one. And simple! "A four year old could do it."

Where the hell are you goin' to find a four year old at this time of the night?

"I don't need a four year old. I'm going to do it myself."

I'd go with the four year old, if I were you. You're goin' to fuck it up for sure.

"Will you shut up?" I snapped. "Look at me! I'm a mess! I can't let Trish see me like this. She'll think I'm some kind of—"

Groundskeeper—slash—fuckin' loser?

I thought it over. "May—maybe." Getting my second wind, I quickened my crawl along the row of lilacs. "Dinner is obviously over by now. After dinner, my mother always entertains in the living room. I'll go around to the back of the house, sneak up the old servant's staircase to my room, clean up and—"

"Ashley?"

I stopped in mid crawl. I think my heart stopped too. But at the moment—I was more concerned with my bladder. It seemed to be filling at an unusually rapid rate.

"What are you doing down there?" came my mother's voice once again. "And—you are late!"

I told you, you were goin' to fuck it up.

Grudgingly, I glanced up and found my mother—staring down at me, from the lower north terrace. There went my theory on how she always entertained her guests in the living room.

I told you to get the four year old. He probably wouldn't have been talkin' to himself.

I forced out an uneasy smile as I waited for my bladder to explode.

"Well?" she asked. "What are you doing down there?"

Tell her you were weedin'.

"Weeding?"

You idiot! Don't you know sarcasm when you hear it?

"What!" she snapped.

I swiftly threw out a chuckle. "I'm—I'm kidding!"

"Ashley, dear," she said coldly. "I hope you made another appointment with Dr. Benjamin for next week. I'm afraid you're not well."

I was about to nod in agreement, when Trish appeared at my mother's side. She was as lovely as ever; with that long jet-black hair, those dark eyes, the turned up nose—

Let's not forget that labia of hers.

"Hello, Ash," she said sadly.

I ran through several possible retorts as I stumbled to my feet. But—to be perfectly honest, I had absolutely no idea what to say. Should I still be angry with her for divorcing me—like she did? She did leave me—right when I really needed her.

Shit! If I could've, I would've left you too.

"Hello," I replied cautiously. "How are—"

"Never mind all of that," my mother snapped. "Would you please stop lurking around down there, like some crazed Peeping Tom, and get up here before someone sees you!"

As I climbed up on to the terrace, my eyes immediately locked onto Trish. She looked fantastic. Her tight white dress accentuated her curves in all the right spots.

Finally smiling, she walked up to me and gave me a small kiss on the cheek.

Hey! Hey! Don't forget me!

"How have you been?" she asked me.

I hastily brushed myself off before answering. "Okay! Dr. Benjamin says—I'm progressing along as well as—"

"Ashley," my mother said, rudely interrupting me. "Come over here and sit down."

Trish took my arm and led me to the empty chairs that were strategically placed around the small patio table. As my mother poured herself a glass of lemonade, Trish leaned into me and whispered in my ear. "How's Timmy?"

That's my cue! Quick! Whip me out!

From the expression on her face, I couldn't quite read what she was getting at. "He—he's gone," I said guardedly.

You no-good lyin' bastard!

"Good," she said as she sat down. "That's good to hear."

"Ashley," my mother said while patting the empty chair next to her. "Sit over here next to me."

I wanna sit next to Trish!

I did too! So why was my mother diverting me away from Trish? All of a sudden, I felt a sense of impending doom circling above me as if something was about to go horribly—

"Good evening!"

"—wrong," I blurted out as I saw him—walk onto the terrace.

Who the fuck is he?

"You must be Ashley?" he said as he walked towards me with his hand extended. "I've heard a lot about you."

I wracked my brain—trying to remember if I ever met him before. He was in his late forties, brown hair, slightly balding. Rather tall with a slim build.

Sort of a girlie-man build, wouldn't you say?

I nodded discreetly as I wiped my hand on my trousers and shook his hand. "Hello."

What a fuckin' wimpy handshake. This guy is definitely a resident of Faggot City. I wouldn't be surprised to find out he's the fuckin' mayor.

"Ashley—" Trish said as she got up and walked over to him. "This is Richard Gliss! He's a good friend of mine."

I could feel myself cringe internally. "How—how nice."

You don't think she's doin' this fuckin' pansy, do you?

My mother reached up and grabbed my arm. "Trish has come up with, what I think is a brilliant idea!"

"Well—" Trish said. "To be honest, it's actually Richard's idea."

Isn't Dick, short for Richard?

Trish grabbed on to her good friend's arm and looked wistfully into his eyes. "Richard's idea is to start a candlelight ghost tour at Treasure Hall! Isn't that brilliant?"

"Well—" I said, taking a moment to think it over. Who was this joker? Where did Trish meet him? What does he do for a living? And—could they actually be—sleeping together?

Let's focus on the fuckin' important stuff, okay! We need to find out what Dickless over there, is packin' inside that zipper of his. I'd be willin' to bet, we're talkin'—Tootsie Roll!

Appearing rather inspired, he began to wave his arms about—obviously in an attempt to illustrate his idea.

And—I'm talkin' the fuckin' tiny ones.

"Picture this," he said in a creepy low voice. "Groups of tourists, carrying only lanterns, are lead through the pitch-black mansion by a mysterious hooded tour-guide. As the tour proceeds, the tour-guide describes the mansion's strange and spooky history! How it was built with cursed pirate treasure! The unexplained deaths ..."

He looks fuckin' gay.

"Gay-ish—anyway," I mumbled softly.

"... and if that's not enough," he continued with a grand wave of his hand, "they'll get to see firsthand the exact spot where the Treasure Hall's curse started!"

"Richard tells me," added my mother, "there have been at least five unexplained deaths in and around that house since it was built."

"Technically—there have been six," I said absentmindedly, not realizing I was correcting—

Dickless.

"Who's the sixth?" Trish asked, sounding rather put-out that I would have the nerve to correct her—good friend. "We've researched that house extensively. We only came up with five deaths."

I casually cleared my throat. "My—my father."

"Ashley, dear," my mother swiftly countered. "Your father's death was not that mysterious. He was drunk! He tripped and fell."

I didn't feel this was the appropriate time to dwell too deeply into my father's death, especially with my mother. I didn't even know how—I felt about it anymore, after discussing it with Bryce this afternoon. "All I'm saying is—some people don't think it happened that way."

"Those people are idiots," my mother swiftly shot back.

Did you notice how she was lookin' right at you when she said—idiot.

Richard enthusiastically rubbed his hands together.

You mean—Dickless, don't you?

"Okay! Six deaths!" he blurted out. "I'll accept that. It just makes Treasure Hall even spookier. What do you think of the idea? Do you think it's worthwhile?"

I don't like this guy for some reason.

I didn't either. And—I was determined to find out why. "How do you know so much about Treasure Hall?"

"I—I grew up in Dorchester," he said, "about thirty miles north of here."

"I think it's a fabulous idea," my mother said. "I think people will love it!" My mother directed her next question to Trish. "You and Richard are staying in town for a few days, aren't you?"

Trish nodded. "We got a room at The Newport."

What the hell did she just say?

They got—a room.

Shit! The asshole is drillin' her!

"Excellent," my mother said while ignoring my gasps for air and my flickering left eye. "Trish, I want you and Richard to stop by tomorrow! I want to start the ball rolling on this as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Marjorie," Trish said. "You won't be disappointed."

My mother quickly shot me—the look. "As long as Ashley isn't involved, I'm sure I won't be."

I found myself mentally sticking my tongue out at her, when all of a sudden—Trish's good friend draped his arm around my shoulders.

Watch it! Homo alert!

We looked at one another—and smiled. Well—he smiled. I pretended to smile.

Yuck! Get a look at that fuckin' nose hair.

"I'm sure Ashley can help, somehow," he said as he gently patted my shoulder.

What's that fuckin' smell?

Before I could answer, my mother continued with her offensive. "I don't think so, Richard. Ashley isn't well."

I quickly maneuvering away from—

Dickless.

—and walked over to my mother. "Will you please stop treating me like—I'm some crazed lunatic!"

You are, though.

"That's not the point," I growled softly.

Sure it is.

"I'm—I'm fine!" I snapped. "In fact, today—Dr. Benjamin told me I should get out more—and challenge myself! Get involved in something!"

"Ashley, dear!" my mother said. "The last thing you need is any more stress. If you want to help Trish and Richard, just keep cutting Treasure Hall's lawn. Make it look really pretty for the first tour. How's that?"

"Excuse me, Madam."

We all turned to see Heinrich walk onto the terrace with another tray of drinks.

My mother was the first to speak. "What is it Heinrich?"

"Mr. Abdulla called, Madam."

Uh! Oh!

Heinrich cleared his throat before continuing. "He has fired Master Ashley—again."

I angrily stepped forward. "What for?"

"It sounded like," Heinrich replied, "for not locking up Treasure Hall's main gate."

Told you.

My mother gave me another one of her—looks. "What am I going to do with you?"

"Well—"

"Never mind," she snapped, cutting me off. "I'll talk to Abdulla tomorrow. I'll straighten it out."

Nooo! Don't let her do that!

I hesitated as I thought her offer over. I didn't see anything really wrong with it. It worked in the past.

You don't need to cut fuckin' lawns anymore, you moron! Help Bryce, instead! Do you realize the publicity you would get, if you solved the Howell robbery? They'd be beggin' you to come back to the force.

I thought it over as I caught myself mumbling. "It would be nice—"

I'll help you!

"Ashley?"

Look around you! Smell the fuckin' roses! Your ex-wife is screwin' Dickless! And—The Bitch is still runnin' your fuckin' life?

I eyed the two love-birds as my mother's voice once again rang out. "Ashley!"

Suddenly, I found myself not only mumbling—but nodding too. "Dr. Benjamin thinks I can do it—"

That's right! He does! We'll do it together!

"Ashley!" screamed my mother.

"Nooo!" I screamed back instinctively. Realizing what I just did, I quickly softened my tone. "Th—that won't be necessary, Mother! Thanks anyway, but—I'm done cutting lawns."

My mother's expression bordered somewhere between—betrayal and total shock. "What are you going to do?" she snarled. "What about your probation? Don't you need to keep a job of some sort?"

I scoffed at the thought as I felt Trish gently touch my arm. "I have to agree with your mother. What are you going to do?"

Tell her to touch you—a bit lower.

I forced down a swallow. "I'm—getting back into investigating."

Everyone appeared somewhat confused, except for Heinrich of course. I don't think he heard me. He was too busy picking up the empty glasses off the table.

"Good for you," Richard said.

Fuckin' suck up.

"Investigating?" Trish asked. "What are you going to investigate? You haven't got back on the force have you?"

"No—not yet," I answered coldly. "But—it could be a step in the right direction."

My mother just sat there—staring at me.

"Wh—what?"

She rose up off her chair and walked towards me with a raised brow. "You haven't told us what you're planning to investigate."

I forced down another swallow. "The Howell—jewel robbery."

The sound of glass breaking suddenly broke the awkward silence.

Everyone turned to see a pile of broken glass lying at Heinrich's feet. "Sorry, Madam!" he said nervously while eyeing my mother. "I vill clean it up immediately!"

"I will—clean it up!" I snapped.

My mother angrily cleared her throat in my direction. "Ashley!"

"The Howell robbery?" Richard asked, grabbing back my attention. "Wasn't that solved years ago?"

"Yes—" I said, "but the jewels were never recovered."

Appearing overly concerned, Trish again took a hold of my arm.

Hey! I'm down here!

"Are you sure you're ready for something like this?" Trish asked.

I carefully nodded. "I think so."

"Where will you even start, after so many years?"

I gave Trish's question some thought before answering. "The lead detective that was assigned to the case, I guess."

Trish's head cocked slightly as she asked yet another question. "How did you get involved in all of this, anyway?"

Thinking it over, I thought it might be a bit premature to say anything else. I still hadn't contacted Bryce to tell her that I'd changed my mind. Maybe—she wouldn't even want my help anymore. Wow! That sure would make me look like an idiot, if she did that.

On the topic of lookin' like a fuckin' idiot, your ex-wife is still waitin' for an answer.

Focusing once again, I definitely sensed a disturbance in the force as I looked around the terrace. All eyes were on me. And—they weren't happy eyes. I had to wonder, why none of them appeared overly excited about my news. Trish appeared rather concerned. My mother looked down right annoyed. And as for—

Dickless.

—he had this odd sort of grimace about him.

Constipation.

"A reporter!" I blurted out—finally answering Trish's question. "She's—a good friend of mine."

Trish's dark eyes got—even darker. "What's her name?"

Hang on! I just had a thought! Bryce! And—Trish! Think—threesome!

I swiftly took my seat and crossed my legs. "I—I think that's all I'll say right now. I—I don't want anything to jeopardize my investigation."

Hey! You do realize I expect some primo pussy in return for my help. At least a fuckin' blowjob!
CHAPTER EIGHT

Crawling out of bed, I shuffled into the bathroom, turned on the light, and stood in front of the mirror—staring at myself. "You look like crap."

It's the eyebrows. I think it's time you start trimin' those fuckin' bad boys.

I leaned forward and rested my aching head on the mirror. "Why? Why did you do it?" I asked myself. "Why did you call Bryce—and tell her you would help her? You can barely help yourself."

You've got to admit, she sounded pretty excited when you told her you'd changed your mind. If I'm not mistaken, I think I heard her love juices tricklin' down her leg.

I closed my puffy eyes and gingerly rubbed my throbbing temples. "You're going to make a total fool of yourself."

You couldn't do any worse than you did last night.

"That's for sure," I groaned openly. "After my little announcement—"

Who the hell are you callin' little?

"—everything fell apart. Trish and her—good friend left, and my mother stormed off upstairs claiming she had one of her—headaches."

When did The Bitch start callin' a headache—an Ashley?

"The only reason, I said what I did—was to stop her from bad mouthing me in front of Trish. She was making me look like a—"

Fuckin' buffoon?

"Yes!" I growled. "I know deep down she means well, but—sometimes that woman drives me crazy."

It's not a very long drive, is it?

"After last night, Trish probably still thinks I'm a raving lunatic." Come to think of it, she didn't appear too thrilled with me either. I got the feeling—she felt I was trying to steal the wind from her sails, with her idea about the ghost tours. "I honestly wasn't!" It was just one of those strange coincidences. "And as for—"

Dickless.

"—I'm not too sure about him yet."

After a shower and shave, I put on a pair of jeans, my Nike's, and Old Blue—my lucky Queen's College Track and Field sweatshirt. It's seen better days, but it's been pretty lucky for me in the past. I wore it during the Dartmouth track meet, where I qualified for the NCAA Championships in the javelin.

Shit! You won that meet by a fuckin' fluke. Your main competition got appendicitis the night before the meet.

"True," I said. "But—I also met Trish at that track meet. We went on our first date the next day."

Thanks to me.

I shook my head vigorously. "No! No—it wasn't!"

The only reason she came up and started talkin' to you was because of me!

I continued to shake my head. "It was not!"

What the hell are you talkin' about? She saw me danglin' out from the bottom of your shorts.

"Shut up! Just shut up!"

If I'm not mistaken, I even waved at her.

I suddenly heard a crazed cackle from somewhere in my room.

How could she not see me? And FYI—that cackle came out of you, you dumb piece of shit.

"I—I don't have time for this!" I snapped. "I should've met Bryce for breakfast ten minutes ago." I grabbed my jacket and quietly started downstairs. I definitely didn't want to wake anyone up, especially—my mother. I had no time for anymore lectures. And—since Bryce offered to drive, I clearly didn't want—or need Heinrich tagging along. Pulling out Heinrich's cell phone, I dialed the cab company.

Not see me! Give me a break! I was longer than your fuckin' javelin.

As I stepped through the front door of the Whale's Inn, I immediately had second thoughts about suggesting this place to Bryce. Apparently, since the last time I was here the place had become one of Newport's more popular breakfast spots.

What gave it away, Sherlock—the wall to wall people?

"Yes," I mumbled uneasily as several dozen pairs of eyes looked my way. The place was packed. Where was the fire marshal when you needed him?

Watch this! I'll get rid of them. Fire! Fire!

I watched silently as everyone just went on with their business.

What the hell is wrong with these people? Are they all fuckin' deaf? FIRE!

Hoping Bryce had gotten a table already, I carefully maneuvered through the waiting throngs of tourists to where I could see most of the dining room.

Fuck'em! Let' em burn.

Not seeing Bryce anywhere, I was about to plan out my exit strategy when a high pitched voice caught my attention. "Can I help you?"

Turning, I found myself facing a rather emaciated teenager—staring at me from behind the cash register. He looked to be about seventeen, I guess; glasses, slicked back hair.

Zits.

I had to admit—it's been awhile since I ate out at a restaurant. I've been pretty much confined to home cooked meals and brown bagging it. It's safer that way. Less chance—of any incidents.

What the fuck does that mean?

Nevertheless, I was pretty confident I still knew what to do. However, as I walked towards him, I felt rather guilty coming in here, when it was so busy, and getting a table in front of all these people. Here in Newport, the Hard name always gets you to the front of the line. "A table for two," I said calmly. It's the price of fame—I guess.

The kid gave me a surly grin as he picked up a pencil. "It will be about an hour. What's your name?"

"Wh—what?"

The little fucker is obviously new around here.

"My name?" I asked, rather taken back by his question. "I'm—Ash Hard!" I quickly added. "I'd like a table for two. By the window—if that's possible? I like to watch the boats."

"Yeah! Right!" he shot back, sounding a bit too cocky for my liking. "I'll call you when your table is ready."

I was literally stunned. This had never happened to me before. The Hard name always got me a table in Newport! In New York City—it got me free donuts! "That's Ashley! Ashley Hard!" I repeated while putting verbal emphasis on the Hard.

The kid just—stared at me blankly as he directed my attention to a crowd of tourists huddled in the corner. "You can wait over there with them."

I was floored. He wanted me to wait—an hour! For a table! With a bunch of—strangers!

Fuck him! There's a Burger King down the street. They'll know me.

"Shut up."

They named the Whopper after me.

"Shut up!"

"Ashley."

"Wh—what?"

Why are you lookin' down at me? I didn't fuckin' call you!

"Ashley!"

Looking up and spinning around, I spotted Bryce walking towards me.

Holy shit!

I had to agree. She looked—absolutely exquisite. She was wearing this white long sleeve sweater-like top that—sort of draped over one shoulder. And the skirt! It was the tightest thing I've ever seen in my entire life. And—I've seen tight! I worked vice for two years.

Just in case she's watchin' her weight, you might remind her that there's only five calories in a teaspoon of man juice.

"Good morning," she said sweetly.

"Morning," I replied while fighting the urge to stare at her—perfectly shaped legs.

Well—stop it!

As she walked up to me, she reached out and gently touched my arm.

I'm still down here!

"I can't tell you how excited I am, you decided to help me."

Can you hear it? Drip! Drip! Drip!

I opened my mouth—but nothing came out.

"Were you able to get us a table?" She quickly turned and scanned the restaurant. "We have a lot to talk about."

Dammit. I've already let her down. This was a huge mistake. "You're way over your head, Hard!" I mumbled to myself.

Will you fuckin' calm down!

"Ah! No!" I confessed painfully. "They're pretty busy this morning." I swiftly pointed down Thames Street. "There's a Burger King just down the street—"

It's the other way, you fuckin' tard.

"Can I help you?"

Bryce turned her head and smiled. Following her gaze—I sneered. It was pimple boy again. She politely excused herself and walked over to the little jerk. I could sense he was totally enthralled by her as the two of them started talking. "Look at him," I mumbled. "He's practically drooling on himself."

You look at him. I'm lookin' at her.

Bryce had him wrapped around her little finger—and she knew it too.

With a silly grin plastered across his face, the kid suddenly started to back away from Bryce. "I'll have a table for you in just a minute," he gushed, "even if I have to build it myself!"

I felt rather betrayed—to be honest. Two minutes ago, the little creep was basically telling me to take a long walk on a short pier, and now—he's ready to have her baby! "What a suck up!"

And I bet I know what the little bastard wants to suck on too.

"Shut up!"

A window seat! I couldn't believe it. The little toad got her a window seat!

Don't just sit there whinnin'! Say somethin'!

"That's—a nice one," I said, pointing to a large sail boat docked at the pier.

Bryce nodded in agreement. "Yes it is. Do you have one?"

Tell her you have a really big one. Ask her if she'd like to take a ride on it?

"Nooo!" I snapped. "I—I hate boats!" I made the mistake of following up my comment with a rather crazed laugh.

Bryce looked at me strangely before forcing out a tiny smile. "Oh."

I nervously glanced out the window again. "Mental note—" I muttered to myself, "no more crazed laughs."

Goddammit! Say somethin'! But—somethin' intelligent this time!

I drew a blank. "Nothing—is coming to me."

Tell her—she has really nice chest meat.

Eye cramp! Eye cramp!

Bryce suddenly grabbed her handbag off the floor. "Why don't we forget the idle chitchat and get down to business?"

I gave her a quick nod—then went back to massaging my eye.

Her smile immediately brightened as she pulled dozens of newspaper and magazine articles out of her handbag and laid them on the table.

She has the whitest teeth, I would ever want to cum across.

I eagerly grabbed an article off the table.

Bryce quickly directed my attention to the first paragraph. "This one describes some of the jewels that were stolen." She then zealously grabbed another article and showed it to me. "This one lays out how Page supposedly stole the jewels."

I gave the article a quick read before asking my question. "So Howell—actually hired Page to play Santa Claus for his wife's party?"

Bryce nodded.

I found myself fascinated. "And that's how he got the jewels out of the house—inside the Santa Claus suit?"

Bryce nodded again. "Yep!" She nonchalantly repositioned herself in her chair as she reached across the table to grab another article.

Holy shit! She's not wearin' any fuckin' panties!

Slightly shaken, I cleared my throat. "Wh—what?"

"Page never denied stealing the jewels," continued Bryce. "But he insisted Howell hired him to steal them."

Composing myself, I carefully considered my next question. "If he admitted—to taking the jewels, what did he do with them?"

"He said he dropped them somewhere as he ran to his car."

I had my next question—primed and ready. "So the story about him bumping into someone on Cliff Walk—never came out in the trial?"

Bryce shook her head. "Like I said, he was afraid he'd be blamed for your father's death."

Did you hear me? She's not wearin' any fuckin' panties!

Starting to choke on my own spit, I grabbed my glass of water and took a small sip.

And she's completely shaved!

I emptied the glass in two gulps.

I'll bet you a hundred bucks!

"Is it getting—hot in here?" I asked as I dried my sweaty palms on my napkin.

Good thinkin'! Drop your napkin! And when you bend down to pick it up, take a look for yourself. You should have a clear shot.

"Focus!" I growled softly. Think—logically! It's impossible for him to see—up her dress! He has no eyes!

Hey! I have a sixth sense!

Wasn't that a movie about a kid who saw dead people?

I see—shaved pussies.

"Deep breath!" I snapped. "In—and out!"

Bryce suddenly took my hand in hers. "Are you feeling all right?" she asked. "You're looking a bit pale."

"Where's our waitress?" I asked nervously as I grabbed her glass of water and drank it down too. "We're going to need—more water over here."

Okay! If you don't want to take a peek, that's fine! Pull up closer to the table so you can whip me out without anyone seein'. And I'll just mosey on over there on my own—and poke around for a while.

Startled—I looked up to find a middle-aged woman standing next to me, holding a pad and pencil in her hand. "Well—" I said, snatching the pad and pencil away from her. "I don't usually give out autographs, but—" I smiled up at her. "Who should I make it out too?"

The woman immediately grabbed her pad and pencil back. "I didn't ask for your autograph," she snarled. "I'm your waitress! Are you ready to order?"

"Oh!" I said painfully. "What kind of—juices do you have?"

"We have apple juice, orange juice, grapefruit juice, prune juice—"

Hey! Hey! Turn off the juice before I get electrocuted.

I obviously watched one too many—Marx Brother's movies growing up. "I'll—just have a glass of water."

Muttering something under her breath she turned to Bryce. "And you?"

Bryce gave her menu a quick glance. "I'll have the number one special with scrambled eggs and a small orange juice."

The waitress nodded politely at Bryce, then sneered at me one more time before walking away.

Did you notice how she eyed Bryce? Lesbian alert!

I closed my eyes and again rubbed my throbbing temples. "That went well," I said, rather sarcastically.

"Never mind her," Bryce said. I felt her hand once again touch my elbow. "Let's get back to the robbery."

I'm still down here.

Opening my eyes, I noticed Bryce smiling at me. And—it didn't appear to be one of those pity smiles, either. Her's was more like a—don't worry, you can do it—type of smile. I got the strangest feeling, she truly wanted my help. It was a good feeling too.

Speakin' of good feelin's, do you think she'd be open to some vigorous fudge packin'?

"Wh—what!" I blurted out wildly. "Do you think—really happened that night?" The urgency of my question appeared to take Bryce by surprise.

"You—you really want to know?" she asked, rather cautiously.

I eagerly nodded. "Absolutely!"

Hey! You didn't answer my question yet.

"Well—" Bryce began excitedly, "I think Howell planned the whole thing! He was constantly having financial problems."

I agreed. Those rumors of Howell having financial problems have been swirling around town for years. "I'll give you that one, but—"

I'd like to give her somethin' too! Maybe instead of that number one special, she might fancy a super-sized summer sausage.

"—where are the jewels?" I asked warily.

Smiling, Bryce pointed her perfectly manicured finger at me. "That's what I'm hoping you can figure out." She eagerly scooted up closer to the table. "Where do we start?"

With a cavity search! I'll check Bryce out. You get pimple-boy.

Rubbing my temples, I leaned back in my chair and—

KABOOM!

A thunderous blast suddenly rocked the Inn, knocking me out of my chair. Glass fragments were flying everywhere as the restaurant erupted into total chaos—with people yelling and screaming!

Holy shit! Have I been hit? Medic! I need a fuckin' tourniquet!

I was still hearing sporadic yells as I finally raised my head off the floor. I immediately spotted Bryce lying on the floor—motionless, several feet away from me. "Bryce!" I yelled. "Are you okay?"

Here's your fuckin' chance! Look up her dress!

"Shut up!" I crawled over to her and gently touched her arm. "Hey! Are you all right?"

Bryce peeked out from underneath her disheveled hair. "I—I think so."

Maybe you should give her a breast exam, just to make sure.

I jumped up and then gingerly helped Bryce to her feet. She immediately straightened her skirt and what was left to her hairdo. "What the hell happened?"

You should've looked up her skirt when you had the fuckin' chance. We're talkin' prime viewin' pleasure!

"Would you please, shut the—"

"Oh! My God!"

I turned to Bryce. "What's wrong?"

Bryce weakly pointed towards the parking lot. "That's my car on fire."

Sure enough, out in the parking lot was what looked like a late model—chunk of melted metal—fully engulfed in flames.

Do you think it's too late to get a side order of marshmallows?
CHAPTER NINE

Not only is Sergeant Hugo Carp a total jerk, he's not much to look at, either. I'm pretty sure all four of his ex-wives would agree. To be perfectly honest, the man has some serious issues. Unfortunately, I seem to bring all of them—out of him for some reason. If I had to guess, I think it's one of those deep seeded jealously things. Let's face it, from a certain distance, the guy's a dead ringer for the Hunchback of Notre Dame—and I've already mentioned I was first runner up for 'Best Looking' in high school.

You would've been second runner up if I were eligible.

Then—there's the fact, I was promoted to lieutenant on my thirtieth birthday. Carp's sixty-three and about to retire with absolutely no chance of making lieutenant.

Don't forget his three inch dick.

"Hey! Hard!"

Startled—I turned to find Carp—staring at me from the front seat of his patrol car.

He could still be pissed about that time he came home early and found his oldest daughter chewin' on—yours truly, in the backseat of her Honda Civic?

I sheepishly mulled over the possibility.

Carp angrily waved his hand in front of my face. "What the hell is wrong with you?"

Startled—again, I snapped to attention. "I—I suppose it's possible."

Carp appeared totally confused. "What the hell are you talking about?"

Realizing I answered the wrong question, I hastily scanned my surroundings to refresh my memory as to where I was—and what I was doing. It didn't help. "What was the question again?" I asked.

The contempt in Carp's blood-shot eyes said it all. "What does the great New York City detective think?"

Just to let you know, that was probably sarcasm.

Carp's sarcasm continued. "Do you have any brilliant insights you'd like to share with us today?"

I might've had one or two, but since I didn't know what the heck he was referring too, I opted to keep my insights to myself—for the time being. I shook my head. "Nope."

Appearing somewhat irritated with me, his attention turned to Bryce, who just happened to be sitting next to me in the back seat. "All right!" he snapped. "Let's go over this one more time."

Appearing rather frustrated, Bryce threw her head back and sighed. "We've been through this at least a dozen times!"

From Carp's grimace, I could tell he couldn't care less as he pressed on. "It's obvious someone is trying to kill you, or at least scare the hell out of you!"

What a fuckin' brilliant piece of deduction.

"Shhh!" I hissed accidentally. Oops!

Carp eyed me coldly as he paused a moment to pull a cigar from his coat pocket.

What a fuckin' buffoon.

Sensing I was all hissed out—he turned back to Bryce. "You expect me to believe you have no idea who is after you?"

"For the umpteenth time," Bryce snarled. "No—I don't!"

He lit his cigar and took a puff. "Who knew you were in Newport?"

"Most of my friends," Bryce replied. "My mother! My father! Everyone in my office, I guess. We don't keep our assignments secret."

Why isn't he askin' her any pertinent questions, like—does she sleep in the nude?

Carp continued with his questions. "Are you married?"

"No."

"Boyfriend?"

"No."

He gave her a questionable smirk. He didn't believe that one for a minute. Neither did I for that matter.

Maybe a girl friend? Kinky!

I wrestled a moment with that thought.

Come on! Someone's got to be eatin' that.

Carp zealously pushed on—thank goodness. "And why not?"

"If you must know," she shot back, "I've been too busy with my career."

That's code—for she hasn't found a guy with a big enough pork hammer that will satisfy her.

Carp exhaled a cloud of cigar smoke in my direction—before continuing. "So you're trying to tell me, there are no disgruntled ex-boyfriends lurking in the shadows?"

Bryce confidently shook her head. "Not that I know of."

"Are you having any problems with anyone at work?"

"No."

"A neighbor?"

"No."

Have you ever seen a sixteen inch lap bone?

"Have you ever been engaged?" Carp asked.

"I was engaged to a guy for a while. We broke up about a year ago. He's somewhere back in California."

"Why did you break up?"

I could tell Bryce was nearing the end of her rope as she snapped, "I found him in bed with my best friend!" Taking a deep breath she grabbed her handbag off the seat. "Is there anything else you need to know?"

How big would you say your areolas are?

Carp slid his beady little eyes over to me. "Why Hard?" he asked her as his nostrils flared. "Why did you contact him?"

Bryce looked my way. "He's a brilliant detective."

I pushed out one of my more modest smiles. Carp wasn't impressed.

"I heard he was up here, living in Newport, temporarily," Bryce quickly added. "I'm not familiar with Newport, so I thought I may need some help. I contacted him and asked if he'd be willing to give me some assistance. He agreed! We decided to meet here this morning for breakfast and to talk. That's the whole story."

I followed Carp's tired eyes closely as they bounced back and forth between Bryce and I. After several moments of awkward silence, Bryce forcibly interjected, "May we go?"

It was obvious Carp was spinning his wheels. He had nothing! He was out of questions! And ideas!

He finally pulled a card out of his pocket and handed it to Bryce. "If you can think of anything else, let me know."

Nodding, Bryce opened her door and stepped out of the car. As I reached for my door handle, Carp's chubby little hand, with an alarming number of liver spots, grabbed my wrist.

Someone apparently didn't use sun-screen growin' up.

I gently pulled away from his grip. "Do you mind?"

Do you think, I should start using sun-screen?

Carp took his cigar out of his mouth and pointed it at me. "I'm going to be watching you, Hard. As of this moment, you are on my radar!"

I smiled. "Thank you."

"I know you, Hard!" he snarled. "And I know how you operated in New York. I can assure you, that's not going to happen here! Got it?"

I smiled again and nodded.

"As far as I am concerned, you're just another loser on probation." He carefully placed his cigar back into his mouth. "We have laws up here in Newport! And those laws will be followed! If you take one step out of line, Hard, I'm going to bust your ass! Even your mommy won't be able to help you!"

Why do people keep tellin' you that?

Carp leaned over the seat and moved within inches of my face. "Do you understand me, Hard?"

I think someone needs anger management classes. Not to mention a fuckin' breath mint.

I forced out another smile as I slowly leaned back away from him. His breath was—rather pungent. One too many cups of coffee, I suspected.

Coffee? He smells like he's been chewin' on a fuckin' dog shit.

The tension in the car was pretty thick. Not only could you cut it with a knife, you probably could take one of those melon scoops and make tension balls. I felt—I needed to defuse the situation somehow and get him on my side. Change his perspective about me. Alter his thinking about—

Just say somethin' for Christ's sake!

"I can assure you, Sergeant Trout," I said as sincerely as I could, "you'll have no trouble with—"

Carp's head suddenly jerked to the side. "Get the hell out of the car!"

You did it again.

"Wh—what?"

Trout? Why can't you call him by his fuckin' right name?

Oops!

And you wonder why the guy hates your fuckin' guts.

"I'm really sorry," I said, "force of habit."

Carp grabbed the cigar out of his mouth and screamed, "Get out!"

Are you goin' to let that fat piece of shit talk to you like that?

"Apparently so," I mumbled as I quickly opened the door and stepped out of the car.

I can't believe this. Are you a man? Or a fuckin' mouse?

"Well—" I said as I closed the door. "I do like cheese."

You're pathetic! What the hell happened to the man who single handedly blew away three armed Puerto Ricans as they tried to rob the main branch of the Chase-Manhattan Bank?

"He's living in Newport—having a conversation with his penis."

Oh! Yeah! I forgot.

The crowd of curious spectators continued to grow, making the task of finding Bryce no easy chore. "Where are all these people coming from? Why aren't they out touring the mansions? That's what they all came to Newport to see, wasn't it?"

Because this is fuckin' free.

I had to concede the point. "I guess—you don't see a car bombing in Newport every day, do you?" Suddenly—a face in the crowd caught my eye.

I don't see Bryce.

"I should've said—an ugly face."

Is your mother here?

It was Abba Dabba. He appeared to be—staring at me from across the parking lot, with a rather—satisfied smirk on his face. "That's odd," I thought out loud. "I wonder what he's doing here?"

He's a fuckin' Iraqi. A car has just blown up. What's so fuckin' odd about that?

"He never comes into town."

You think he's followin' you, don't you?

I thought it over. "May—maybe."

You're fuckin' paranoid! You think everyone's followin' you.

"No! No—I don't!"

Suddenly, I heard a voice. "There you are!"

I turned just in time to see Bryce lock arms with me and begin to pull me away from the crowd. "I was just talking to one of the detectives," she said excitedly. "They think they have a pretty good lead."

As I focused on Bryce and what she was saying, I suddenly caught a scent of—pure heaven. I took a deep breath—savoring the moment. It had to be Bryce's perfume.

I think it's called—My Precious Pussy.

Bryce suddenly stopped. "An elderly woman, walking in front of the Inn at the time of the explosion, told one of the officers that she saw a red car driving away from my car right before the blast."

I leaned into her and took another deep breath. "Is—that so?"

Will you focus! She just said the old girl saw a red car!

I instinctively repeated a portion of Bryce's last statement. "Red car?"

You are such an ass.

Refocusing, I anxiously faced Bryce. "What red car? Who saw a red car?"

"The old woman," Bryce said. "She saw a red car pulling—"

"What kind of red car?" I snapped. "Did she get the make or model?"

Bryce shook her head. "She wasn't sure."

Senile bitch.

I stepped away from Bryce and walked a little ways down the pier—to think things though. "Why did it have to be a red car?" I mumbled. "Don't I have enough problems? Now—I have to figure out if it's the same red car that was following me yesterday." I shook my head while answering my own question. "It couldn't be! There must be thousands of red cars in Newport. Besides—why would they blow up Bryce's car? Why didn't they blow up mine?"

Maybe because you didn't drive here this mornin', you fuckin'—

The sound of Bryce's high heels on the pier's wooden planks suddenly broke my train of thought. "What's wrong?" I heard her ask. "Do you know who it is?"

Figuring I might as well tell her about my misadventures yesterday, I stopped and turned—

"Good morning, sir."

"Heinrich?" I said, utterly amazed to see him shuffling towards me, just behind Bryce. "What are you doing here?"

Somewhat confused, Bryce stepped aside and allowed Heinrich to approach me.

"I—I vas out shopping, sir."

A slight chuckle escaped me. "Since vhen—do you shop?" I quipped loudly.

He hesitated a moment before answering. "Since your mother instructed me to do so, sir."

I found his answer troubling, to say the least. I've never known my mother to send Heinrich out shopping. She used him strictly for chauffeuring her around town or simple household tasks. "Tell me, Heinrich, vhat vere you shopping for?"

His uneasy silence and his inability to make eye contact told me I was in for one hell of a lie. Unfortunately, I was denied the chance to hear it when Bryce stepped forward and extended her hand towards him. "Hello, Heinrich! I'm Bryce!"

Knowing darn well, he'd never hear her, I stepped in with my own introductions. "Heinrich!" I screamed. "This is Bryce Williams, the reporter that I was telling everyone about last night!"

He took her hand and gave her a small bow. "How do you do, Fraulein?"

Before I could bring up his so-called shopping spree, Heinrich cleverly diverted me. "Vill you need a ride back to Hardly, sir? I have the Mercedes."

With Bryce's car still smoldering, I was just about to nod to Heinrich, when I recalled the article Bryce had me read in the restaurant. I excitedly pointed my finger at her. "That article you showed me—mentioned old man Howell! He's still alive, right?"

"Yes," she said. "He's in a private psychiatric hospital somewhere around here." Bryce immediately pressed her memory for the name. "Cleardale—"

"Hills!" I blurted out.

Hills? Shit! Those fuckers are Mount Fujis! Look at those babies on her!

Refocusing, I put it all together. "Cleardale Hills Psychiatric Hospital!"

"That's it," Bryce said.

I turned back to Heinrich and elevated my voice to a level I was pretty sure he would hear. "Do you know where the Cleardale Hills Psychiatric Hospital is?"

After a lengthy pause, Heinrich finally nodded. However, it was a very reluctant nod, though. It almost seemed—physically painful for him to admit to knowing where the hospital was. Now the question was—why?

You think he's followin' you too. Don't you?

I thought it over. "May—maybe."

You have a major screw loose. If you were walkin' backwards, you'd think I was fuckin' followin' you.
CHAPTER TEN

As Heinrich drove up the driveway leading to Cleardale Hills Hospital, two things immediately caught my attention. First, he didn't even come close to hitting the iron-gate out front. And secondly, the hospital's grounds were actually breathtakingly beautiful.

Are you sure you didn't turn into some kind of fuckin' faggot while I was gone? Since when do you use words like—breathtakingly beautiful?

Rumor has it; one of the Vanderbilt's kids built the main house in the late thirties, but—never moved in, because they didn't particularly like the towel racks in the master bathroom.

I would've given the lady of the house somethin' to hang her towel on.

"Why don't you shut up for a change?" I growled softly. "Must you give your opinion on everything?" Unfortunately, I'm the one who shut up when out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Bryce—staring at me.

Good goin'.

Throwing out a little chuckle, I swiftly followed it up with one of my more comforting smiles. She returned the smile, however—her's seemed forced.

It's quite evident she thinks you're a fuckin' loon. If I were you, I'd whip me out. That will give her somethin' else to think about.

I continued to smile. She didn't. She did however, open a brand new water bottle and take a nervous sip from it.

Don't just sit there! Say somethin'! You're losin' her ! Tell her—your happy juice comes in four fantastic fruity flavors.

Nervously clearing my throat, I eagerly pointed to the unobstructed view of the hospital's main building from my window. "Did you know—Cleardale is one of the most exclusive private psychiatric hospitals in the country?"

My observation seemed to capture Bryce's interest. "Really?" she asked.

Hey! Tellin' her I dispense four fantastic fruity flavors would've gotten the same damn reaction.

Encouraged, I continued. "Only the insanely rich can afford to stay there."

Chuckling slightly, Bryce leaned over me to get a better view of the hospital. I got a better view too, however—mine was down the front of her top.

Woo! If there is a god—I bet he lives down there.

Luckily for me, I turned away just as Bryce looked up to ask a question. "Have any famous people stayed here?"

Just then, the Mercedes pitched violently—throwing me back into my seat, Bryce on top of me—and her open bottle of water into my lap. I stopped screaming long enough to direct my wrath towards the culprit responsible for the mishap. "Heinrich!"

Help! I'm—I'm drownin'!

"I'm sorry!" Bryce shrieked as she frantically groped my lap for the water bottle while at the same time attempting to reach behind her for her handbag.

A little to the left! That's it! Now squeeze!

I finally grabbed the now—empty water bottle. "I—I got it!" I yelled. "It's okay! No problem!"

What the hell do you mean no problem? I need mouth to mouth resuscitation down here!

Grabbing her handbag, Bryce pulled out a handful of tissues and began to dab my soaked crotch. "I'm so sorry!"

Oh! Ooooh!

With drool running down my chin, I attempted to squirm out from underneath her caressing dabs. "No—please! I'm fine! Really! You don't need—to do that!"

Yes! She does!

I soon found myself pinned up against my car door. "No! She doesn't!"

Yes! Yes—she does!

I finally grabbed a hold of Bryce's hand and gently guided it away from my rapidly expanding crotch. "Thank you! That's good! I'm fine! Thank you!"

All of a sudden—my car door opened, sending me tumbling out of the Mercedes.

AAARGH!

Opening my eyes, I found myself on the sidewalk and Heinrich—staring down at me. "Vee have arrived, sir."

Half crazed, I franticly stumbled to my feet and seized Heinrich by his wrinkly little throat. "Vee—have had it with you!"

Who are you callin' little?

"Ashley!" Bryce yelled. "What are you doing? Stop it!"

"No! No!" I screamed as I tightened my grip on his throat. "I've had it with this guy!"

Suddenly, an arm shot across my face, grabbed me by the throat, and jerked me away from Heinrich. A split second later, I felt another pair of hands grab my legs. Then another! And another!

What the fuck!

As my face hit the hood of the Mercedes, I heard Bryce scream, "Let him go! You're hurting him!"

"Hey! I was just kidding!" I said as someone's forearm pushed my head further into the hood. "We're—best friends! Honest!"

"What are you doing?" I heard Bryce scream again. "Let go of him! He's not one of your patients!"

He should be though.

Out of nowhere, I heard a strange voice yelling over the chaos. "What's going on out here?"

Bryce's stern retort swiftly followed. "Would you please tell your people to let him go, before someone gets hurt?"

Just then, I heard something snap—in my neck. "Too—late," I winced.

"Get off of him!" the voice yelled again. "Let him go!"

Finally freed, I straightened up and eyed the four huge male orderlies cautiously backing away from me.

What the hell! There are only four of them! Are you fuckin' gay?

"Shut up," I growled as I rubbed my neck.

You're tellin' me, you couldn't take four hospital orderlies? They clean fuckin' bed pans for a livin'!

Bryce hurried to my side. "Are you all right, Ashley?"

"Ashley Hard?"

Surprised to hear my full name, I turned to find a tall, distinguished looking black guy in a long white coat walking towards us. With a quizzical smirk, he held out his hand. "You're Ashley Hard, aren't you?"

I shook his hand cautiously. "May—maybe."

"Are you Dr. Gibson?" Bryce asked, extending her hand.

"Yes!" He immediately took Bryce's hand, raised it to his lips and politely kissed it. "And you must be Mary Howell, Jonathon's niece."

She nodded and put on one of her brighter smiles. "Yes!"

Look at him, oglin' her. He's starin' right at her dick mashers.

"Shut up," I snarled. I had bigger problems. "Like—why did Bryce change her name?"

Dr. Gibson motioned to his orderlies. "Thank you, gentlemen! You can all return to your regular duties."

As each one walked off, I gave him a—good job nod.

Fuckin' pansies.

"If you'll follow me," Dr. Gibson said, "I'll take you to your uncle."

As the doctor walked on up ahead, I carefully pulled Bryce to my side. "I think I missed something," I said in a low whisper. "Who's—Mary Howell?"

She gave me a sly little smile. "I had to tell them I was Howell's niece," she whispered back. "They only let family members visit the patients."

I nodded and gave her the thumbs up. "And—who am I?"

"My boyfriend," she said softly.

All right! I like it! Who should I be?

By the time we toured the entire hospital and walked out onto the hospital's back veranda, I had my fill of the doctor's spiel on how great the hospital was, and how he personally helped millions of people—

Blaa! Blaa! Blaa! Fuckin' blaa!

Personally, I was more interested in how the good doctor knew my name. "Excuse me, Dr. Gibson!" I said, interrupting his ongoing spiel. "But—how did you know my name?"

"I know your mother," he said while briefly taking his eyes off of Bryce. "She's a wonderful woman."

I instinctively scoffed. He obviously didn't know her that well. I'd call my mother many things, but—wonderful, wouldn't be in the top ten. To tell you the truth, I doubt if it would even make the list.

Horrid bitch—is near the top, isn't it?

The questions continued to come to me. "How do you know my mother?"

My inquiry didn't faze him in the least as his gaze immediately fell back on to Bryce. "She visited the hospital a while back. She was very interested in our programs and treatments."

My curiosity immediately peaked. "Was she really?"

The Bitch was goin' to put you in here!

I couldn't believe my ears. I immediately reached out for the railing to steady myself.

That's it! No fuckin' Mother's Day card for her next year.

The doctor suddenly glanced my way. "Are you all right?"

"Wh—what?"

Pull yourself to together! You're in a psychiatric hospital! They have fuckin' straitjackets in here!

Dr. Gibson took several steps towards me. "I said, are you all right? You look ill."

"I'm—I'm fine."

Could you be a bit more convincin'?

"I'm—sitting on top of the world," I swiftly added. "Life is good! Everything is coming up roses! Everything is going my—"

Don't fuckin' over do it!

I fell silent—and smiled.

Obviously sensing my approaching melt down, Bryce snatched the doctor's arm and redirected his attention back to her. "Where did you say my uncle is?"

Dr. Gibson appeared torn as he again glanced in my direction. "He's just over there." The doctor then pointed towards a cluster of trees in the far corner of the property. "It's his free time. He's probably sketching."

"He enjoys sketching, does he?" asked Bryce while trying to keep the doctor's attention off of me.

"Yes, he does," he said. "I don't remember ever seeing you here. Have you visited your uncle before?"

Bryce swiftly shook her head. "No! I've been living out in California. I just moved back recently."

"Your cousin has been here a number of times. In fact, I believe he came just last week."

Fuckin' suck up.

"Did he?" Bryce said, sounding as if she was caught off guard with the question. "Well—he was always Uncle Jonathon's favorite."

"Have you and your cousin spoken about your uncle's condition?"

Bryce shook her head again. "Unfortunately—no!"

"I should warn you then, your uncle may not remember you."

I could read the concern on Bryce's face as she again questioned the doctor. "He does remember some things though, doesn't he?"

"If he can't remember anything," I mumbled to myself, "this could be our Waterloo."

Waterloo! ABBA! 1974! Remember that really hot blonde in ABBA?

"Will you please—shut up!" I growled softly. "I'm trying to hear—"

The brunette wasn't bad either.

"This entire charade—will be for nothing," I swiftly added, "if Howell can't remember anything about the night of the robbery!"

Remember the movie, 'Charade' with Cary Grant and Audrey Hepburn?

I painfully pressed my palms into my temples.

Now! That was a fuckin' great movie! Cary Grant was the epitome of sophistication. I don't think I've ever told you this, but—I consider myself, the Cary Grant of meat missiles.

"Focus!" I mumbled as I tried to concentrate on Bryce's conversation with Dr. Gibson.

Hell! If only, I was attached to Cary instead of you. Damn! Just think of the babes I would've had. Sophia! Ginger! Ingrid! After one or two meaty thrusts, Grace would've been callin' me, Prince!

"What about the guys?" I mumbled.

The what?

"I read somewhere—he might've been bisexual," I added while trying not to move my lips.

That's bullshit! You take that back!

"Your uncle has what is called, Confabulation," said Dr. Gibson. "It's a memory disorder. He has periods of—let's call them, false memories."

Bryce seemed concerned. "False memories? What do you mean? He lies?"

The doctor was quick to correct her. "No! He just has inaccurate memories. His mind fills in the blanks where his memory becomes faulty. He truly believes he's telling the truth. The changes range from anywhere from simple alterations to wildly bizarre fabrications."

Cary Grant bisexual! Fuck you! I bet you have Con—Confaggitations! Just like the old fart!

"By the way," asked Dr. Gibson, "do you remember your uncle ever having a strong interest in pirates?"

"Pirates?" Bryce asked. "You mean, like the Pittsburgh Pirates?"

The doctor laughed and shook his head. "Like Captain Kidd or Blackbeard?"

Bryce shook her head.

"Well, that's all right," he said, rather disappointedly. "Don't worry about it."

My curiosity got the better of me. "Why do you ask? Is it important?"

Reluctantly, Dr. Gibson took his eyes off Bryce and answered my question. "It's just that Mary's uncle seems quite obsessed with them for some reason, and I haven't quite figured it out yet."

"Who's—Mary?" I mumbled nervously.

Bryce! You dumb fucker.

The doctor then gave Bryce a small pat on her shoulder. "I'll leave you here with your uncle, so you two can get acquainted again."

I'd like to give her somethin' too, but it sure wouldn't be small.

I hurriedly stepped forward. "You're—not coming?" I asked the doctor.

"No!" he said while eyeing Bryce one more time. "That won't be necessary. Your uncle is quite harmless." He then turned and faced me. "Give your mother my best."

I nodded as I thought of several things—I'd like to give her.

I like the stroke idea.

As Bryce and I approached the bench where Howell was seated, I grabbed Bryce's arm and slowed her pace. I certainly didn't want to startle the old guy and put him into cardiac arrest.

Not before we get our questions answered anyway.

"Shut up."

Are you goin' to beat the shit out of him if he doesn't tell you what you want to know? Like the old days?

"Go away," I growled.

Remember your conversation with Carlos Bando? You put him in the hospital for a fuckin' month.

"That—was an accident," I said softly as I watched Bryce take a seat next to the old man. "He fell."

Eight times?

"What can I say?" I snarled impatiently. "He was clumsy! Now, will you—shut up!"

"Mr. Howell?" Bryce asked softly as she slowly approached the bench where he was sitting. "May we ask you a few questions?"

I found myself somewhat saddened by his appearance. He looked every bit his eighty-five years.

I have more meat on me, than both his fuckin' thighs put together.

He sure wasn't the Jonathan Howell I remembered. The guy I knew always had an incredible energy about him—with a real zest for life.

Bryce tried again to get his attention. "Mr. Howell?"

He finally raised his head and looked up at her.

"Mr. Howell," Bryce said, "my name is Bryce Williams. I'm a reporter with the—"

Howell suddenly turned and—stared up at me. "You!" he snapped. "I know you!"

This certainly doesn't bode well.

With a shaky hand, he raised his pencil and pointed it at me. "You're the one who used to blow up my pumpkins on Halloween."

I nervously eyed Bryce and forced out a guilt-ridden smile.

There's nothin' wrong with this fucker's memory.

I quickly pointed an accusing finger in Howell's direction. "Confabulations!" I mouthed silently to Bryce.

Understanding my intent, Bryce nodded. "Mr. Howell," she said sweetly—while thankfully pulling the old man's attention away from me. "We would like to ask you some questions about the robbery."

The old man casually went back to sketching in his pad. "What robbery?"

"The jewel robbery, that happened—"

Howell vigorously shook his head. "There was no robbery."

I could sense Bryce's disappointment.

There's a large branch over there under that tree. One or two good whacks over the head might help jog his fuckin' memory.

Sitting down on the other side of Howell, I gave Bryce a thumbs up gesture.

With a deep breath, she continued with added determination. "There was a robbery! Don't you remember? It happened the night of your wife's Christmas in July party back in—"

Howell shook his head again, cutting her off. "There was no robbery!"

I say—you kick his fuckin' ass.

My patience was running out. "Mr. Howell," I snapped, "a man went to prison for stealing your wife's jewels! Do you remember that?"

Howell shook his head again. "There was no robbery!"

Bryce took another angle. "Your nephew thinks there was a robbery."

Appearing rather confused, Howell looked at me—then at Bryce. "I have no nephew."

Well, this is goin' fuckin' splendidly.

Bryce didn't give up. "Mr. Howell! If there wasn't a jewel robbery, what happened to your wife's jewels?"

After nervously scanning the grounds, Howell slowly leaned over to Bryce and whispered, "The Captain has them."

Bryce recoiled. "The Captain?"

The old man definitely had my attention. "Mr. Howell," I asked eagerly, "what's the Captain's last name? Where can we find him?"

As the old man turned to me, a pained expression of total disbelief griped his wrinkle filled face.

I could be wrong, but I have a feelin' he thinks you're a fuckin' douchebag.

Appearing rather agitated, he forced his drawing pad into my hands. Confused, I looked down and inspected his sketch he was working on. It appeared to be a man's face—sort of. It wasn't very good. I've seen first graders do better.

Hell! I could do better.

I guess—it could be a woman too. The huge hat and what appeared to be a feather in it, was throwing me off. The earring didn't help either.

Howell pointed at the sketch and yelled, "That's the Captain!"

"Is the Captain—a pirate by any chance?" asked Bryce, rather sadly.

Howell nodded excitedly.

I took another look at the drawing. "Wait!" I said eagerly. I could see it now. It was a drawing of a pirate. A very poor drawing, but—it was clearly a pirate all right.

Howell pounded his boney finger on the drawing as he lowered his voice. "He's got the jewels."

Curious, I casually flipped through the rest of the pad. Every page had a drawing of a pirate on it. However, the odd thing about it—everyone appeared to be the same pirate—in a different pose. The same feathered hat, the same earring, the same—

Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Bryce stand up and extend her hand to the old man. "It was very nice to meet you, Mr. Howell."

I got the message. She'd heard enough. It was pretty clear Howell wasn't about to shed any light on any of the events leading up to the robbery—or the robbery itself. He was totally in his own little world. His pirate world!

As I stood up too and was about to give Howell back his pad, I noticed a drawing near the back of the pad—that seemed slightly different from the others. "Wait a minute," I mumbled, "the eyes!" The eyes were different. I turned the drawing slightly to see it in a different light. "I've seen this face—somewhere."

"Ashley," Bryce said, pulling my attention away from the drawing. "I think we better get going."

I nodded to Bryce, then sadly handed Mr. Howell his drawing pad back. "It was nice to see you again, Mr. Howell."

You fuckin' liar.

I was lying. I took no pleasure in seeing him like this. Old—and wore out, with no idea what was happening around him. That Confabulation was obviously some nasty stuff.

He did remember your days as the Halloween Bomber, though.

A cold chill shot up my spine. "He did—didn't he?"
CHAPTER ELEVEN

As Bryce and I walked out of Davy Jones' Donut Locker, I could tell Bryce wasn't pleased with our efforts at Cleardale. It was quite evident she wanted more out of Howell then just convoluted gibberish.

Why didn't you show Bryce how you can carry three dozen donuts without using your fuckin' hands? That would've got her mind off—

"Will you—shut up!" I growled softly as I took my donut out of the bag and viciously bit into it.

Taking a small sip of her coffee, Bryce turned to me with a confused smirk. "So let me get this straight. You did blow up Howell's pumpkins on Halloween! He wasn't making that up?"

You had to tell her, didn't you? She probably thinks you're some kind of fuckin' junior Al Qaeda wannabe.

"I had too," I mumbled. "I didn't want her to think our talk with Howell was a total waste of time. She needed to know that he was right in the head—for at least a fleeting moment."

"Ashley?"

I snapped to attention. "Yes?"

Bryce tried again. "You haven't answered my question! Did you blow up Howell's pumpkins on Halloween, or not?"

Holy shit! Do you see them? Her headlights are on! I'm talkin' halogen high beams. She wants me.

I took another savage bite out of my donut. "Focus!" I mumbled. "Whatever you do—don't look at her."

Bryce reached out and touched my arm. "Are you okay? You're mumbling to yourself."

As I opened my eyes, they immediately zeroed in on her—

Super scoops.

"Dammit." As hard as I tried—I couldn't look away. It was as if my eyes were glued to her—

King size kajoobies.

Bryce casually waved her hand in front of my face. "Hello!"

"Yes!" I yelled out, with a maniacal laugh. "Yes—I did! I blew up his pumpkins!"

Nice goin' asshole.

"I had to tell her," I whispered to myself. I needed to clear the air. I needed to tell her the truth. The whole truth—and nothing but the truth!

"How old were you?" she asked.

I shook my head. "I—I don't really remember. Eight! Maybe nine?"

You were seventeen, you fuckin' liar.

Bryce appeared pleased to hear that as she looked off into the distance. "So Howell wasn't making that story up about you?"

"No!" I said painfully. "No—he wasn't."

Bryce again turned to me for some answers. "What does that mean? Was he telling us the truth about all the other stuff, then?"

I hoped she wasn't expecting any rapid-fire conclusions from me. Because—I didn't have any. Luckily for me, my confused silence paid off as Bryce spoke again. Unfortunately, it was another question. "What do you make of all of that other stuff he was telling us?"

I could sense her frustration.

Sexually? I could easily—

I swiftly answered her with a shrug. I honestly wasn't sure what he meant. And—if he was telling the truth, what did he mean about the Captain—having the jewels? It didn't make any sense.

"By the way," Bryce said, still sounding a bit confused, "why did you have Heinrich—park the car in the rear parking lot?"

Finally! A question I could answer. "Mercedes in front of donut shops tend to attract too much attention. I'd rather keep as low a profile as possible, for now."

In that case, you better not whip me out here. People will want to have their pictures taken with me. Then there are all the autograph seekers.

"How—how's your coffee?" I screamed, for absolutely no reason at all.

Bryce eyed me strangely. "Fine."

Unable to come up with a plausible reason for my inappropriate outburst—I quickly offered her the rest of my half eaten donut. "Donut?"

She nervously shook her head. "No! No—thank you."

Maybe she'd like a seventeen inch kabasi?

I swiftly turned away and looked off into the distance as I mumbled, "You are not—seventeen inches."

Am so! So fuck off!

As we turned into the alleyway and headed towards the rear parking lot, Bryce again went for my jugular. "Why does Sergeant Carp hate you?"

"Wh—what?"

"This morning," she shot back quite skillfully, "in the patrol car. I could sense the hostility between the two of you."

I'm sure she means the three of us.

"The Sergeant—" I said, with a great deal of thought, "and I go way back. Let's just say, we never really saw eye to eye on many things." I rethought my statement. "Actually, we didn't see eye to eye on anything."

"So what you're saying is we can definitely rule out any help from him."

"We won't need him," I snapped confidently.

Does anyone else hear that?

I slowed my pace—and listened. Unfortunately, all I could hear were Bryce's relentless questions. "What if we need a search warrant? Or some tests run on some physical evidence?"

Ignoring her, I turned my head slightly, hoping to get a bead on where the sound was coming from.

It sounds like a fuckin' car engine revvin' up.

It did sound like a car engine. I timidly glanced over my shoulder. "Dammit." I was right—it was a car.

Hey! I said it first.

A red car. A red—BMW!

Shit.

Now the question was—was it the same BMW from yesterday?

I'll bet you five bucks it is.

The BMW's engine quickly revved up to a high-pitched squeal.

I believe you owe me five bucks.

Appearing rather apprehensive, Bryce reached over and grabbed my arm.

Hey! I'm still down here!

"What the hell is he doing?" she asked.

I was never really good at math, but—I estimated the car to be about a hundred feet away from us. The BMW probably could cover that distance in maybe—what? Two seconds? A human being can run about—

We're fucked.

I leaned over to Bryce and forced out—what I hoped was a soothing smile. "How fast can you run in those shoes?"

Her terrified face looked up at me as her fingernails dug into my arm.

"Ow! Ow!"

On second thought, I'm okay if she doesn't want to hold me right now.

At that moment, the BMW abruptly lunged forward—and raced into the alleyway, right for us.

I grabbed Bryce by the hand and started to run. Unfortunately—we didn't get far. Bryce immediately tripped and fell over. I suspected the tight skirt and high heels were the culprits. As attractive as they were, I swiftly concluded—as an ensemble, they weren't conducive to outrunning a BMW.

I got an idea! Rip off her skirt!

I pondered the idea for a second—only because that's all the time I had. The BMW was still accelerating towards us. Desperate for an idea, I instinctively grabbed Bryce, picked her up, and threw her against the brick wall. Out of time and options, I pinned her against the wall with my body—and closed my eyes.

Hey! Turn around and face her, you moron! How can I bang her from this position! I'm not a fuckin' contortionist!

Just then, the BMW whizzed past my leg. Taking into account, the intensity of my fluttering pant leg—and my rather damp underwear, I figured he missed me by maybe two? Two and a half inches?

It's a good thing I wasn't thinkin' about Miranda Kerr or I would've busted out that fucker's windshield.

As I warily opened my left eye and watched the BMW disappear around the building, I heard a muffled voice. "You're crushing me!" Slightly creeped out, I looked cautiously around—

It's Bryce! You fuckin' twit!

Realizing, I still had Bryce pinned up against the building, I stepped away and grabbed her hand. "Are you all right?" I had to admit, for someone who just fell over face first in an alley, and nearly ran over by a car—she didn't look that bad.

She hastily ran her fingers through her out-of-control hair before addressing my concern. "I think so!" She looked up at me and smiled. "Thanks! I owe you one!"

That's my cue! Whip me out!

Not wanting to know—what she could owe me, I turned my thoughts to something a bit more relevant. "You didn't happen to see the driver's face, did you?"

"No," she said. "I think he was wearing some kind of mask. Did you see him?"

I shook my head.

"I'm sorry," Bryce said.

I turned and hurried down the alley towards the rear parking lot. "Don't be," I finally replied. "I'm sure we'll see him again."

"Where are we going?" Bryce asked while sort of—jogging alongside me.

Holy shit! Do you see them? They're actually fuckin' bouncin'.

I looked away. "In—in the donut shop," I stammered, "I—I think you mentioned the lead detective that was investigating the robbery?"

Bryce thought for a second. "Harvey Cottman?"

"Yes! That's him!" I blurted out. "We're off to see Harvey."

"Shouldn't we go to the police?"

Reluctantly, I looked back at her with a quizzical look. "What for?"

"Someone just tried to kill us!"

Bouncy! Bouncy! Bouncy!

I immediately accelerated away from her. "Th—that's why we have to keep moving," I yelled. "Moving targets are harder to hit. We need to keep one step ahead of him. Keep him off balance. Make sure he's always trying to catch up to us. He'll make a mistake—sooner or later. And when he does—we'll be ready for him!"

You're just makin' this shit up, aren't you?

The first thing that popped into my head as I stepped out of the Mercedes in front of Cottman's place was—how could he afford this place on a cop's pension? It was a huge white three-story place. Victorian, I think. Fifteen? Maybe twenty rooms? And—the vintage Jaguar parked in front didn't hurt the ambiance. The grounds were immaculate. Even the dirt in the flower beds looked clean.

It's pretty obvious you don't cut this fucker's lawn.

I'd have to agree. The place was right out of Home and Garden. Right on the water too! Cottman must've dropped some major cash for this place. "Are you sure he lives here?" I asked Bryce.

She nodded. "This is the address that's listed."

I shrugged. "Wife's money?"

Bryce didn't appear convinced. "Well, there's only one way to find out." She turned and started walking towards the front door.

"Shall I vait in the car, sir?" Heinrich asked while pulling my attention away from Bryce's incredible wiggle.

"Wh—what?"

"Shall I vait—"

"No!" I snapped as thoughts of the BMW popped into my head. I swiftly checked out the area for any sign of a red car. There wasn't—but that didn't mean he wasn't out there looking for us. "Drive down to the Castle Hill Lighthouse," I told Heinrich, "and wait for us there." I turned Heinrich in the direction of the lighthouse to make sure he knew which way he would have to turn. I even pointed. "When you drive out of the driveway—turn right! It's about a quarter mile down the road."

Heinrich nodded. "Very good, sir."

You want to bet another five bucks he won't be there?

"Shut up!" As Heinrich drove off, I watched with a certain amount of interest as he stopped at the end of the driveway and—turned left. "Dammit."

Told you.

Upon joining Bryce at the front door, I again sensed a twinge of frustration in her as I observed her leaning rather heavily on the door bell. "No one home?" I asked.

She gave the bell another heated poke. "Nooo!"

Feeling the need to show Bryce, I was definitely a take charge type of guy—I knocked on the door.

That's sure takin' charge. You haven't been gettin' fuckin' estrogen shots behind my back, have you?

I knocked again, but this time a lot harder.

How the hell—am I still attached to you? I should've fallen off years ago.

Somewhat frustrated with the lack of progress myself, I walked along the porch and peeked into several windows.

"See anyone?" Bryce asked.

I shook my head.

Bryce walked back to the front steps and scanned the front grounds. "Maybe we should check around back?"

I got a better idea! Whip me out and use me like a fuckin' batterin'-ram against the door. That might impress her!

"Are you crazy!" I snapped. "I'm not going to—" I immediately fell silent as I saw Bryce, out of the corner of my eye—staring at me. Forcing out a smile, I enthusiastically pointed at her. "I like your idea better!"

As we walked around to the back of the house, I stopped—to let it all soak in. The place was amazing. Again—everything was immaculate! Nothing was out of place. Even the water in the pool was perfect. There was not one ripple in it.

Hey! Look! Out there on the beach! It's a photo shoot. Holy shit! Isn't that Gisele in the skimpy swimsuit?

"No!" I snapped as I swiftly looked away.

Sure it is! That's Gisele! Look!

I shook my head. "No!" I said again. "No! No—it's not!"

Yes it is! Introduce me.

I was still shaking my head when I heard Bryce called to me. "Ashley!"

Opening my eyes, I noticed Bryce on the other side of the pool, standing by the back door. She motioned to me—then pointed to the open door.

As I approached her, she immediately tossed me a nervous smile. "What do we do?"

We go back and fuckin' introduce me to Gisele!

I squeezed passed Bryce and peeked into the house. "Hello?" I called out.

No one answered.

Bryce leaned into me and lowered her voice. "Sort of spooky, isn't it?"

What's fuckin' spooky is how Gisele's legs look so long in those Victoria Secret catalogs. It's not fuckin' normal!

Nudging the door open, I carefully moved into the house. "Try not to touch anything," I told Bryce. "We don't want to leave any fingerprints."

Bryce appeared a bit apprehensive. "This is legal, right?"

I peeked around the corner into the empty kitchen. "It is—as long as we don't get caught."

Bryce nervously grabbed a hold of my sweatshirt as we proceeded down a hallway.

I'm still down here!

There were two more doors along the hallway before we reached what looked like the main part of the house. To save time, I motioned to Bryce to check out the far door. I figured it had to be a closet of some kind. I thought it might give her a feeling of doing some—real investigating. Reluctantly, she let go of me and headed down the hallway towards the door.

Focusing on my door, I gripped the door knob firmly, turned it, and slowly opened—

BOO!

Startled—I jumped back.

Did I fuckin' scare you?

"Noooo!"

You fuckin' puss! I did scare you, didn't I!

I angrily closed the closet door. "Shut up!"

Closet? I thought you said, Bryce was supposed to get the fuckin' closet.

I glanced down the hallway. "I did—didn't I?"

Just then, an ear shattering scream filled the house. It sounded a lot like Evelyn Ankers' scream in the old Universal movie—The Wolfman, with—what's his name? Lon Chaney's kid?

Lon Chaney, Jr.?

"Yeah! That's him!"

How the hell did you ever become a fuckin' lieutenant?

Suddenly—another high-pitched scream echoed through the house. But strangely enough, this time it sounded a lot like—my name. "Who would be screaming my—"

It's Bryce! You fuckin' moron! You remember her, don't you! She's the one with the two huge car waxers!

Half crazed, I sprinted down the hallway and rushed into the room. Before I knew what was happening, I tripped over something—and crashed to the floor.

What the hell are you doin'? Is that what they taught you at the fuckin' police academy?

Trying to get my bearings, I slowly raised my head off the floor.

"Ashley!"

Hearing Bryce's voice, I looked back over my shoulder and gazed up at her. She appeared rather distraught. Her trembling hands were cupped over her mouth as she just stood there—staring down at me.

I'm pretty sure she's starin' at the fuckin' dead guy next to you.
CHAPTER TWELVE

As I glanced over my other shoulder—I flinched, at seeing the lifeless body lying next to me. It wasn't a big flinch, but—a flinch nonetheless. I turned back to Bryce to see if she noticed me flinching. Guys shouldn't flinch—especially New York City cops. We've supposedly seen it all.

Will you fuckin' do somethin'!

Already on my hands and knees, I decided to crawl over to him and take a closer look. He was an elderly guy, mid to late eighties, I'd say.

"Is—he dead?"

From the sound of Bryce's voice, I figured the old boy was her first dead guy. "I'm afraid so," I said sadly.

She tentatively took a step forward. "Are you sure?"

I gazed up at her and forced out a cynical smile. "He's has a lamp's electrical cord wrapped around his neck a half dozen times. That's usually—a red flag."

Can you see up her dress?

"Shut up," I growled softly.

Bryce took another step forward. "Maybe you should check for a pulse?"

I looked up at her again. "He's dead!" I snapped annoyingly. "Believe me! I know a dead guy, when I see—"

You better do what she says. She could be the fuckin' killer. She was in here alone with him, don't forget.

Thinking it over, I gave Bryce a suspicious nod as I grudgingly reached over and felt the old guy's wrist.

Boom! Boom!

Startled—I quickly withdrew my hand.

Did I fuckin' scare you that time?

My abrupt movement caused Bryce to jump. "What's wrong?" she shrieked. "Is he—still alive?"

I looked into his cold dead eyes.

He reminds me a lot of The Bitch.

I shook my head. "No! But—he hasn't been dead that long. He's still warm."

"Is it Cottman?"

I didn't really remember what Cottman looked like, but—he did look to be around the right age. "Probably."

Standing up, I surveyed the room. It appeared to be an office of some kind. It had a desk and a couple of filing cabinets. The brand new big screen, high definition television—clearly dominated the room.

Quick! Turn it on! I heard Kate Upton was goin' to be on 'The View' today. Maybe she'll have a fuckin' wardrobe malfunction.

Trying to focus—I strolled over to the desk. It was a mess. Papers were thrown everywhere. The draws were pulled out and dumped on the floor. Both filing cabinets were open and appeared to have been thoroughly searched. Even the wall safe was emptied.

The old guy is lucky he's dead. If he saw this mess, it would kill him.

"Whoever killed him sure was eager to find something," I thought out loud.

Bryce carefully walked around Cottman's body and joined me at the desk. "What do you think they were looking for? Money?"

"I doubt it," I said, pointing to an envelope on the desk filled with a half dozen twenties.

Bryce abruptly pulled her cell phone out of her handbag. "We better call the police."

I immediately reached over the desk, grabbed her hand, and guided the phone back into her handbag. "Not yet!" I said. "Let's look around first." There was no way I wanted Carp finding me anywhere near a dead body.

Unless it was his, right?

I took a moment to take a good look at Bryce.

Damn! She is fuckin' hot!

At the moment, I was more concerned with her mental state—she looked rather pale. With all the excitement today, and now with her first dead body, I was pretty sure it was taking a toll on her. "Why don't you go get some fresh air? I'll just be couple more minutes."

She nodded weakly. "Maybe I will go outside and get some air. It's a bit warm in here."

As I watched Bryce walk out into the hallway, it dawned on me, that it was—rather hot in the room. Too hot in fact.

I could've told you that. My boys are startin' to sweat down here.

"Why would Cottman have the heat on in the middle of summer?"

Why are you askin' me? How the hell should I know?

"I wasn't asking you!" Refocusing, I immediately saw the answer to my question. There was a fire going in the fireplace. "Why would he start a fire on a day like this?"

How the hell would I know? Why do you keep askin' me all of these fuckin'—

"Shut up!" I swiftly crossed the room and knelt down in front of the fireplace. "I'd be willing to bet, Cottman didn't start the fire—his killer did!"

All right! It's a fuckin' bet!

Carefully inspecting the fire, I noticed a bundle of charred papers among the ashes. "Look! See! There! I was right!"

Ha! We didn't fuckin' shake! No bet!

I hurriedly grabbed the poker and attempted to gently pull the papers out of the fire before they—

Let me do it! You'll fuck it up!

—disintegrated! "Dammit," I yelled as I watched the papers break up into a pile of ashes. "See what you made me do!"

Fuckin' klutz!

"Shut up!"

You're goin' to wipe your fuckin' fingerprints off that poker before you leave, I hope?

"Dammit." I said as I realized what I was holding in my hand.

You're such a fuckin' dweeb.

I quickly wiped the poker off on my pants and carefully placed it back on its stand.

What the hell would you do without me?

Lead a normal life?

I was goin' to say, get arrested for killin' the old fart.

I looked over at the dead lieutenant. "Whoever killed him, obviously found what they were looking for. Then they started the fire—with the specific intent of destroying it. But—" I took a moment to rethink my theory. "What would be so important that they would take the time—to burn it here? Why didn't they take it with them?"

Maybe the answer is in the fuckin' folder you're kneelin' on?

Somewhat embarrassed—I didn't notice it myself; I snatched up the folder and opened it. A small newspaper clipping from the Newport Daily News fell out and fluttered to the floor. Picking it up, I read the headline aloud, "Local Philanthropist Donates $100,000 to Newport Local Humane Society". I scanned the clipping's picture. "Will you look at that?"

If you want me to look at it, you're goin' to have to put it where I can fuckin' see it.

"It's a picture of Cottman, standing next to a woman—and she's taking a check from Howell." My attention immediately was drawn to Howell's expression. "He sure doesn't look too pleased about handing over that check, does he?"

I don't know. I still can't see—THE FUCKIN' PICTURE!

I eagerly read on. "Last Saturday night, local Humane Society President Penny Cottman, graciously accepted a large donation from prominent local businessman, Jonathan Howell, while her husband, Newport Police detective Harvey Cottman looks on."

Hey! What's that noise?

"Wh—what?"

That fuckin' noise!

I paused—and listened. It sounded like floorboards creaking upstairs. "What's the big deal?" I said. "It's an old house. Old houses creak."

Maybe it's the fuckin' killer walkin' around upstairs.

I openly scoffed. "It's probably—just Bryce." My attention again shot back to the newspaper clipping. I needed to find the date when the picture was taken. Was it before—or after the robbery? If it was after the robbery, maybe Howell—knowing Cottman was the lead detective on the case, was trying to win a few points with him, by helping out his wife's favorite charity?

Excuse me, but—

"Wait a minute!" I said excitedly. "Maybe Cottman was blacking mailing Howell?"

Didn't Bryce say she was goin' outside to get some fresh air? How much fuckin' fresh air, do you suppose is upstairs?

I paused—and listened again. But this time with a bit more interest.

It fuckin' stopped.

The creaking did stop. But—what was that splash?

Maybe Bryce fell into a fuckin' toilet?

I glanced towards the door. "How could she fall into a toilet?"

That was another example of sarcasm—you fuckin' moron! Someone just fell into the fuckin' pool!

Stuffing the clipping into my pocket—

Hey! Hey! Watch it!

—I moved towards the door.

That was probably the fuckin' killer we heard upstairs!

My pace quickened as I hurried out into the hallway.

He probably got passed us while you were obsessin' over that fuckin' article! He probably snuck up behind Bryce, snapped her neck like a twig, and threw her hot lifeless body into the fuckin' pool.

My pace instantaneously shifted into an all-out sprint.

Then again—maybe she just decided to go skinny dippin'! Faster man! Faster!

I crashed into the back door, threw it open, and raced across the patio. Reaching the pool, I held my breath as I looked into the pool.

Oh! The horror!

"What are you talking about?" I asked as I let out a thankful sigh at the sight of Bryce swimming towards the side of the pool. "What horror?"

She's drownin'!

I shook my head. "No—she's not."

Sure she is! Quick! Whip me out and throw me out to her! When she grabs onto me, you reel me—

As Bryce grabbed my hand, she motioned towards the beach. "He came up behind me! He ran off towards the beach!"

I helped her out of the pool and over to one of the patio chairs. "Are you sure you're all right?"

She nodded wildly. "Yes! I'm fine! Go! Maybe you can still catch him!"

Has anyone else noticed how that wet top—clings to her?

As I jumped the retaining wall, and jogged out onto the beach, I knew all too well, it was an exercise in futility to think I could somehow catch up to Cottman's killer. I didn't have the slightest clue as to what he looked like. He could've been anyone.

You bastard! That is Gisele being photographed over there!

I took a look. "No—it's not!"

"Any sign of him?" I heard Bryce yell to me.

With my feelings of confusion and frustration mounting, I screamed back my reply. "Nooo!" Why did I hesitate, when I heard Bryce getting thrown into the pool? I should've reacted faster! I should've known the killer couldn't have been that far away!

Hey! We all make mistakes. Forget it! Let's focus on Gisele! And remember, when you're talkin' to her, make sure you work into the conversation your big Brazilian Bone.

"Shhh!" I hissed as I heard a siren off in the distance. With a twinge of uneasiness, I started back towards the house.

What the fuck are you doin'? Gisele's that way!

"It's not GISELE!" I suddenly picked up on another siren moving towards us from the other direction. "This—is not good!" My walk quickly morphed into a speedy jog.

"What do we do now?" Bryce asked as I jogged up to her.

"We get out of here!" I grabbed her by the hand and helped her over the retaining wall. My conviction only heightened as I heard several cars pull up in front of Cottman's house.

Bryce hesitated momentarily. "Shouldn't we stay and tell the police—"

"No!" I snapped, knowing exactly what she was about to ask. What I didn't know though, was who called the police? Was it the killer—hoping the police would catch us in the house with a dead cop?

Trying to put as much distance between us and Cottman's house, I eagerly pulled Bryce farther onto the beach. "Let's go! Double-time!"

"Wait a minute!" she protested. "I can't walk in sand in these shoes."

I nervously looked over my shoulder to make sure we weren't seen leaving Cottman's. "You'll never know—until you try," I said absentmindedly.

"But—"

"Trust me," I insisted. I pulled her a little harder, attempting to coax a bit more speed out of her—and her high heels.

Gisele, my belle! Sont des mots qui vont tres bien ensemble, tres bien ensemble. I love you, I love you, I lovvvve you!

"Why are you humming, Michelle?"

I eyed Bryce suspiciously. "Wh—what?"

"You're humming that pretty Beatle's song, Michelle"

I shook my head. "No—I'm not!"

Yes—you are.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN

As I stepped up onto the Castle Hill Lighthouse's parking lot, I was somewhat relieved to see Heinrich wiping down the Mercedes' hood. I was hoping he'd be here, but—I honestly wasn't expecting it. I know—I saw him take a wrong turn out of Cottman's driveway.

Me too.

"Heinrich," I snarled loudly. "Where did you go after leaving—"

"Why don't you want to go to the police?" Bryce yelled, interrupting my train of thought.

I turned around to see her still struggling to keep up with me. "Wh—what?"

She reached out and grabbed my arm to slow my pace.

I'm still down here.

"Why don't you want to tell the police what happened?"

I stopped and thought through my answer. "If we tell the police what we know, there's a good chance they'll start stirring things up. We don't want that! They'll get in our way. You never want to show your hand before you really need too."

Just then, another patrol car raced up Ocean Drive. It wouldn't surprise me, if every available Newport cop was now converging on Cottman's place. Police departments tend to frown on finding one of their own dead—especially murdered. I've been there. I'm sure the number one thing on every Newport cop's mind was finding the person responsible—and finding him fast.

So what you're sayin' is—the cops are probably liftin' your fuckin' fingerprints off that hallway closet, as we speak.

"Dammit." I did touch the doorknob, didn't I?

And the folder.

"Dammit."

Just then, I caught Bryce—staring at me. "We better get out of here," I said as I quickly steered her towards the car. "They'll be searching this entire stretch of beach, in no time."

"Why don't we head back to my hotel," Bryce said. "I'll get cleaned up, and you can look over my files and come up with our next move."

I'll go with Bryce. I can help her get to all those—hard to reach places.

I put down the witness list and glanced out the Mercedes's side window. "Carol Upjohn? Why do I know that name?"

Bryce invites you up to her fuckin' room—and you say, 'no thanks'? What the hell is fuckin' wrong with you?

I forced my attention back to the witness list.

Do you realize some of these old Victorian hotels still have those old fashion keyholes in the bathroom doors? You can peek through them and see another person in the other room. Are you gettin' my drift?

"Leave me alone."

Let me spell it out for you! You could be watchin' Bryce takin' a fuckin' bath this very moment! All those lucky little soap suds, just clingin' to her—

"I got it!" I said excitedly. "She used to be Howell's wife's social secretary." I hurriedly thought over the ramifications. "She would've helped Mrs. Howell put together her parties."

Who the fuck cares?

"Maybe she saw something that night?" I eagerly searched through Bryce's files for Carol's current address, but came up empty. "Dammit." How could I contact her, without a current address? Then it hit me! I knew someone who would know.

No! Don't do it! You'll be fuckin' sorry.

Making sure Heinrich wasn't looking; I grabbed his cell phone out of my pocket and punched in the number. "I have too," I growled softly. "She knows everyone and everything that goes on in Newport. If anyone knows where Carol Upjohn is—she will."

"Hello?" said the voice.

It was familiar voice, but totally unexpected. "Mother?" I checked the phone to make sure I punched in the number correctly. "Mother? Is that you?" She never answers the phone. She felt it was somehow beneath her. "Where's Joanie?"

"Who is this?" came the icy cold inquiry.

That's The Bitch all right.

"It's Ashley!" There was an uneasy moment of silence. "Your son!" I added, to help move things along. It's always hard on one's ego when a mother doesn't recognize her son's voice. Her only son—to be more precise!

I told you, you'd be fuckin' sorry. You never listen.

"Who else—would even want to call you Mother?"

"Ashley?" she said, with a rather stern tone. "Why do you have Heinrich's cell phone? Did something happen to Heinrich?"

I gave the back of Heinrich's head a murderous stare. "Not yet."

"Are you in jail again? How much is the bail this time?"

"No! Mother! I'm not in jail!"

"You didn't cut anything off—"

"Nooo!" I growled. I considered terminating the conversation right then and there. Unfortunately, I didn't get the information I needed yet.

The faster you ask your fuckin' questions, the faster you can fuckin' hang up.

"Do you remember a Carol Upjohn?" I quickly asked. "I believe she was Mrs. Howell's social secretary."

My mother didn't miss a beat. "Of course! Why?"

"Do you know where she is?"

"Yes."

An annoying moment of silence filled my ear.

"Where—Mother?"

"Beacon Hill Cemetery."

I could feel the blood vessels in my head start to shrivel up.

Hey! Never say—shrivel up around me!

I took a deep breath before continuing. "Is that your way, Mother—of telling me, she's dead?"

"I certainly hope she is. She's been under ground for almost fifteen years. Why are you so concerned about Carol anyway?"

"I wanted to ask her a few questions. I was hoping she might have seen—"

Holy shit! Do you see that?

I did! It was Bryce. She just stepped out of the hotel wearing the shortest skirt I had ever seen, and a flimsy—tie-front tank top of some kind. How she was staying in it, was beyond me. "She's trying to kill me—I just know it."

You're fuckin' droolin' again! Stop it!

"Ashley?" my mother asked. "Are you still there?"

"Wh—what?" I mumbled as I watched Bryce walk towards the car.

"Ashley!" I heard my mother scream over the phone. "What's happening?"

I froze—as Bryce opened the car door and slid into the seat next to me. "Holy cow!" I mumbled as I looked down at her feet. She was wearing a pair of those—Greek-like, high heel sandals! Oh! Jeez! And a toe-ring!

Ten!

Once again, I heard my mother scream. "ASHLEY!"

Twelve!

"Yes—Mother!" I snapped annoyingly into the phone. "What do you want?"

Her reply was swift. "You could talk to Bobby Upjohn?"

Hearing the name, my attention momentarily drifted away from Bryce's perfectly shaped middle toe.

Fourteen! We have Fourteen inches! Do I hear sixteen?

I repeated the name. "Bobby Upjohn? Where have I heard that name before?"

Sixteen inches! I'm goin' for eighteen! Call the Guinness World Record people!

"Wait!" I blurted out. "He was Carol's son! I went to school with him." It all started to come back to me. "Maybe he'd be able to shed some light on something's? He seemed to be at Treasure Hall—all the time."

Bryce leaned over and whispered in my ear. "Who are you talking too?"

The fragrance of her perfume was mind-altering. I felt almost—light-headed. As if I were about to—pass out.

I'm pretty sure it's from that porn star's new fragrance line. I think she calls it—Fuck Me in the Ass! Again!

Carefully crossing my legs, I forced myself to clear my head before turning back to Bryce. "My—my mother," I whispered.

And Again!

"Did you say something, Ashley?" I heard my mother ask.

"Where—would I find Bobby?" I cringed as I sensed an uncomfortable fullness creeping over my groin area. "Is—he still in Newport?"

"I believe she's working at Ritz Jewelers. It's just off of Thames."

I grabbed a pen and scribbled down the name on Bryce's folder as I repeated it back to my mother. "Ritz Jewelers."

What the fuck is wrong with you? You just wrote—Tits Jewelers!

Hoping Bryce didn't see my Freudian slip; I scratched out—Tits and quickly wrote in Ritz.

"I think she's part owner," my mother said.

Why's The Bitch referrin' to Bobby as—she?

That was a good question. Why was she referring to Bobby as—she?

I just fuckin' asked you that. Why are you askin' me?

"How did your visit to Lieutenant Cottman's go, dear?" asked my mother.

I found myself once again staring down at Bryce's toe-ring. "Fine."

"Did he mention his idea for his new restaurant he's planning to build on West Howard's Wharf?"

"No! He didn't," I said coldly. "To be honest, he didn't really say—much at all."

Ask The Bitch about Bobby?

"Oh! By the way—Mother," I said casually. "Why do you keep calling—"

"There you are Joanie!" I heard my mother say, right before the line went dead.

"Mother?"

Fuckin' bitch.

"Mother!" I screamed into the phone.

Heinrich suddenly appeared at my window—startling me! Again! "Must you do that all the time?" I snarled as I carefully put his phone back into my pocket.

"Vhere to, sir?"

Composing myself, I coolly replied, "Tits Jewelers!"

Giggling slightly, Bryce leaned over me and glanced up at Heinrich. "I think it's pronounced—Ritz Jewelers!"

Realizing my unfortunate slip of the tongue, I looked up at Heinrich and tried again. "What—she said!"

I bet dumb blondes tell fuckin' jokes about you.

Stepping out of the Mercedes, I took a quick glance up and down Thames for any sign of the red BMW—before turning to Heinrich. "Wait for us," I said. "I don't think this will take long."

Heinrich nodded obediently. "Very good, sir."

How much you want to bet, the fuckin' Nazi takes off the minute you walk into—

"Shut up!" I said as I followed Bryce into Tits.

That's Ritz!

"Dammit."

"Good morning!"

Started—I looked up to find a well-dressed man hurrying towards us. Except for being Indian—he appeared to be your typical salesman. "Welcome!" he called out to us. "Welcome!"

How! Me Chief Tripod-da! Also known as, Man Who Dances on Three Legs.

Forcing out a rather pained grin, I mumbled through tight lips, "Not—that kind of Indian!"

Oops.

"I am Ravi." He swiftly took Bryce's hand in his and gently kissed it. "Welcome to Ritz Jewelers."

"Thank you," Bryce said sweetly.

He bowed and continued. "How may Ravi help you today?"

The lady would like a nipple ring.

An excited grin crossed his face. "An engagement ring—yes?"

Hey! Gandhi! I said a nipple ring! Are you fuckin' deaf?

Ravi hurried over to a display case and eagerly point out several rings. "This one here you will like. It is very, very nice. Come! Take a look!"

Woo! Look! Over there! Babe alert!

As Bryce walked off towards Ravi, I casually glanced across the store.

Check it out! She's checkin' me out.

Oddly enough, there was a woman standing behind a counter on the other side of the store. And she was definitely looking—my way.

What the hell do you mean—my way? Who the fuck do you think you are? Frank Sinatra?

"Shut up," I mumbled.

She's a fuckin' Amazon! And will you look at the size of those ostrich eggs on her!

"I'm—not listening."

I wouldn't mind watchin' her go a few rounds with Xena, the Warrior Princess.

She was very tall. Six feet—at least! I politely nodded and smiled.

Hell! I wouldn't mind goin' a few rounds with Xena.

She returned my smile. However, I didn't get the impression it was a genuine smile. It seemed—forced for some reason, or maybe nervous. "But—" I mumbled to myself. "Why would I make her nervous?"

Did you know cherry is the most popular flavor of edible underwear?

"Oh! Yeah! That's why," I mumbled again. "I'm nuts."

Bryce's frustrated sigh suddenly caught my attention. "No! No—thank you! The gentleman and I are not engaged! We're looking for someone."

Ravi's jet black eyes began to dart back and forth between Bryce and I. He looked terrified.

Gandhi looks like someone just killed his favorite fuckin' cow.

"You—are police?" he asked.

Before I could say anything, he cracked like an uncooked egg. "Please! I am not Pakistani! I do not care how many unmanned drones you send over there! I am from New Deli!"

Bryce gave Ravi's arm a gentle pat. "No! You don't understand," she said while trying to hold in her laughter. "We're looking for Bobby Upjohn. Does—"

"Bobby?" Ravi beamed happily. "Is that who you are looking for?"

Bryce nodded. "Yes!"

Ravi eagerly grabbed Bryce's arm. "Come! Follow me. She is right over here."

"She?" Bryce said, shooting me a confused grin over her shoulder.

This doesn't bode well.

Ravi led Bryce straight to the tall woman behind the counter. "Bobby! These two nice people would like to talk to you."

The woman looked up and smiled. "Good afternoon," she said. "Can I help you?"

Ravi again bowed and left.

Now—I'm fuckin' confused.

So was I. I was also speechless.

Bryce stepped forward and smiled blankly at the woman behind the counter. "I think Ravi might've misunderstood us. We would like to speak with Bobby Upjohn, if that's possible?"

"I'm Bobby," she said. "How can I help you?"

I'm not gettin' a good feelin' about this.

Hesitantly, I took a step forward.

Hey! Not too fuckin' close.

I carefully cleared my throat before asking my question. "Was your mother by any chance, Carol Upjohn?"

She smiled sadly. "Yes. Did you know my mother?"

I cautiously continued. "Did she happen to work for Jonathan Howell's wife?"

She nodded as she looked over at Bryce. "Yes—she did. What is this about?"

Well? Which one of us is goin' to ask the next question?

I hesitantly stepped forward. "Were you a guy—in high school?"

Bryce immediately turned on me and snapped. "Ashley!"

Hearing my name, Bobby flashed me a smile. "Ashley? Ashley Hard? I thought I recognized you!"

I cringed openly. This couldn't be Bobby Upjohn? The Bobby I knew was on the football team with me. I took—showers with the guy!

This could explain those strange looks he used to give me in the fuckin' shower.

I shook my head to clear it. "Bobby?" I asked while trying to hide the obvious surprise in my voice. "Is that—really you?"

And you thought it was because he got soap in his fuckin' eyes.

She smiled and proudly twirled around. "What do you think?"

I looked her over, somewhat dumbfounded. "I think—you're a woman."

"Ashley!" Bryce snapped again.

Bobby again twirled around. "It will be a year next month."

It all started to come back to me—the Barbie stickers on his backpack in grade school! The figure skating lessons in Junior High! The pink shirts!

Didn't he play Snow White in the school play your senior year?

He got a twenty minute standing ovation.

I still can't believe you didn't let me try out for one of the fuckin' dwarfs.

"Shut up!"

Obviously sensing my discomfort at the moment, Bryce jumped into the conversation. "I'm Bryce Williams! I'm a reporter. I'm doing a story on the Howell jewel robbery—and Ashley here has graciously agreed to help me with some of the research."

I could've been—Beefy!

Bryce pulled her pad out of her handbag. "Ashley thought you might remember some details about that night."

Bobby shook her head. "I was at the party that night, but—I don't really remember much to be honest with you, it was a long time ago."

"You don't remember anything?" Bryce asked, rather disappointedly.

"Wait!" said Bobby as a memory suddenly came to her. "I remember the afternoon of the party; my mother had me try on the gown Mrs. Howell wanted to wear that night. It was gorgeous! It was pink with these long flowing—"

I causally cleared my throat. "Why would your mother—have you put on a dress?"

"She had some last minute alterations to do on it." Anticipating my next question she quickly added, "I was the same size as Mrs. Howell at the time."

See! It's always the goddamn mother's fault. That's why you're so fucked up.

"Is that all you remember from that night?" Bryce asked. "What about Mr. Howell? Do you remember seeing him?"

Bobby shook her head again. "No. Sorry." Suddenly—a sparkle appeared in her eye. "I remember Page, though! The guy Mr. Howell hired to play Santa Claus."

Bryce looked up from her pad; her pen at the ready. "What about him?"

"He didn't look right."

"What do you mean?" asked Bryce.

"You could tell he wasn't fat. He had all of this padding under his suit. He was really a terrible looking Santa."

"Supposedly," Bryce added, "that's how he took the jewels out of the house, under his Santa suit."

Bobby nodded. "I remember reading about that."

"What do you think happened to the jewels?" I asked Bobby.

She shrugged her broad shoulders. "Most people think Page sold them off to private collectors."

Bryce continued digging. "Page insisted Howell hired him to steal the jewels."

Bobby thought about Bryce's comment before answering. "I guess he could have."

"I just don't understand," Bryce said, sounding totally frustrated. "How all those jewels just disappeared? Why haven't they been found? It's downright spooky."

Bobby cautiously leaned forward. "You know what's really spooky?"

Your vagina?

"About six months ago," she continued, "this guy came in here with this diamond he wanted appraised. It was absolutely gorgeous, twenty carrots. Blue—"

Bryce anxiously cut her off. "What was so spooky about it?"

Bobby causally leaned over the counter. "I could've sworn it was from the Howell collection."

Bryce hesitated a moment. "You mean one of the stones that were supposedly stolen the night of the party?"

Bobby nodded excitedly.

"How would you know?" I asked, rather skeptically.

"You have to remember," Bobby pointed out, "while my mother worked for Mrs. Howell, I practically lived at Treasure Hall. Mrs. Howell had her jewels out all the time. She loved to show them off. And she would always tell me a little something about each stone. This one particular piece had a strange flaw in it that when you looked at it in a certain light; it appeared to have a small animal in it."

"Like that movie!" Bryce quickly prompted me for some help. "What was it called?"

"The Pink Panther", I said confidently. I knew my movies. "Peter Sellers! David Niven! Robert Wagner! United Artists! Nineteen sixty—"

You forgot Claudia Cardinale! How the hell could you forget Claudia Cardinale? The woman was a fuckin' goddess!

"—three," I finished weakly.

What kind of dickless wonder would forget Claudia Cardinale! You're fuckin' gay, aren't you?

"Yes!" said Bobby. "But in this guy's stone, instead of a pink panther, I saw what looked like a blue beaver."

Hmmm! I could see Claudia in a movie called, The Blue Beaver.

"Are you trying to tell us," Bryce went on excitedly, "that Mrs. Howell had a diamond with the same flaw as this guy's diamond?"

Bobby nodded.

Bryce could star in it too, but they'd have to call it, The Shaved Blue Beaver.

"Did he tell you where he got it?" asked Bryce.

Bobby shook her head. "I asked, but he wouldn't tell me."

On the other hand, I don't even want to think what they'd have to call Bobby's movie. Probably somethin' like, Cunt of Frankenstein.

With my left eye now doing somersaults, I lurched forward and blurted out my next question. "What was this guy's name? Do—do you remember?"

Do you realize, you just said—Dodo?

"He didn't say," Bobby said. "He was rather secretive."

I needed more. "Do—do you remember what he looked like?"

You just fuckin' said it again!

Bobby tried to remember. "I'd have to say—average looking, nothing out of the ordinary."

What a fuckin' airhead. I bet if she was still a guy, she'd remember.

I could tell Bryce wanted more too as she kept the questions coming. "Are you sure nothing else caught your attention during the party?"

"Mrs. Grumbaugh had this exquisite gown on. It had all these—"

"About the robbery," Bryce said, somewhat frustrated.

Out of nowhere, Bobby remembered something. "You know what? You should talk to Evelyn."

"Who's Evelyn?" asked Bryce.

"Evelyn Knight! She's such a dear! She was the Howell's cook for years. She always considered herself, this amateur detective. If she wasn't cooking something, she was reading a mystery novel."

Bryce seemed interested. "What happen to her?"

"She runs a small bed and breakfast up in Maine."

Bryce continued her barrage of questions. "Is there anyone else who was around Treasure Hall at the time of the robbery that might have seen or heard something?"

"Have you talked to Claude?"

Bryce went back to scribbling in her note pad. "What's his last name?"

"Bagget," Bobby said while taking a moment to check her memory. "Claude Bagget! He was Mr. Howell's chauffeur. He may remember something."

Bryce eagerly turned the page in her little pad. "Where can we find him?"

"The last I heard, he was a bartender at the Paradise Palace in Middletown." Bobby's eyes brightened once again. "You know what? I've got the next few days off. If you'd like, I'll go up to Maine with you to see Evelyn. I haven't seen her in years. Plus, she makes the best blueberry pies!"

Bryce seemed eager as she glanced my way. "How would tomorrow morning be?"

Wait a minute! Three hours trapped in a car—with a transsexual sittin' next to me! In fuckin' gropin' distance! I don't fuckin' think so!

Somehow, Bryce interpreted my look of indecision as a—yes! "Tomorrow it is!" she said while enthusiastically turning back to Bobby.

"Great," Bobby replied. "I'm staying at the Harbor Lane Hotel on Goat Island while my place is being painted. I'll catch the early ferry and meet you at the Western Harbor. Would six in the morning be too early?"

"We'll be there," Bryce beamed.

I just sort of—smiled painfully.

I ain't fuckin' goin'!
CHAPTER FOURTEEN

As I waited patiently by the front door for Bryce to finalize our plans with Bobby, I probably should've been thinking about tomorrow, but—something else seemed to be more pressing at the moment. Like—who was Bobby's mystery man? And—was his diamond really one of the missing stones from the Howell collection? And if it was—where did he get it?

Shit! Red alert! I repeat! Red alert!

I immediately froze at the sight of Trish and—

Dickless.

—standing outside the jewelry store.

This doesn't bode well.

"No—it didn't," I mumbled as I watched them admire the array of engagement rings in the window. Suddenly—

Dickless.

—looked up at me! As our eyes met, I panicked and threw myself on the floor. "Dammit. Did he see me?"

How the hell do I know?

Almost immediately, I heard Ravi's distinctive voice. "Did you lose something?"

Opening my eyes, I found myself staring directly at Bryce's high-heeled, sandaled clad feet.

Very, very nice!

I think I saw Sarah Jessica Parker wearing the exact pair of shoes on an episode of Sex and the City.

'Sex and the City'! You fuckin' watch 'Sex and the City'?

"Well—"

You need some serious fuckin' help.

"I—I was just clicking through the channels—"

Forget the fuckin' shoes! Concentrate on her feet!

I was! Well, actually I was looking at—the toe-ring.

Look how soft and smooth they are. And notice—how precisely she's applied the toe-nail polish.

Strangely enough—I began to feel myself being drawn towards them.

That's right! Closer! A little closer! That's it! Now—lick'em!

"Wh—what?"

"Ashley?"

My forward progress abruptly stopped.

Quick! Give'em a little lick! She won't mind!

"Ashley!"

Biting my tongue, I looked up at Bryce and said, "Retty tu ho?"

"I am," she snapped. "Are you?"

You better get up. I'm about to punch a fuckin' hole through this concrete floor.

Jumping up, I dusted myself off and turned to Ravi. "You might want to take a broom to this floor—now and then! It's filthy down there!"

Good! Make Gandhi the bad guy. Smart move!

"This isn't India—you know," I quickly added for good measure.

Bryce swiftly cleared her throat. "Ashley!"

Too much.

Eying me as if I were Jeffery Dahmer and I'd just invited her over for lunch, Bryce squeezed passed me and exited the store.

Maybe you should tell her you're only interested in eatin' her—

"Shut up!" I screamed wildly. "Just—shut up!" As the last syllable crossed my lips, I remembered Ravi was standing next to me. "Dammit."

"I—I did not say a word," he softly cowered.

Good goin'.

"Shut up!"

As I stepped out of the jewelry store, Bryce immediately attacked my flank with another question. "Where's Heinrich?"

"To hell with Heinrich," I mumbled as I hurried over to a nearby mail box and ducked down behind it. "I have bigger fish to find! Like—" I peeked over the mail box. "Where did Trish and—"

Dickless.

"—disappear too?"

Over there! See them?

I nodded as I watched them cross Thames about a half a block up the street.

Shit! They're holdin' hands.

"Ashley?"

Hearing Bryce calling me, I slowly stepped away from the mail box and refocused. "Yes?"

"I don't see Heinrich anywhere." She gave me another concerned glare. "Or the Mercedes!"

Apparently, I wasn't as focused as I should've been. "Wh—what?"

"Heinrich!" she snapped, sounding rather frustrated with me. "Where did he go?"

Finally getting the message, I looked up and down the street for myself. She was right; there was no sign of him anywhere.

Told you.

"Hey! Ash-hole!"

Uh! Oh! Did you fuckin' hear that?

I did! And—I also noticed out of the corner of my eye, a Newport Sightseeing Trolley pull up alongside of me.

This isn't good! Run!

I nervously fixed my eyes on the heavens. "Please! Don't let this be Spike—please! Pretty please!"

Just don't fuckin' stand there, pickin' your ass! Run!

"Well! Well! Look who we have here!"

The deep gravelly voice was unmistakable. It was Spike—all right. I looked towards the heavens once again. "Thanks a lot."

"Who the hell unbuckled your straitjacket?"

You do realize, you're being mocked, right?

I did. Spike's been a thorn in my side since kindergarten. Sherlock Holmes had Moriarty! Batman had the Joker!

Sonny had Cher!

I had—Spike!

Remember the time—she beat you up in sixth grade?

"It was third grade!" I growled. "And—I was in a weakened state! I just got over having the measles!"

Lettin' a fuckin' girl kick your ass! How pathetic is that?

"Girl?" I mumbled. "She's a freak of nature! If I remember correctly, she got hired as Schwarzenegger's stand-in while he was up here filming True Lies!"

"How's it going, Ash-hole?" she yelled out—still trying to get a rise out of me.

Reluctantly, I looked over and saw her sitting behind the trolley's steering-wheel, just—staring at me. I was amazed at how she hadn't really changed much since her competitive body building days.

Steroid suckin' slut.

"Dyke," I retorted coldly, before correcting myself. "Oh! Sorry! I mean—Spike."

"Good one, Hard," she sneered. "You're sharp as ever."

I sensed a definite touch of sarcasm in her tone. However, I was quite willing to take it as a compliment, if it would piss her off. "Thank you."

"Very original," she snarled. "The last time I heard that one, I think I fell off my dinosaur."

It was probably one of those Lickalotapuss'.

"What do you want, Spike?" I growled impatiently. "I'm sort of busy—right now."

"Do you know what you'd be, Hard—if you had 200 girlfriends?"

Watch it. It could be a trick question.

"Popular?" I answered annoyingly.

Spike chuckled openly. "A shepherd!"

I believe the lesbo just called you a fuckin' sheep fucker.

I think she did too—and from the laugh I heard spill out of Bryce, she heard it too. Granted, it wasn't a full-blown laugh, but—it still was a laugh.

Shit! At this rate, the only thin' Bryce is goin' to spread—is some butter on a piece of fuckin' toast.

Furious, I stepped away from the trolley's door and motioned to Spike to step out of the trolley. "That's it! Let's go! You and me! Here! Now! Man to man!" I quickly rethought my last comment. "I mean—man to—almost man!"

I felt Bryce tug at my sleeve as she whispered in my ear. "What the hell are you doing?"

Spike calmly got up from her seat and addressed her passengers. "Excuse me for a moment. This won't take long."

You did it now! She's fuckin' pissed! That almost man comment—might've been a bit over the top?

My mouth went dry as I found myself struggling to swallow.

You do realize she's goin' to go straight for me! I think they call it—penis envy.

"Remember," I mumbled to myself. "Show no fear!"

Show no fear? Look at those fuckin' forearms on her! I'm fucked.

Come to think of it—some kids did call her Popeye in school.

She's goin' to rip me out by the fuckin' roots, have me stuffed, then mounted on her fuckin' wall!

"I can see tomorrow's headlines!" I mumbled nervously. "Lunatic Ex-New York City Cop Beats Up Ugly Local Lesbian."

We must read different papers. My headline reads, Ugly Local Lesbian Rips-Off Lunatic Ex-New York City Cop's Penis! Stuffs It! And Mounts It On Her Fuckin' Wall!

As Spike stepped off the trolley, I had an uneasy feeling that something wasn't quite right. I felt—I didn't really have Spike's full attention.

Is it because she's not even—fuckin' lookin' at you?

"May—maybe." She wasn't even walking towards me. Stepping out of my kung fu stance, I watched with interest as she walked straight for—

Holy shit!

—Bryce.

"Hello," Spike said to Bryce as she extended her massive man-hand. "Since Hard doesn't seem to want to introduce us, I guess I'll have to do it myself. I'm Samantha Spikely."

Smiling, Bryce shook her hand. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Samantha. I'm Bryce Williams."

You better go tell Bryce to go wash her hand. I can only imagine where Spike's hand has been.

Spike suddenly shot Bryce one of her revolting little cutesy smiles. "Most people just call me Spike."

Let's not forget—Sam the Man!

For some strange reason, Bryce seemed rather interested in what Spike had to say. "Have you known Ashley long?"

"We go way back," Spike replied. "He took me to the prom our senior year."

What? Where the fuck was I?

"Th—that's a lie!" I hustled over and eagerly pulled Bryce's hand away from Spike's grip. "I've never taken this—humanoid anywhere! I don't even know her!"

"Hard and I were in the same kindergarten class." Spike casually leaned into Bryce. "You wouldn't believe how many times he got in trouble for looking up girl's dresses."

Bryce shot me a whimsical smile. "Really?"

Tell her you were playin' detective—and you were just lookin' for clues.

I decided to go in another direction. "I—I was just imitating her," I said while pointing an accusing finger at Spike. "She did it first!"

Bryce just smiled as she gently took Spike by her chemically enhanced biceps and steered her back towards the trolley. "Pay no attention to him."

"I never do," Spike said. "He's a loser."

I'm sorry, but I'd have to agree with her on that one.

As the two of them walked off—arm and arm, I couldn't help but wonder if I had somehow entered some kind of—lesbian Twilight Zone? "What the hell is going on here?"

It looks to me, that Bryce is walkin' away from you—arm and arm, with the world's only female Sylvester Stallone impersonator.

Spike flexed her Steve Reeve's sized bicep under Bryce's hands and smiled. "What's an intelligent—and may I say, very attractive woman like you, hanging around with a complete idiot like Hard? Are you from around here?"

Well! You did it again! You pushed another one over to the opposin' team. What does that make it? Four?

My confusion only deepened. "I didn't push anyone—anywhere."

I told you to whip me out, but noooo! You didn't want too! I would've kept her busy! She wouldn't have had time to think about switchin' sides.

"She's just—talking to Spike. Nothing is going to happen."

That's what you said about Billie Jean King.

"Wh—what?"

Billie Jean King! The tennis player!

"I've never met her."

What about Martina Navratalova?

"I've never met her, either."

You haven't? What's up with these fuckin' women tennis players then?

I took a moment to think it over. Luckily, I didn't have to think too long as I saw Bryce running towards me.

Look at Fred and Ethel bounce! It's sort of like—slow motion! Like—how they filmed 'The Six Million Dollar Man'. Holy shit! Maybe they're fuckin' bionic! Ask her if she has bionic blouse bunnies?

"I have good news," Bryce said as she stopped bouncing. "Spike has offered to give me a lift back to my hotel. Why don't you—"

"Wh—what?" I snapped. "We—we don't need Spike's help!"

Bryce eyed me strangely. "What do you suggest? I walk back to my hotel?"

I checked out the darkening sky. "Why not? It looks like it's going to be a nice evening."

Bryce directed my attention once again to her high-heel sandals, with triple ankles straps and—

The toe-ring.

Ah! Yes! The toe-ring!

"I'm sorry—" she snapped, "but I'm not going to walk all the way back to my hotel in these!"

I looked back over my shoulder towards Spike, while lowering my voice. "You do realize Spike—is a woman, right?"

"Yesss!" Bryce grabbed my arm and dragged me away from Spike while lowering her voice. "I know she's a woman! I also know you could try being a bit more civil to her. She might be able to help us! She's a tour guide for the mansions, isn't she? She must know hundreds of stories about the area. She might even have some information about the Howell's we could use. Or even the robbery!" She finally let go of my arm. "Will you please try to be a little nicer to her?"

I thought it over. "All right—" I said thoughtfully, "maybe that—almost man comment, might've been—a bit over the top."

"It was cruel."

Bryce is absolutely right! You're a heartless fuckin' rat-bastard.

"Cruel?" I questioned. "I'll tell you what's cruel. In third grade, Little Miss Sally Steroid, over there, snuck up behind me and—" I suddenly found my full attention focused on a red BMW stopped at the red light across the street.

Shit! He's fuckin' back!
CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Whoever this creep was—he was persistent. And rich! With gas prices the way they are, he had to be spending a small fortune driving around Newport in that BMW.

"What are you staring at?" Bryce asked as she turned to look for herself.

Not wanting to stress her out any more than she already was, I grabbed her and directed her towards the trolley, before she noticed the BMW. "Shall we go?" I asked sweetly. "We certainly don't want to keep—Spike waiting."

Bryce appeared confused as I practically dragged her towards the trolley. "Aren't you afraid you might get her cooties?" she asked as she broke out into a little jog to keep up with me.

Forcing out a smile, I pretended to spray myself with a can of anti-cootie spray—like I used to do in grade school.

You are so fuckin' pathetic.

"All aboard!" Spike yelled as she eyed Bryce hurrying towards her.

Bryce held up two fingers. "Do you have room for two more?"

By the sour expression on Spike's ugly puss, she wasn't too thrilled to hear that I'd be coming too. It was either that, or she just drank a glass of rancid animal growth hormones.

Probably fuckin' gorilla.

Spike reluctantly thought it over before nodding. "I guess so."

"Great," Bryce said, jumping up into the trolley.

Spike and I remained outside—staring at one another. Which let me tell you, was no easy task? I was having a devil-of-a-time controlling my gag reflex.

Are you sure her parents were human?

"Don't you have to go mutilate yourself somewhere?" Spike asked me pointedly.

I forced out a half-hearted smile. "Bite me."

Are you fuckin' insane? Don't tell her that! Look at those jaw muscles on her. She probably could bite her way through a fuckin' redwood.

"Bryce got the last seat," snarled Spike. "You'll have to stand."

I nodded—then stuck my tongue out at her.

Very mature.

Flashing me her middle finger, Spike then turned and climbed back into the trolley, giving me the perfect opportunity to locate the BMW. Unfortunately, it was gone. But to be honest, I didn't know if that was a good thing—or a bad thing. I didn't even know if they saw us. I could be worrying for nothing. And—if that was the case, why was I about to step up into Spike's—

SWOOSH!

The trolley's door suddenly slammed shut right in my face, then—violently reopened a second later.

"Sorry, Ash-hole," Spike yelled from the driver's seat. "I forgot you were coming."

That was a fuckin' close one. If I were thinkin' about Erin Heatherton, there's no tellin' what I would've done to that fuckin' door.

I jumped up into the trolley before Spike could close the door on me again, and gave her a little sarcastic laugh. "Very funny."

Snickering, Spike stomped on the clutch, man-handled the gearshift into first, and stepped on the gas pedal. "I thought so."

Hearing a little giggle behind me, I turned around to find Bryce sitting next to an elderly Japanese woman, giggling.

Elderly? I think the fuckin' word you're lookin' for is ancient. I wouldn't be surprised to find out—Ming boinked her.

I chuckled openly as I lowered my voice and said, "Ming—was a Chinese ruler."

Hey! Fuck you! And your little dog.

Somewhat confused, I shook my head and mumbled, "I don't have—a little dog."

Oh! Yeah! I forgot.

Having a hard time believing Spike when she said Bryce got the last seat, I scanned the trolley for myself. To my surprise—

The ugly lesbo.

—wasn't lying. Every seat in the trolley appeared to be occupied by a Japanese person.

I hope our next stop isn't the Newport Naval base. You know what happened last time a bunch of Japs visited one of our naval bases.

What was this, I thought—a casting call for The Last Samurai II?

Hey! I could play Tom Cruise's part.

The trolley suddenly took a sharp right. Not quite prepared for it—I lost my balance and tumbled face first into the old woman's lap.

What the hell is that fuckin' smell? Teriyaki sauce?

As I struggled to untangle my head from the old woman's handbag, I recognized Spike's hideous voice bellowing over the trolley's loudspeaker. "If everyone will look to their right, you will be able to see the world famous Hardly Manor! It will be visible through the trees in just a moment."

"Hardly Manor?" I mumbled angrily as I continued to fight with the old lady's handbag. "What's Spike doing?"

What the fuck are you doin'? Get your head out of there! Everyone is lookin' at you! Turn your head! No! No! The other way, you fuckin' Bozo!

"I don't usually drive this way," continued Spike, "but since we have a very special guest with us today, I thought you would like to hear a bit about the history of Hardly Manor."

Finally able to free myself from the handbag, I pushed myself up on to my knees and away from the old woman.

Real smooth! I'm sure no one saw anythin'.

Bryce obviously did. She was laughing hysterically. Tears were streaming down her face. It was then; I noticed the entire trolley—was laughing at me.

You might want to remind the little bastards who won the fuckin' war.

"Hardly Manor was built around 1905 by one of the richest men at that time," Spike said while slowing the trolley to a crawl. "Nicholas Hardoffsky!"

Forcing myself to focus, I walked over to Spike on my knees and grabbed the steering wheel. "What are you doing?" I growled as I spotted my mother's Mercedes, with Heinrich behind the wheel, pulling out of the driveway. "Wh—what?"

Spike calmly slapped my hand away from the steering wheel before continuing, "He changed his name to Hard when he came over to this country from Russia. He founded Hard Steel in 1880 and rapidly became one of the giants in the steel industry. His son, Peter Hard ..."

The second I heard my grandfather's name, I knew where Spike was taking this. She was going to try to humiliate me—as usual.

You're doin' a fuckin' good job of that all by yourself. Would you please get up off your fuckin' knees?

"... reportedly acquire the largest collection of erotic art in the world." Spike looked down at me with her usual smug smile. "How many pieces did horny grandpa have again?"

"I really do—hate you," I silently mouthed.

"I'm sorry," said Spike, once again speaking into her microphone. "I forgot to introduce our special guest! He's the pitiful piece of human flesh kneeling besides me."

I sensed every passenger in the trolley was now jockeying for position to get a better look at me. "They're all—staring at me, aren't they?" I mumbled. "I can almost feel their beady little eyes—"

Don't you mean—their slanty little eyes?

I timidly looked over my shoulder and forced out a smile. They were—staring at me.

"Ladies and gentleman!" shouted Spike. "Would you please give a big hand to Porno Pete's grandson, Ashley Wilkes Hard!"

I couldn't believe it! Several of the tourists actually started to clap.

If you want a fuckin' standin' ovation, you'll need to whip me out.

I scrambled to my feet and held up my hands. "Please!" I pleaded. "There is no need to applaud. I'm—I'm nothing special! I'm just—like you!" Well—maybe a bit taller.

Nothin' special! You're carryin' around a seventeen and a half inch trouser trout in your—

CLICK!

A sudden flash of light—momentarily blinded me.

Well—The Bitch did warn you about the side effects of masturbation.

"Shut up!" I growled, under my breath. "The old lady just snapped a picture of me. And—I don't masturbate!"

It's a scientific fact that 97 percent of all males masturbate.

"Well—I'm in the 3 percent that doesn't!"

You didn't let me finish! The other 3 percent are fuckin' liars.

Flashes were now going off everywhere. CLICK! CLICK! I was surrounded! CLICK! It was maddening. CLICK!

"No! Please!" I shouted. "No more pictures! Please!"

CLICK!

Turn sideways! Let them get a few profile shots. I've always felt I looked rather dashin' from the side.

"Our next stop will be the world famous, Cliff Walk!" bellowed Spike's baritone voice once again. "It's one of Rhode Island's favorite tourist attractions. Many of the great mansions we'll see this evening overlook the Walk. Serious development of Cliff Walk started in the late eighteen hundreds. It covers three and a half miles ..."

Borrrrin'!

I nodded in agreement as Spike took a sharp left on to Shepard. There was no doubt Spike knew her stuff. She had a Master's degree in History and taught part-time at the local Junior College. Unfortunately, her stuff—was boring.

"... I'll be dropping you off at the Forty Steps which you'll find at the end of the road just to the right of us. Please be careful on the steps. I can't park down there due to the limited parking, so I will meet you all back here in an hour."

As Spike's last passenger stepped off the trolley, I exhaled a frustrated sigh of relief and plopped down in the seat across from Bryce. "Well—that was fun."

Spike immediately swung around in her seat while openly ogling Bryce. "You mentioned Ash-hole was helping you with one of your stories. What's the story about?"

Bryce eagerly moved to the edge of her seat. "You seem to know a lot about Newport. Do you happen to know any deep dark secrets about Treasure Hall?"

Spike smiled. "What do you need to know?"

Once again, Bryce pulled her pad and pencil from her handbag. "Anything! Who built it? When?"

"Well, you must know about John Carsdale, right?"

Bryce shook her head. "No—I don't. Who was he?"

"Ash-hole hasn't told you about Carsdale?"

Bryce tossed me one of those looks. "No—he hasn't!"

I forced out a harried smile.

You really don't know who John Carsdale is? I do!

I felt my smile slowly mutate into a grimace as Spike continued. "Around 1870, John Carsdale was a lighthouse keeper's assistant in the old lighthouse over on Rose Island. The guy was a total loser. Sort of like—Hard, actually!"

With an irritated chuckle, I stared out the window. "Play nice," I mumbled to myself. "You promised Bryce you would play nice—with her."

Butch bitch.

Spike again continued. "One day, after walking around Rose Island, he comes back and quits his job. Two years later—he's building Treasure Hall."

Bryce appeared fascinated. "Where did he get the money?"

"No one knows," Spike replied while adding a touch of suspense to her voice. "He never told anyone. He took his secret to his grave."

Wow! This is gettin' fuckin' scary. Do you think Bryce would hold me?

Bryce appeared hooked. "Did anyone ever come up with a theory as to where he got the money?"

Spike nodded. "A lot of people, including myself, think he found Toothless Tommy's treasure that was supposedly buried over on Rose Island."

"Toothless Tommy?" I heard Bryce ask Spike as I inadvertently watched a red car pull in behind the trolley.

"Captain Thomas Feathers," Spike retorted. "He was a well know pirate around Newport during the late 1700's."

"Oh! My god!" Bryce said excitedly.

I turned back just in time to hear Spike address Bryce's surprise. "Have you heard of him?"

I have.

Bryce's eyes met mine. "I think Mr. Howell mentioned him!"

"Treasure Hall's—Jonathan Howell?" interrupted Spike.

Bryce nodded. "Yes."

Spike chuckled. "Well, he would know, wouldn't he?"

Appearing slightly perplexed, Bryce waited patiently for Spike's explanation. She swiftly obliged. "Captain Feathers supposedly haunts Treasure Hall."

"Oops!" I mumbled.

Bryce eyed me suspiciously. "Did you know this Captain Feathers, supposedly haunts Treasure Hall?"

She looks fuckin' pissed.

I carefully cleared my throat before forcing out another smile. "Sort of." I sensed Bryce's disappointment.

"Why didn't you tell me?" she snapped. "That's probably the Captain, Howell was talking about."

"Well—" I said while squirming in my seat.

Spike couldn't wait to pile on. "Yeah! Every kid growing up around here has heard the stories about Toothless Tommy and Treasure Hall."

I could tell Spike was eating this up.

Don't just fuckin' sit there! Say somethin'!

"Okay!" I snapped. "I—I messed up! I didn't put all—the pieces together. I've had other things on my mind!"

Yeah! Like Bryce's atom smashers.

Spike let go a hearty snort. "What could possibly be on your mind, Hard? You don't have one!"

Having had just about enough of Spike, I stood up and pointed towards the back of the trolley. "That red BMW that's following us, for starters!"

What the hell are you doin'! Who said it was a BMW?

"You did—didn't you?" I mumbled.

It wasn't me! You must be fuckin' hearin' thin's.

Bryce stood up and hurried back to the rear of the trolley. "Oh! My god!" she said. "It is a red BMW! He found us!"

I tried my best to hide my jubilation.

You are one lucky bastard.

Spike causally checked her rear view mirror. "There's no one following us."

"He's not kidding, Spike," said Bryce as she hurried back to the front of the trolley. "There is a red BMW following us! It tried to run us down this morning!"

This is your chance!

"Wh—what?"

To show Bryce who the hell is the real man around here! You or Spikezilla over there!

I mulled the thought over—as I watched Spike stand up and walk over to Bryce. "I did lose some points with Bryce—not connecting old man Howell's imaginary Captain with Toothless Tommy, didn't I?"

You're damn right! I suggest you come up with somethin' before Spike bends Bryce over that seat and uses her for a fuckin' after dinner mint.

"Are you sure someone is following you?" Spike asked Bryce, still sounding rather skeptical.

"Go back and check it out yourself," I quickly interjected.

"All right," Spike snapped, "I will!"

As Spike took a step towards the back of the trolley, I pushed her aside, jumped into the driver's seat, and quickly fastened the seat belt.

All right! Now we're cookin'! I can almost smell the fuckin' testosterone!

"What the hell are you doing?" Spike snarled.

Confidently, I surveyed the trolley's controls. "I'm taking over," I said while giving the rearview mirror a slight adjustment.

Spike grabbed my arm. "Get up, Hard! Before—someone gets hurt!"

Ignoring her, I swiftly assessed my possible escape routes. Unfortunately, there weren't many. We were on Parker—two blocks from Bellevue. If I could get onto Bellevue—

Spike gave me a little shove. "I'm not going to tell you again, Hard!"

Back off Spartacus! Don't make me come out there!

I slapped her hairy hand away from me and yelled, "Hey! That guy back there almost killed us today! And—I'm not about to give him another shot at it!"

Bryce nervously stepped forward. "Ashley? Are you sure you know what you're doing?"

"Of course," I shot back. "One time—I was in a high speed chase that took me through all five Burroughs of New York City."

You better not tell her how that one ended. She could be squeamish.

"Good point," I mumbled introspectively. Tightening my seat belt, I cautiously directed Bryce and Spike back to their seats. "You two—might want to sit down and buckle up."

Spike viciously jabbed me in the shoulder with her meaty index finger. "You're nuts if you think you're going to out run him in this trolley."

I scoffed openly. "Let me worry about that!"

Spike poked me again, but with a bit more gusto this time. "If you put one dent in this trolley, Hard—I'm going to put a dent in your goddamn head!"

Revving the engine, I calmly stuck my tongue out at her. She immediately reciprocated by sticking her tongue out at me.

You got to wonder, how many tuna caves that ugly little fucker has explored.

As Spike reluctantly sat down next to Bryce, I turned my attention back to the BMW.

Well? Let's go!

I nervously licked my drying lips. "Give me a second, will you please?"

All right.

I reached out the window and anxiously readjusted the driver's side mirror.

Your second is up. GO!

I stomped on the gas pedal—red-lining the tachometer. The engine's whine quickly reached a deafening pitch as the trolley began to shake—and the seats started to rattle. Gripping the steering wheel with all the strength I could muster—I suddenly saw a kid on his ten-speed bike streak pass us—as if we were standing still. Rather perplexed by the sight, I instinctively checked the trolley's speedometer.

Seventeen fuckin' miles an hour! That's all this piece of shit can do?

I double-checked the emergency brake to make sure it wasn't on. It wasn't!

You do realize, you're not even goin' fast enough to get a fuckin' speedin' ticket.

I pressed down even harder on the gas pedal.

I guess you could get a ticket for—obstructin' traffic!

I shot Spike a worrisome frown. "What's the matter with this thing?"

She openly laughed with a mocking tone. "I told you, you wouldn't be able to out run him."

With the traffic stopped up ahead, I eased up on the gas pedal and coasted to a stop.

Hang on! This may work in your favor. Whoever's drivin' that BMW, probably doesn't even know you're tryin' to lose him yet.

"Shut up!" I glanced out the trolley's windows to survey our location.

You're about a half block farther than the fuckin' last time you checked.

It was obvious I needed another escape plan. This one sucked—big time.

Tell me about it.

"We're still coming up onto Bellevue," I mumbled to myself. "It's a major street with a bunch of cross streets and a lot of traffic. If I could get on to it—I could find a spot and pull over, Bryce and I could hop off the trolley—and dart down one of the cross streets. The BMW would never be able to follow us."

"What else can to tell me about Treasure Hall?" I heard Bryce ask Spike. "What happened to John Carsdale?"

"The day he moved into the Treasure Hall, he fell down the main staircase and broke his neck."

Bryce heaved a sigh of excitement. "Captain Tommy's ghost?"

Holy shit! Did you see that! Quick! Tell Bryce somethin' to make her heave another sigh. I think Ying and Yang are about to fuckin' pop right out of there.

"No one knows," Spike said, "but that was the start of the Treasure Hall curse."

"Did they ever find Captain Tommy's treasure?"

Spike shook her head. "Some people believe that it's still hidden somewhere inside mansion."

Suddenly remembering where I was—I checked the rear view mirror again to see if my predicament had changed. The BMW was still behind us. We were still stuck in traffic. And—still going nowhere.

To sum it up, I'd say, your predicament still fuckin' sucks.

"Did you know Jonathan Howell's wife also died in Treasure Hall?" Spike suddenly asked Bryce.

Bryce stopped writing. "How did she die?"

"The police figured she accidentally fell over the third floor railing," Spike said ghoulishly.

This is gettin' down right spooky. Oh! Look! I'm gettin' fuckin' goose pimples! I bet Bryce would love to see them.

"Was she pushed?" Bryce asked, totally enthralled with Spike's tale.

Spike shrugged. "No one knows."

Bryce closed her pad and took a good hard look at Spike. "Would you be interested in helping me with the story I'm writing about Treasure Hall?"

Nice goin', Suzie Sissypants! You're about to be replaced by a fuckin' lesbo! The fuckin' humiliation of it all!

"Sure," Spike said. "Why not? It might be fun!"

Bryce beamed. "Great!"

Just don't sit there! Do somethin'! Or in a few minutes they'll be pickin' out fuckin' curtains together!

"Right!" I mumbled. I need to show Bryce that—I'm in control! That—I can take the lead! That—I can take charge!

I really don't think fuckin' lyin' to her is the best fuckin' strategy.

"Shut up."

Fuck you!

I—I've been on the defense too long with this clown in the BMW. I need to step up! Be on the offense for a change!

Good! What the hell are you goin' to do?

I nervously bit my lower lip as the light up ahead finally turned green.

You're not doin' nothin'.

"Leave me alone, I'm thinking," I mumbled as I watched the three cars ahead of me—just sit there.

Think fuckin' faster.

"Why aren't they moving?" I yelled.

Blow your fuckin' horn!

"Let's go!" I screamed out the window. "I don't have all day!"

Fuckin' assholes.

The first car finally pulled out into the intersection and turned left onto Bellevue. The second car turned right. The last car—didn't move.

He's probably on his fuckin' cell phone! Shoot him!

"How—how many times, must I tell you?" I growled softly. "I—I don't have a gun!"

Then ram is fuckin' ass!

"Shut up!"

Well—do somethin'! I think I just heard Spike ask Bryce what side of the fuckin' bed she likes to sleep on.

"You're—you're right!" I mumbled again as I swiftly ran through several scenarios in my head. "It's—now or never!"

Isn't that one of Elvis' songs?

Trying not to arouse Spike's suspicion, I casually wrestled the trolley's steering wheel—all the way over to the left.

Speakin' of Elvis—remember 'Viva Las Vegas'? And—Ann-Margaret in those really tight white shorts! They were so tight; you could actually see her fuckin'—

My right leg suddenly twitched—violently. Unable to control it—I accidentally floored the gas pedal. Half-crazed with adrenalin, I wildly pulled around the—

Asshole in front of us.

—and streaked towards the intersection!

Spike immediately ran up alongside of me. "What the hell are you doing, Hard!"

I gritted my teeth and pressed even harder on the gas pedal as I screamed, "Back off—woman!"

Don't you mean—woman-like?

"Ashley!" Bryce shrieked. "The light! It's red!"

Fuck the light! Warp speed, Mr. Sulu!
CHAPTER SIXTEEN

I charged into the intersection accompanied by a symphony of horns—and Bryce yelling, "Oh! My god!"

"Hard!" screamed Spike. "You're going to kill someone!"

"I have everything under control," I shouted back—as I unfortunately forced a minivan up onto someone's lawn. I quickly stuck my head out the window and yelled, "Sorry!"

"Hard!" Spike screamed again. "Are you mad?"

What a fuckin' stupid question.

Re-focused, I steered the trolley down Bellevue towards Memorial with sheer determination. "Let's just see how bad that BMW wants to follow us, shall we?"

You do realize you're on the wrong side of the fuckin' road, right?

"Yes," I snapped annoyingly as I continued to scan the rearview mirror for any sign of the BMW. "Leave me alone! Can't you see I'm busy?"

Do you realize a fuckin' Wells Fargo armored truck is comin' straight for us?

"Wh—what?"

"Hard!" Spike yelled.

Bryce urgently echoed Spike's sentiments. "Ashley!"

MORON!

I looked up and instinctively took a sharp left down Bowery—averting what clearly would've been a rather messy accident. It was too bad, though—I couldn't say the same for the mail box I clipped as I drove over the curb.

Spike savagely grabbed my arm. "That's it! Pull over!"

Anxious to know if the BMW was following us, I ignored Spike for the moment and again checked the driver's side—

Where did your fuckin' mirror go?

"Pull over!" Spike repeated. "I'm not going to tell you again!"

"Go sit down," I yelled as I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the trolley's mirror lying in the street next to the mail box. And—the downed street sign. "Oops!"

Spike suddenly grabbed a hold of my hair and violently jerked my head back. "Pull over!"

"Let go!" I screamed. "I can't see the road!"

"Pull over!" she snarled again. "And stop the trolley!"

I pressed down even harder on the gas pedal. "You let go first!"

"No! You stop the trolley!"

"Stop it!" screamed Bryce. "Both of you!"

She sounds pissed. You know, if you ask nicely, she might fuckin' spank you.

"What is wrong with you two?" Bryce quickly added.

Spike let go of my hair and pointed at me. "He's a retard!"

I swiftly countered. "And she's an ugly—"

"Stop it!" snapped Bryce as she waved a stern finger in my direction. "That's enough!"

Steroid suckin' lesbo whore bitch.

As I pulled over and stopped the trolley, Bryce grabbed her handbag, opened the trolley's door, and proceeded halfway down the steps before turning around. "We better get out of here before our friend finds us. Or are you going to stay here and call each other names all night?"

Not saying a word, I got up from the driver's seat, stuck my tongue out at Spike, and started down the stairs after Bryce.

"Hey, Bryce," Spike yelled. "If you need me—call me."

I stopped and glared back at Spike. "What do you want her to call you? Ugly?"

Spike forced out a little sneer. "Ash-hole!"

"Dyke!"

Good one! Twenty points for Griffyndor.

I handed the cab driver two twenties and nodded my thanks. "Keep the change."

What the hell are you doin'? You're goin' into a strip joint! Let's save some of those bills for the ladies.

I nervously assessed the packed parking lot, before checking out The Paradise Palace—itself. Architecturally, it was nothing spectacular by any means. It was your basic run-of-the-mill cinder block construction. Frank Lloyd Wright probably came up with the same design in his mother's womb. It did have a nice wooden door, though. Heavy duty, nice finish, oak probably! Big brass hinges!

Will you fuckin' focus.

I did—on the brightly colored neon sign above the door. "The Paradise Palace," I read aloud. "Home of Rhode Island's sexiest—nude dancers."

Oh! Yeah! I'm ready!

"I don't know—if I am," I said half-heartedly while taking several cautious steps backwards.

Hey! Hey! Where the hell do you think you're goin'?

"The last time I was in a place like this—things didn't go well, remember?"

Of course I remember. I was there. In fact, you tried to leave me there! On the FUCKIN' FLOOR!

"Well—" My head started to throb as the memories from that evening started to bubble to the surface. "My entire life—changed that night. My marriage! My career!"

Blah! Blah! Fuckin' blah!

"And—it was your fault!"

I didn't tell you to beat the shit out of those two uniform cops! You should've listened to them when they told you to drop the bottle—and let go of the penis.

"I asked you to shut up!" I said sharply. "But—did you listen? Of course not! You kept at me! Do her! No! Do her! Wait! Do her!"

"Ashley? Are you all right?"

Following Bryce's voice, I found her standing under the neon sign. I never realized until that moment—how neon lights can change a person's appearance. I've never seen—pink cleavage before.

Did Bryce go to college?

I pondered the question. "Why would that—"

I read somewhere; women with a college degree are more receptive to anal sex.

"Are you coming?" Bryce asked.

Not yet! But—if you turn around and bend over—

"Are you sure," I blurted out, "you want to do this tonight? It is getting late!"

Bryce slid her cell phone into her handbag. "Absolutely! I just called. He's working tonight."

I sluggishly started towards her. "What am I going to do if I have another breakdown?" I mumbled. "What if I really hurt someone this time?" I came to a complete stop as I nervously shook my head. "I'm—not ready for this."

Yes you are. Get your ass in there!

I could feel the sweat pouring off of me. "No! No—I'm not ready."

Do you want Bryce to think you're a fuckin' chicken?

"Well—"

I'll help you! We'll do this together. Like the old days!

I immediately felt rather nostalgic. I missed the old days. I missed Trish, and the strolls around Central Park every Sunday morning. The carriage rides down—

Don't forget shootin' the fuckin' bad guys.

I nodded eagerly. "I do miss being on the force. It made me feel alive—like my life had some meaning. Like—I had a purpose in life!"

I'll help you!

I started to shake my head. "No! No—you won't!"

Yes! Yes—I will! Honest!

Suddenly, I found myself nodding again. "All right," I said aloud. "I'll do it!"

We'll fuckin' do it!

"I'll show my mother! I'll show everybody!"

We'll fuckin' show them!

I excitedly rubbed my hands together. "I am back!"

That's right! We're fuckin' back!

I started towards Bryce with a new found confidence.

I love the smell of testosterone in the evenin'.

"What's a couple of—exposed breasts?" I mumbled rather hesitantly. "It shouldn't be—a problem.

I don't see a fuckin' problem.

"And—who cares if a few of the girls are spread—spreading their legs and—rubbing their hands—up and down—their naked bodies."

Ah! Houston! We have a fuckin' problem!

"Ashley!" Bryce asked, sounding somewhat concerned. "Are you ready?"

Forcing myself to focus, I gently took Bryce by the arm and turned her towards the door. "I said I'd help you, and that's exactly what—I'm going to do."

After several cleansing breaths, I followed Bryce into the dimly lit club. I hadn't taken more than two steps when I walked into—what felt like a brick wall. Slightly flustered, I stepped back and refocused. "Holy—"

Mother-fucker!

There standing in front of me—was the biggest Hawaiian dude, I had ever seen. Remembering I wasn't armed, I took another step back and politely smiled. He must have been at least six inches taller than me. The guy was massive. I nervously nodded as I read his name tag, "Hello—Simon!"

You want to bet this guy hung out with Dian Fossey.

Wearing a rather tacky Hawaiian shirt, cutoffs, and a pink lei around his neck, he just stood there—staring down at me.

This guy looks like he just stepped out of one of Don Ho's fuckin' nightmares.

"Do you work here?" I asked with a smile.

"Yeah," he replied as he continued to—stare at me.

"I hope you're not one of the dancers?" I joked.

The guy obviously didn't get the joke as he grabbed me by the throat and pinned me up against the door.

Quick! Throw him a fuckin' pineapple! I read somewhere they like pineapples!

Bryce suddenly appeared at my side. "Excuse me, sir," she yelled excitedly, "we're looking for Claude Bagget!"

Simon reluctantly let go of me and looked down at Bryce. An odd smile crossed his face as he looked her over.

I think we're goin' to need a lot more fuckin' pineapples.

Getting his fill of Bryce for the moment, his full attention once again fell on top of me. "Are you a cop?"

I smiled again. "Wh—why would you think—I'm a cop?"

He's probably mistakin' me for a fuckin' nightstick.

Bryce quickly stepped up and took the lead. "I'm a reporter. We're here to ask Mr. Bagget some questions. He is here tonight, isn't he?"

Taking a minute to think it over, Simon finally nodded. "Go on in."

Bryce grabbed me by the arm and directed me towards the ugly purple curtains on the far wall. "Thank you, sir."

"Purple curtains? In a tropical setting?" I commented softly. "Who the heck is their interior decorator? Barney, the dinosaur?"

Can we fuckin' focus, please!

"Hey!"

Sensing that, Hey! was directed towards me, I looked back at Simon. He raised his giant hand and pointed an unforgiving finger in my direction. "No touching—the girls!"

I nodded.

Or one's penis!

I turned around just in time to see Bryce disappear into the main room. I anxiously pondered my next move as a cold trickle of sweat ran down my spine. "You still have time to run," I told myself. "You could make it out the door and back home before Bryce would even know it."

You have to do it! You were New York City's top homicide detective! You were admired! Revered!

"I was—wasn't I?"

Absolutely! We can do this together. We'll walk through those ugly curtains, like the true professionals we are.

After a cleansing breath, I walked over and parted the curtains. As I stepped inside the main room, I was immediately hit by a wall of loud—pulsating music. Suddenly, someone touched my arm. I opened my eyes and found Bryce—staring up at me. "Are you all right?" she yelled over the music. "Is there something wrong with your eyes?"

Holy shit! Pussy alert! I repeat! Pussy Alert!

"Oh! Jeez!" I winced as I noticed—a red-head up on the stage just behind Bryce.

"Ashley?" I heard Bryce ask. "What's wrong? Are you okay?"

Get a load of those—loaves of love!

"Ashley? Do you hear me?"

Look! Look! She's fuckin' smilin' at me!

"Ashley? Are you all right?"

Oh! Oh! She's—bendin' over! Do her! DO HER NOW!

Suddenly—someone waved their hand in front of my face and yelled, "Ashley!"

Wrestling my attention away from the stage, I apprehensively glanced down—at Bryce and forced out a smile. "Did—did you say something?"

What the fuck are you doin'! She wasn't done bendin' over!

Bryce annoyingly pointed across the room. "The bar is over there!"

If you're not goin' to look, at least have the fuckin' decency to whip me out so I can see for myself.

I nodded weakly. "Shall—we go?"

As I followed Bryce over to the bar, I couldn't help but take a cursory look around. The place was packed. "And all this time—I thought boating was the number one pastime around here."

Oh! Look! The brunette over there! See her? The one squeezin' her silicone sisters!

"Are you okay—with this?" I hurriedly asked Bryce as we approached the bar.

"What did you say?" she yelled back, over another wave of hoots and hollers.

I leaned in closer to her. "Are you sure you're okay about being in a place like this? If you feel uncomfortable—we could always find this guy's address—"

Bryce looked up at me and smiled. "Thanks, but I'm fine." She then skillfully hopped up on the bar stool and crossed her—perfectly sculpted legs. "I'm used to them. I had an ex-boyfriend who dragged me to these places all the time."

As hard as I tried—I couldn't tear my eyes away from her legs. "Did—did he really?"

"In fact, he tried to talk me into getting hired on as a dancer at one of the clubs back in LA."

"Did—did he really?" I said, with a nervous chuckle.

Where's the fuckin' personal office?

"What will you have?" came a voice with a slight French twist.

I turned to see an old man standing behind the bar—staring at me. "Wh—what?"

"What will you have?" he repeated. The French accent was still quite evident.

Remember, Marcel Marceau? That French mime.

The guy was a dead ringer for what I always assumed Howard Hughes looked like in his final years. Thin, long stringy hair! Sunk-in bloodshot eyes! Bad teeth! Ugly Hawaiian shirt!

"Are you Claude Bagget?" Bryce asked him.

The old man nodded. "Yep."

I could've been a great mime.

Bryce pulled one of her cards out of her handbag and handed it to him. His bloodshot eyes checked both of us out, before reading the card.

I'll prove it to you. Go ahead! Guess what I am?

"You're a reporter?" the old man asked Bryce, obviously not believing the card.

Give up? I'm the Washington Monument.

Bryce nodded, and extended her hand. "I'm doing a story on the Howell Jewel Robbery. I was hoping to ask you a few questions about it."

Claude carefully shook her hand as he glanced my way. "I know you, don't I?"

I quickly shook my head. "I don't think so." I'd hoped a swift answer would throw him off the track as to who I was. I certainly didn't want him to remember that little incident with the water balloon. Who would have thought—he'd be driving down the street with his window open. It was five degrees below zero.

The old man suddenly pointed his boney finger at me. "You're Hard!"

I quickly looked down at myself. How did he see me from behind the—

He's talkin' about your fuckin' name, you idiot! Not me!

My head popped up so fast, I felt a slight twinge of whiplash. Both Bryce and the old man were—staring at me. However, Bryce's expression was more of a—disbelieving smirk.

Claude started to wave his finger in my face. "You're that crazy cop," he said. "I've read about you. Big time New York City detective goes wacko and comes home to mommy to sort things out."

Bryce immediately grabbed Claude's wagging finger and angrily slammed it down on the bar. "That's enough of that," she snapped. "He's helping me with my story!"

How humiliatin' is this, havin' a little girl stand up for you.

From the heated glare the old man directed towards Bryce, he clearly didn't appreciate having his finger man-handled like that—especially by a woman. "That's going to cost you, Sweet-cakes," he said with an arrogant grin. "You want answers? I want five grand! I need to get my hearing aid out of hock."

Fuckin' Frenchies! It's always the same. Give me! Give me! Give me! But when you need them, they're never there.

Bryce forced out a laugh. "You must be joking?"

"Your boyfriend can afford it," he snapped. "The Hard's are swimming in loot."

I knew we should've let Hitler have Paris.

Bryce shook her head. "Forget it! We're not giving you five thousand dollars."

He slowly leaned over the bar and openly gawked at her. "Well, sorry Sweet-cakes! With no hearing aid, how can you expect an old man like me to hear your questions?"

Someone should teach, Mr. Faggot—how to treat a lady.

Bryce turned to me somewhat deflated. "We might as well get going."

I held up a finger. "In a minute!" I moved closer to the bar and casually motioned to Claude. "Psst!"

Bryce nervously grabbed my arm. "Ashley?"

What the hell is wrong with her, I'm still down here.

The old man leaned over the bar with a cocky smile. "You're not a cop anymore. I don't have to answer any of your damn questions."

"No you don't, Mr. Bagget," I said while calmly pulling out a small roll of bills from my pocket.

"Ashley," Bryce said indigently. "You're not thinking of paying this guy? We don't need—"

I placed my finger to my lips, silencing Bryce for the moment. "I'm going to offer, Mr. Bagget here—a deal." Turning back to Claude, I flipped through the roll of bills and pulled out a brand new Ben Franklin. Smiling, I laid it down on the bar in front of him. "Here's the deal."

Seeing the bill, the old man appeared interested.

"You either take this brand new crisp one hundred dollar bill—which I feel is a very generous offer, and answer all of the ladies questions, or—"

I think I know where this is goin'. Give me a second to mentally prepare.

"I'm going to whip out the nightstick I have in my pants—and smash-in your skull."

Fuckin' skull.

Frenchy's grin quickly dissipated as he thought over my offer.

"Get ready," I mumbled, through clenched teeth.

Claude slowly started to lean forward.

"Now!" I said softly as I watched him peeked over the front of the bar.

Alessandra Ambrosio! Alessandra Ambrosio! Alessandra Ambrosio!

Claude's look of apprehension said it all as he looked up at me and backed away from the bar. My little bluff—obviously worked.

Who the fuck you callin' little?

I smiled confidently. "Do we have a deal?"

The old man snatched up the hundred and signaled his fellow bartender. "I'm taking ten." He then reluctantly faced Bryce. "What do you want to know?"

Bryce and I exchanged smiles as she pulled out her pad and pencil. "You were Mr. Howell's chauffeur at the time of the robbery, right?"

Watching me, Claude nervously nodded. "Yes."

"At Lester Page's trial," continued Bryce, "he said he met Mr. Howell at some bar called, The Windjammer in Providence."

Bagget wasn't impressed. "So?"

"You said at the trial you never drove Mr. Howell to that bar."

"I didn't!" he said. "Not that I remembered anyway."

Wow! This line of questionin' is rivetin'. Do me a favor and wake me up when it's fuckin' over.

To be perfectly honest—at the moment my concern wasn't with Bryce, or whether her questions were riveting or not. It was with the stripper—who just stepped up on to the bar—and started to gyrate in our direction.

Holy shit! Look at those nippeloons on her.

I immediately motioned to Bagget for some kind of clarification. "Is—is this legal?"

Shut the hell up! Who the fuck cares if it's legal or not!

Getting no response from Bagget as he was still conversing with Bryce, I reluctantly went back to watching the young—

Lady's super fine ass.

Feeling rather anxious at the moment—I nervously nudged the guy sitting next to me and directed his attention towards the approaching stripper. "She better hope no one from the Board of Health is in here tonight."

From the expression on his face, I got the feeling he didn't appreciate being—nudged.

I quickly pointed again at the young lady. "She just danced over that bowl of pretzels! I'm pretty sure that's a health code violation!"

Hey! Moron! Let's fuckin' focus, okay! She's comin' over! She obviously wants to meet me!

I shook my head. "No! No—she doesn't!"

Yes! Yes—she does!

I eagerly redirected my attention back to Bryce, hoping to catch up on her conversation with Bagget.

What the fuck are you doin'! She's right in front of you! Touch her! TOUCH HER!

I gave my head a little shake. "Simon said! No touching—the girls!"

He didn't say anythin' about—smellin' them.

"If Howell did give Page the fifty thousand dollars," Bryce swiftly postulated, "where did he get it from?"

"Why couldn't Howell have given Page the money?" I asked excitedly while blindly jumping back into the conversation. "He was wealthy enough—wasn't he?"

Bryce turned to me with an annoyed smirk. "I just said the police checked out Howell's finances fully. They couldn't find any huge withdraws of that size. Where would Howell have gotten all of that cash?"

"Th—that's right!" I blurted out, somewhat embarrassed. "You did say that—didn't you?"

You are such an asshole.

"He could've got it out of his secret stash," Claude said nonchalantly.

Bryce and I both turned to Claude and asked simultaneously, "What stash?"

Claude appeared strangely perplexed as if he somehow assumed we both knew about Howell's stash. "The stash up in his study."

"He kept a secret stash?" Bryce asked. "Of money?"

Am I the only one around here that isn't fuckin' blind! Hello! She's fuckin'—bendin' over!

Claude nodded. "I think he kept it hidden, so that wife of his wouldn't find it. That bitch spent his money, like there was no tomorrow."

Bryce eyed me with a devilish little grin. "It might be interesting to check this out."

I nodded as I had the same thought.

No you didn't, you lyin' bastard! You were thinkin' about reachin' up there and grabbin that chick's cum dumpster. Look! It's practically in your face! Don't you fuckin' smell it?

"What the hell did I tell you?"

Startled—by the voice, I instinctively spun around on my stool to find Simon—staring down at me. And to be honest, he didn't appear too thrilled with me. Forcing down a swallow—I smiled up at him. "Hello! Again!"

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" he growled.

I was clearly lost. "Wh—what?"

Suddenly, I heard Bryce clear her throat.

As I turned towards her, I noticed she was nervously pointing her finger—at something.

Forcing down another swallow, I hesitantly followed her finger—and found the problem. For some unexplainable reason, I had my hand up in between the stripper's legs—fingering her—

Mongolian beef.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

"I'm not listening."

How many fuckin' strip joints have you been kicked out of now?

"Leave me alone."

This one makes four, doesn't it?

"Shut up," I said as I grabbed the top of the stone wall, pulled myself up, and peeked over the wall. "Just—shut up!" At that moment, a fast moving cloud suddenly obscured the moon, instantaneously throwing Treasure Hall's grounds into total darkness. So dark in fact—it was downright spooky. The ocean breeze rustling through the rickety oak trees didn't help matters either. Hearing a noise behind me, I quickly looked over my shoulder to make sure Bela Lugosi wasn't behind me—and about to bite me in the neck.

You are such a fuckin' wuss.

After several cleansing breaths, I directed my attention once again back over the wall. I've never really believed the stories about Toothless Tommy's ghost, but Treasure Hall at this time of the night was enough to make anybody think twice. It literary looked like some gothic castle in some bad foreign horror film—

CRACK!

Startled—I jumped down off the wall and instinctively reached for my—

Gun! Which—you don't have.

Suddenly, a familiar voice filled the silence. "What the hell did I just step on?"

My adrenalin rapidly dropped to a normal level as I recognized Bryce pushing her way through the hedges. "It's all over my foot!" Unable to conceal her displeasure, she immediately began scraping the bottom of her shoe on the wall.

"Shhh!" I hissed.

She glanced up at me and snarled, "These shoes cost me a hundred and twenty-five dollars!"

"Will you please keep your voice down," I said, in my most soothing tone. "You probably just stepped on a snail."

She looked up at me horrified. "A snail?"

I nodded. "They're all over the place."

Bryce immediately broke a branch off one of the hedges and started to wipe her shoe with it. "If you hadn't noticed," she snapped, "I am not appropriately dressed for breaking and entering."

I had noticed—more times than I was willing to mention. "We're not breaking and entering."

What if I just fuckin' enter her?

"How are we going to get into the mansion without—"

I held up my hand. "I know a way. Trust me."

"Why can't we come back tomorrow morning? The mansion will be open—"

I shook my head. "Too many people will be around. This will be a lot easier. We'll slip in and slip out!" Hoping I had her convinced, I bent over and cupped my hands in front of her. "Ready? Over you go!"

She casually tossed the branch over her shoulder and openly chuckled. "You actually want me to climb over that wall? Dressed like this?"

You are fuckin' brilliant! We'll be able to look right up her dress!

I quietly tried to explain. "All the gates are locked. This is the only way in."

She painfully thought it over. "Well—all right! But—no peeking!"

I crossed my heart. "You have my word."

You are lyin', right?

Appearing somewhat apprehensive, Bryce took a moment to straighten her dress.

I see London. I see France.

She then carefully put one hand on the wall to steady herself and the other on my shoulder. "Ready?" she asked nervously.

I nodded. "Anytime you are."

I see Bryce's—bald pussy!

Gently lifting her foot, she placed it securely in my hands.

As I lifted her up, I realized I'd forgotten to tell her to use the foot that didn't have—snail on it.

Forget the fuckin' snail! And—what the hell are you doin'? Open your goddamn' eyes!

A second later, I heard Bryce call to me. "Okay! You can look now!"

As I opened my eyes, I saw that Bryce not only scaled the wall, she already jumped down on to the other side.

You really suck, you know that?

As Bryce and I knelt down behind a small garden wall, she gently touched my upper arm to get my attention.

Hello! I'm down here!

"Explain to me one more time," she whispered. "How are we going to get in there, without getting arrested for breaking and entering?"

I pointed towards the small patio near the back of the house. "See that window over there—the one overlooking the patio?"

She nodded.

"It doesn't lock properly. If you jiggle it just right—the lock slides open."

Bryce appeared impressed for once. "How do you know that?"

"I was supposed to fix it three weeks ago."

Her impressed look quickly vanished.

"I've—been busy!" I added in my defense.

As we reached the window, I took one last cursory glance around the grounds before I grabbed the window—and jiggled it. Nothing happened. I jiggled it again. The lock—still didn't move. I nervously glanced over at Bryce.

Why don't you try jigglin' her?

She gave me a raised eyebrow. "What's wrong?"

Widening my stance, I jiggled the window again—a lot harder. Still—the lock didn't budge. "You no good piece of—" I shook the window with all my might, still to no avail. "Dammit."

Bryce casually leaned up against the house with her arms folded in front of her. "What are we going to do now?"

I didn't know, but—I certainly wasn't going to tell her that. Nor—was I ready to concede defeat. Totally frustrated, I calmly put my fist through the pane of glass.

"Ashley!"

Oh! Nice goin', Charlie Chan!

I turned to Bryce and finally answered her question. "Get arrested—for breaking and entering."

She anxiously grabbed my arm and started to pull me away from the window. "We better get out of here!"

I rather liked Bryce's idea, until—I remembered something! The burglar alarm had a thirty second delay. If I could get to it—and turn it off within thirty seconds, we were home free.

I hastily reached through the broken pane of glass and unlocked the window.

"What are you doing?" Bryce asked. "We have to get out of here!"

There was no time to explain—so I didn't. I opened the window and dove through it. I hit the floor, did a forward roll, jumped to my feet, and sprinted across the darkened room. A split second later—I remembered I was in the billiard room—as I found the corner of the billiard table lodged—in my groin.

AAAAGH!

Grabbing myself—I crumbled to the floor.

What the hell is wrong with you! And—get your fuckin' hands off of me!

Suddenly, from out of the darkness, I heard Bryce call to me. "Ashley! Where are you? Are you all right?"

You have twenty fuckin' seconds!

Knowing I needed something to grab on to—to help me up, I blindly reached up into the darkness—

"Ashley!" screamed Bryce. "What are you doing? Get your hand out of there!"

Oops! "Sorry!" I said, retracting my hand.

Quick! Whip me out! Let me try!

As I stumbled to my feet, a hand came out of nowhere and steadied me. I certainly hoped it was Bryce—and not Mr. Lugosi!

Will you forget about Bela and fuckin' focus!

Bryce suddenly tugged on my arm. "We better get out of here!"

If anyone is interested, you have about twelve seconds.

"No! Wait!" I said as I grabbed her hand. "We still have enough time to shut off the alarm—if we hurry!" With my other hand stretched out in front of me—just in case there was another pool table lurking out there somewhere, I carefully started towards the door.

Nine seconds.

Finally reaching the door, I grabbed the door knob.

Eight seconds.

I opened the door.

Seven seconds.

We ran out into the hallway.

Six!

I franticly began feeling my way along the wall. "It's somewhere along here."

Five!

"There it is!" Bryce yelled as she pointed to the other wall.

Four!

I let go of her hand and ran over to the alarm box.

Three!

I opened the alarm box—and paused.

Two seconds!

"How did Bryce know where the alarm box was?" I asked myself.

One and a half seconds!

Turning around, I found the answer—staring me in the face, along with Bryce. The hallway light was on.

One second!

Totally flustered, Bryce wildly pointed at the box. "Hurry! Shut the alarm off!"

Rather confused at the moment, I opened the box and found the switch—already turned off.

Well—fuck! Talk about anticlimactic.

Curious, I carefully turned my head and looked down the lighted hallway. "Who shut—the alarm off?"

Bryce blew out a sigh of relief. "We sure lucked out on that one."

I slowly raised my finger to my lips, "Shhh! I don't think—we're alone."

Here we go again.

Bryce and I both turned and silently glanced down the deserted hallway.

You go check it out. I'll stay back here with Bryce.

Peeking around the corner, I carefully checked out the entranceway. And believe me—there was plenty to check out. The entranceway was enormous. Unfortunately, the enormity of it all didn't concern me as much as—why was every light in the entranceway—still on.

Bryce quietly crept up alongside of me. "Do you see anyone?"

I shook my head as I walked into the entranceway and up on to the huge marble staircase. Straining my neck, I glanced up at the massive crystal chandelier above me. It was almost hypnotic, how the light from the entranceway danced off its thousands of crystals. It almost appeared to be moving.

"Maybe we should leave?" Bryce whispered.

The idea clearly was worth some consideration. We caught a break with the alarm system being shut off, but it continued to bother me—why was it shut off? And why were all of these lights still on? At this time—of the night?

Suddenly, Bryce walked up the staircase ahead of me. "Look at this!"

Did you hear that? She's fuckin' beggin' you to look at her ass!

"It's a glove," she said, pointing down at the steps.

Well—maybe not.

I hurried up the steps and picked up the glove.

Bryce reached out and felt the material. "It's a guy's glove, isn't it?"

I nodded. "I think so."

She immediately looked up at me with a suspicious grin. "It's pretty warm outside for gloves, don't you think?"

I had to agree again as I silently pondered other possibilities—for finding a single glove in Treasure Hall in the middle of summer.

Maybe Michael Jackson isn't really dead! He could be hidin' up in the fuckin' attic.

Discounting that thought—

Hey! Fuck you!

—I immediately looked up towards the upper floors as another more sensible thought came to me. "Burglars wear gloves," I mumbled to myself. "They could've turned off the alarm—and switched on the lights. But—what could they be after?" I quickly thought through several scenarios. "Maybe they're looking for the same thing—we're looking for?"

All good questions! But, I'm afraid you're missin' the most important ones! Are they still inside the house? And—are they fuckin' armed?

I raised a perplexed brow. If they were after Howell's secret stash—I couldn't just let them get to it first. It could possibly hold the answer to Treasure Hall's curse. With a cleansing breath, I motioned to Bryce to stay where she was as I cautiously started up the staircase. "I'll be right back."

Bryce immediately shook her head and chased after me. "No way! This is my story, remember? Where you go, I go. That was the deal."

I had to give her high marks for guts. She just might make a pretty good investigative reporter—

With huge num-nums.

As we climbed the marble staircase, I quietly explained my hunch to her, along with my hope—if it was burglars; they heard me breaking the window and were scared off.

I'll just keep hopin' for that threesome.

Finally reaching the third floor, I nervously looked left—down a dark hallway. I then looked right—down an even darker and spookier looking hallway. Was I glad, Howell's study was to the left! Just then, my foot inadvertently kicked—what looked like, a long pole with a small hook on the end of it—just lying on the floor. "Why would someone leave—"

Suddenly, I heard a noise. It sounded like a coin dropping on a marble floor. Bryce must've heard it too because she was already peeking over the railing. I silently moved in next to her. "It sounded like it came from downstairs," she whispered. "What do we do?"

"It's probably nothing," I whispered, trying to keep any thoughts of panic to a minimum.

That's exactly what the radar guy on the Titanic said when he saw that blip on his fuckin' radar screen.

"I don't think they had radar back then."

Hey! Fuck you!

Bryce suddenly turned to me. "Did you say something?"

"Wh—what?"

"You said something."

I weakly shook my head. "I—I don't think so."

She looked at me with a curious grin. "I'm sure you said something!"

I heard you too!

As I carefully opened the door to the study and peeked inside the dark room—

Hang on! Before you go sprintin' across the fuckin' room; let's make damn sure this isn't the upstairs billiard room. Okay?

Bryce bravely pushed passed me and stepped into the room first. "Where's the light switch?"

I quickly grabbed her by the arm and gently pulled her back. "Let's make sure the drapes are closed first. We don't want anyone—seeing us in here."

After making sure the drapes were closed I gave Bryce the go-ahead to flip on the light. As she did—there were the three bookcases, just like—

The French faggot.

—said they'd be.

Bryce hurried over to them and inspected each one. "Third book shelf from the left—" she mumbled as she remembered Claude's direction's. "Third shelf up!" She quickly wasted no time in emptying the shelf.

"Now—"I said, with an uncertain tone, "how do we open it?"

Bryce eagerly began to feel around the empty shelf. "There must be a button, or a lever to pull."

Tell her you got somethin' she can pull.

I was about to start helping Bryce search for a way into the hidden compartment when I got the strangest feeling—someone was watching me.

Again?

Quickly glancing over my shoulder, I could've sworn I saw something—or someone dart pass the doorway.

Just then, Bryce grabbed my sleeve. "I found it!"

I turned back just in time to see Bryce pulling on a small—

SWISH!

The back of the bookshelf slid open.

With her eyes bulging with excitement, Bryce reached in and pulled out what looked like—a bunch of old papers. "They look like they've been in there for years."

As Bryce layed them on the desk, I lingered back a moment to make a thorough inspection of Howell's secret compartment.

Any old Playboys in there?

I shook my head.

How about an old National Geographic?

"They look like invoices," Bryce said, clearly disappointed. "Construction invoices. No wait. Here's a receipt from Marshall's in New York."

I was intrigued. "The jewelry store?"

She nodded as she handed me a few of the invoices. "This whole evening has been a total waste of time."

I judiciously flipped through the invoices. "He sure did a lot of remodeling—didn't he?"

Bryce sighed. "We needed evidence he kept money in there. Or at least a ledger or a diary telling us he met—"

"Claude told us Howell kept money in there," I quickly pointed out. "He saw it! That's good enough for now."

"Are you sure?"

"Look at this," I said while showing her several invoices. "Every one of these invoices is from a different construction company. It looks like he tore up or moved every wall in this place. Here are four invoices from four different construction companies to replace the ceilings on the second floor." I handed her another one. "Here's one for re-hanging the chandelier in the main staircase. Look! He ripped up the marble floor in the entranceway—twice!" My curiosity was clearly in overdrive.

Bryce didn't appear too concerned. "Well—he's in a psychiatric hospital now. He was obviously nuts."

"But why not stick with one company?" I asked. "Most people would find a company they liked—and use them over and over again."

"Maybe he never found one he liked."

I began to pace around the room. "Maybe he was looking for something—"

Sorry, I must've dozed off. Did she expose herself to you yet?

"—and he didn't want to tip his hand." My pace quickened. "If he used the same construction company over and over again, they might've gotten suspicious as to what he was doing."

From Bryce's question, she clearly wasn't following me. "Looking for what?"

The room suddenly went pitch black.

"Oh! My god!" Bryce said.

I anxiously looked out into the hallway. "Dammit." It looked even darker out there. I hustled over to the window and carefully parted the drapes. "Well—it's not a power outage. I see a street light on across the street." I really didn't want to think my next thought.

"You don't think someone cut the power, do you?" Bryce asked, in a rather worried whisper.

She read my mind.

She can fuckin' do that?

"I doubt it," I mumbled as I grabbed Bryce's hand and started towards the door.

We better test her. Just to make sure.

I carefully peeked out into the hallway and mumbled again. "I'd rather not."

Blow me! Bloooooow meeee!

Bryce suddenly pulled her hand away from me. "I know I heard you say something that time."

"Wh—what?"

"I'm sure I heard you say something!"

I heard you too.

We finally reached the main staircase and was starting down the stairs when Bryce suddenly pulled away from me—again.

I quickly turned around. "I didn't say anything!"

"No," she said as she took a step back up the steps. "I left my handbag on the desk, back in the study."

"That's all right," I whispered. "We'll come back for it tomorrow."

Bryce shook her head. "I don't think we should leave anything behind that will point to us. I'll be right back."

I didn't want to let her go back into the study by herself, but—at the same time, I couldn't really leave the staircase unguarded. I didn't want anyone sneaking up the stairs and getting behind us. That would give them a clear advantage. Suddenly—I remembered a scene in Lord of the Rings where the head elf gave one of the Hobbits—a bottle of light. "Hang on!"

What the hell is wrong with you? Why are you thinkin' about Frodo Baggins at a time like this?

I reached into my pocket, pulled out Heinrich's cell phone, and pressed the power button. The blue screen illuminated my hand. "It's not much, but it's better than nothing," I said, as I handed her the phone.

Nodding her thanks, she slowly disappeared back into the darkness.

"I'll be right here," I called out. "Just yell if you need me!"

Instead of thinkin' about Frodo, you should be thinkin' of a way to get Bryce to—bend over the fuckin' banister.

"Just—shut up. I'm thinking."

Why didn't you think of the fuckin' cell phone before you did your Helen Keller—on crack impersonation, in the goddamn billiard room?

Suddenly—something dawned on me.

You're not gay, are you?

"No! The phone!" I snapped. "It's Heinrich's phone!"

So?

"That's why Heinrich turned the wrong direction when he left Cottman's house. And this afternoon—he left Bryce and I at the jewelers. That's why I saw him coming out of the driveway!" Everything started to fall in place. "He's reporting back to my mother!" I couldn't believe what I was saying. "My mother—is having Heinrich spy on me!" He doesn't know that I have his phone. "He thinks he's lost it, so he's reporting back to her—in person!"

Did you hear that?

"But why?" I thought out loud. "Why would she want to know what I was doing?" I know she doesn't trust me, but—to have Heinrich follow me? "That's why he was at the restaurant, when Bryce's car blew up. I was right! He wasn't shopping! He was following me!"

You must've heard that! It sounded like it was right behind you!

"Wh—what?"

The sudden pain in the back of my head was excruciating. A split second later I felt myself hitting cold marble—then the sensation of rolling down stairs.

What the hell are you doin'? Get the fuck up!

The dark staircase seemed to be getting—even darker.

Don't you fuckin' pass-out! Do you hear me—you bastard!

A light suddenly flashed in my face, then slowly—

Don't you black out!

—faded to black.

You fuckin'—
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

"Ashley?"

Who said that?

"Ashley? Can you hear me?"

Who is that?

"Can you hear me, Ashley?"

Uh! Oh! You don't think—it's God, do you? Maybe—I'm dead! Dammit. I knew I should've gone to church last Sunday.

I really don't think God would sound like Elmer Fudd.

It did sound like—Elmer Fudd didn't it?

God would sound more like, James Earl Jones with a really bad cold.

Wait a second! I know that voice! I forced my eyes open, only to be blinded by a bright light. Unfortunately, the light wasn't from any divine presence, but a small hand held flashlight. I pushed it away along with the hand that was holding it. Blinking several times, I surveyed my surroundings and found myself back in Howell's study—with the lights on. "How did I get back—" Suddenly, someone crossed into my peripheral vision. Slightly on edge, I glanced up—and cringed!

Holy shit! It's him! Runaway! Runawaaaay!

I instinctively recoiled. I knew I recognized that voice. It was him all right—Dr. Stephen Miles.

Dr. Miles, the fuckin' pedophile!

He hadn't changed a bit. He still had those huge bulging eyes and that massive bald head.

You should've shot the fucker years ago when you still had your fuckin' gun.

He was never officially charged, but—a half dozen of his younger male patients sure had some interesting tales to tell.

You could've put the fucker away for life, if only The Bitch allowed you to go to the cops. I still can't figure out how she convinced you all that shit he did to you, was all in your fuckin' head.

I took a moment to reflect. He did make me turn my head—and cough a lot.

And—a ten year old doesn't need a fuckin' prostate exam every time he goes to the doctor.

I found myself growling up at him. "Or a testicle exam."

Personally, I think The Bitch had the hots for him. That's why she didn't want you spillin' your guts to the cops.

Dr. Miles suddenly grabbed my wrist to take my pulse. "How are you feeling, Ashley?"

His cold boney fingers sent shivers up my spine. I forced out an uneasy smile as I pulled away from his icy grip. "I'm fine!" I said as I nervously maneuvered around him and stood up. Unfortunately—still somewhat light-headed, I stumbled slightly as the room began to spin.

He reached out and grabbed me by the arm. "You better sit down, Ashley."

He doesn't mean on his fuckin' face, does he?

"That's a nasty bump on your head," he added. "You probably have a concussion. You might want to stop by my office tomorrow. I'll give you a complete check-up."

I ain't fuckin' goin'!

I pulled away from his grip once again. "I'm fine."

"If I were you, Ashley, I'd listen to Dr. Miles."

I turned in the direction of the voice. Unfortunately, so did the room. I didn't know if it was from my head spinning, or the sight of my mother—that gave me the sick feeling in the pit of my stomach. "To tell you the truth, Mother! I'd rather chew on broken glass!"

She raised an indignant eyebrow. "Well, if that's how you feel, you can start on the broken window in the billiard room."

Oops.

Ten points to Slytherin.

My mother looked at me and shook her head. "What am I going to do with you, Ashley?"

My sickening feeling only deepened as Trish walk into the study. She hurried over to me and gently felt my head. "Are you all right?"

Brushing her hand away from me—

You can still touch me.

—I tried to focus on the two women in front of me. "What are you two doing here?"

"The police called me," my mother snapped, with a hint of annoyance in her voice.

I was still somewhat confused. "Who called the police?"

"That reporter friend of yours," my mother snapped again. "She told them you fell down the stairs. Naturally, the police called me and I called Trish."

The evening's events came flooding back. "I—I didn't fall down the stairs," I said. "Someone hit me from behind."

Another sigh of disappointment hissed through my mother's lips. "Oh! Ashley!"

"Honest!" I suddenly remembered Bryce. "Bryce? Where is she? Is she all right?"

"She's talking with Sergeant Carp," Trish said.

That sickening feeling just kept getting worse. "Tuna's here!"

"Ashley!" my mother snarled. "Behave!"

Trish nodded. "He's out in the hall."

I nervously scanned the room for another exit.

"Why in heaven's name, were you two in this house without the lights on?" asked my mother.

"Wh—what?"

"You could have killed yourself," Trish added. "People have fallen to their deaths—"

"Someone turned the lights—"

My mother held up her hand, silencing me. "Your little friend explained everything. Someone shut the lights out on you."

I could tell she didn't believe that for a minute. "Yes! That's right," I insisted. "Someone was in here—when we broke in. They must've been searching for something. They had the alarms turned off."

"I probably forgot to switch it back on when we left," Trish said.

I paused. "Wh—what?"

Trish threw her purse on the desk. "I said—I probably forgot to turn the alarm back on when we left."

"You—were here?" I asked, rather confused.

"Yes!" Trish nodded. "We were here earlier this evening."

I was still confused.

That's nothin' fuckin' new.

"Who—is we?" I asked.

"Your mother, Richard and I," she explained. "We came over and were going over some ideas for the first ghost tour. We're going to have a dry run this Friday night."

The wind quickly left my sails. "The three of you were here—this evening?"

Both my mother and Trish nodded.

Where's Dickless?

That was a good question. I peeked out into the hallway. "Where's—what's his name?"

Trish immediately stiffened.

Remember how her nipples used to do that when you licked them? They were like fuckin' pencil erasers.

"Are you referring to Richard?" she asked, with a hint of hostility in her voice.

"Wh—what?"

Don't get her too fuckin' upset. We still need her for the threesome.

"Ah! Yes! Richard!" I said apologetically. "I'm sorry! I momentarily forgot his name." I pointed to my head. "Concussion!"

Nicely done.

Trish appeared to accept my apology as her tone softened. "After he left here, he was going up to Dorchester to see an old school buddy."

"What's her name?"

Not good.

"His name—" growled Trish, "is Walter Appkey!"

What the hell are you doin'? Are you deliberately tryin' to fuck up my threesome?

Trying to understand it all, I tried again to piece things together. "What time were you all—"

"Ashley," my mother yelled. "You are blowing this totally out of proportion! You're letting your imagination run amok again! We probably just left the lights on. And Trish already said she might not have turned the alarms back on. There is nothing mysterious or sinister about any of this! You've just had a nasty blow to the head. You're working yourself up into one of your delusional frenzies."

The glove! Ask them about the fuckin' glove.

"Bryce found a glove on the steps," I rapidly interjected. "Were any of you wearing gloves tonight—for any reason?"

"That's it—" my mother snapped. "I've had enough! I'm going home. It is late. And I'm tired."

I thought about asking her if she was having Heinrich follow me, but I hastily reconsidered. She appeared to be worked up enough. I always had tomorrow.

"Next time, Ashley," my mother added, "if you want to break into one of the mansions, ask me first! I'll gladly give you the key. We'll save on buying panes of glass."

Ouch! If I'm not mistaken, you just got fuckin' bitch slapped.

My mother coldly motioned to Dr. Miles, who had been silently standing in the corner of the room just—staring at me.

What do you mean, you?

"Are you coming, Stephen?" my mother asked him. "I believe your work is done here. I'll call Dr. Benjamin tomorrow morning."

Without saying another word, my mother walked out of the study.

Dr. Miles nodded and smiled at me. "It was nice to see you again, Ashley. Don't forget to drop by my office tomorrow." He then turned and sort of—wiggled out the door.

Did you see that! That fuckin' pervert had a fuckin' hard-on!

"Ash," Trish said while reaching out for my arm. "Do you really think you're up to helping that reporter with her story?"

She still thinks you're fuckin' nuts. You need to prove to her that you're okay. At least until we have the threesome.

Arranging my thoughts, I put my question to her. "You think I'm still nuts—don't you?"

"Well—" she replied coldly. "You're walking around this place in the dark! You're falling down stairs! You could've broken—"

"Someone hit me from behind!" I reiterated.

She's not buyin' it.

"Listen," I said. "I'm not making this up. Howell's chauffeur told us about the old man's secret hiding place. He saw Howell keep cash in there! We came here to find it and see if we could find anything in it that would help us prove Bryce's theory."

Trish casually eyed the shelf. "Did you find anything in there?"

Lie!

I shook my head. "Not really."

You just love to fuckin' disappoint me, don't you?

"There was just a bunch of—construction receipts from work Howell had done on the house over the years."

"Where are they?" asked Trish.

"They're gone."

I whirled around and found Bryce standing in the doorway. "What do you mean they're gone?" I asked her.

Bryce walked into the room before replying. "Whoever knocked you out took them."

I was rather perplexed. "Why would someone want those receipts?"

Bryce marched up to me. "How's your head?"

Did she just ask you—if you wanted some head?

I swiftly nodded. "I'm—I'm fine!"

"That's unfortunate."

Glancing over my shoulder, I caught sight of Carp standing in the doorway. His expression wasn't what you would call—joyful, by any means. I had the sneaky suspicion we interrupted his ugly sleep.

"Good evening, Sergeant Guppy," I said. "What brings you out this late—a midnight two-for-one special at Wendy's?"

He had no trouble holding in his laughter.

"I'm sorry, Ashley," Bryce said. "I had to call them. I didn't know what else to do. The lights were out. I didn't know what happened to you."

"That's all right," I said. "Did you happen to see anybody—"

"I'll ask the questions, Hard!" Carp snapped.

I'm smart enough to know Carp had the upper hand for the moment. It was his playground! His balls! His rules!

I bet they're fuckin' tiny balls.

Keeping an eye on me, Carp walked over to the bookshelf and checked out Howell's secret hiding place. "What the hell were you looking for?"

Bryce immediately stepped forwards. "I already told you, Sergeant—"

He spun around and faced Bryce, stopping her in mid-sentence. "I know what you told me, Missy!" he snapped. "Now—I'm asking him!" Carp turned to me. "What the hell were you looking for, Hard?"

Doutzen Kroes' home phone number.

"To be honest," I said simply, "Toothless Tommy's jewels."

Bryce looked up at me like—

You were a few screams short of an orgasm.

"Did you just say—Toothless Tommy's jewels?" scoffed Trish. "Are you serious? You think Howell found Captain Feather's treasure?"

"May—maybe."

They're lookin' at you like you're a few ingredients short of a fuckin' fruitcake.

"He was ripping down ceilings—" I quickly added, "tearing up walls! Why would he do that? I think he was looking for something. Maybe he found—"

Carp interrupted me, rather abruptly. "You're nuts, Hard!"

And he's old, overweight, and out of shape. What's his fuckin' point?

"Let me tell you what I think!" he swiftly added. "I think you and your little girlfriend here, probably found out about Howell's secret little stash tonight, like she told me. But—you didn't break into this place to find some goddamn evidence about some mythical jewels! You were hoping to find some of Howell's money still in there, so you could steal it!"

"That's ridiculous!" Bryce yelled.

"That's an excellent theory, Sergeant Mackerel," I said calmly. "Except for the small fact—I'm worth 4 million dollars. Why would I break into a house to steal a lousy couple thousand?"

I must've rattled him—his beady little eyes were frantically moving from side to side. "Get out of here!" he finally blurted out.

"We're free to go?" Bryce asked, rather surprised.

"Your boyfriend's mother refuses to press any charges."

"She's such a dear," I said, not bothering to hide my sarcasm.

Trish seemed totally amused with the entire situation. "I think, I'll be leaving too," she said as she faced Bryce. "It was nice to meet you," she added coldly. "Good luck with your story."

Bryce just nodded.

Trish then faced me—with that patented worried stare of hers. "You—take care of yourself."

I smiled as she picked up her purse and walked out of the study.

What! No fuckin' kiss?

A twinge of sadness hit me as I remembered—she would always say those five exact words to me, every time I would leave for the station. It felt good to hear them again.

It sure would feel good to explore her stinky orifice of love again—too.

"Well—" I blurted out painfully, "this was fun!"

Bryce threw her handbag over her shoulder. "Shall we go?"

"One more thing," growled Carp.

"Sergeant!" snapped Bryce, reaching the end of her rope. "It's late! Ashley and I have an early appointment tomorrow morning—"

"Your mother told me, you two visited Lieutenant Cottman's this morning. Is that true?"

I really do hate squealers.

Watch it. He's goin' to try to trap you. One mistake here and you'll be wearin' an orange jumpsuit, and I'll be an oversized tooth pick for some guy named Big Elroy.

I nodded calmly. "Yes—we did."

Carp appeared somewhat surprised with my answer. He obviously expected me to lie. Not ready to concede defeat, he turned to Bryce; hoping she'd be an easier nut to crack. "May I ask why?"

Bryce hesitated as she nervously licked her lips.

Those moist, full, luscious—

"We—we needed some information from him," I offered—sensing Bryce might need some help.

Carp shot me a look. "I was talking to your little girlfriend."

Why does he keep sayin' little? He's clearly not lookin' in the right places.

He swiftly addressed Bryce again. "What time did you arrive at his house?"

Bryce nervously looked my way. "About nine?"

I nodded in agreement. "Yes! I think—it was around nine."

"What did you talk about?" asked Carp.

Bryce hesitated again as I nervously bit my lower lip. If she tells Carp we talked to him—we were dead. He knows we were there! He knows what time we were there! All he'll have to do is match it up with Cottman's time of death.

You are so fucked.

I crossed my fingers. "Please say he wasn't home," I mumbled. "Please! Pretty please!"

"No one answered the door," Bryce finally said. "We just figured he wasn't in, so we left."

I unconsciously let a sigh of relief slip out.

Carp turned and—stared at me. I could almost see the hatred emanating from him. He knew we were lying. He was no dummy. I had to disrupt his thinking, throw him off balance—hurry him a little. "That's right," I added. "We figured—he went out for some donuts. You know how cops like their donuts." I casually pointed at his rather bloated midsection.

Carp clearly didn't find my comment very humorous.

Believe me, no one did.

"The reason he didn't answer the door, Hard—he was dead!"

"Dead?" I cringed openly. "How awful!"

Way too much.

I quickly stopped my lip from trembling. "Where did you find him?" I asked calmly, trying to eliminate Bryce and I from being potential suspects.

"In—the kitchen," Carp said calmly.

Bryce looked at me with a blank stare. "The kit—"

"Th—that's terrible," I blurted out, cutting Bryce off. Carp was clearly baiting us. It was a smart move. I would've done the same thing. He knew Cottman was in the study. He just wanted to know if we knew too. "He was rather old—wasn't he?" I asked. "Heart-attack?"

Carp grudgingly shook his head. "Strangled."

"How sad!" I dabbed the corner of my eye. There were no tears, but—I'm sure it looked good.

Let's get the hell out of here! I think your luck could be runnin' out.

"Well—" I said, taking Bryce by the arm. "We better get going. I'm sure Sergeant Cod—has his fins full." I turned to him as I carefully steered Bryce towards the door. "Wow! A murder case! If you need any help—you be sure to let me know. I'm always willing to help a friend."

Oh! Yeah! Now you've fuckin' did it!

Enraged, Carp charged over to us and violently stepped in between Bryce and I. "I've had it with you, Hard!" he sneered. "You were a rotten kid! And—a dirty cop!"

"Hey! Hey!" I snapped right back. "I'll give you the rotten kid, but—I'll have to disagree with the dirty—"

"You harassed and intimidated witnesses!"

He's probably talkin' about the Valdez woman.

"You'd beat confessions out of people!"

Sonny Roggatti and Eddie Toratelli.

"You lied on the stand!"

The Greenburg case.

"You planted and tampered with evidence!"

The bloody glove at O.J.'s house.

"Hey!" I snapped. "I didn't do that!"

Carp slowly leaned in to me and growled. "If I find out that you're lying to me—and that you were in that house with Cottman, you are finished! I will bury your ass!"

What else could I do? But—smile.

You could tell him not to dust that closet door you touched for fingerprints.

Dammit.
CHAPTER NINETEEN

I stopped pacing for a second and checked the marina's nearly empty parking lot for what had to be the hundredth time. "Where is she? She should've been here already."

Stop bitin' your nails. It's a fuckin' disgustin' habit.

"I'm not—biting my nails!" At that moment, I accidentally bit off a good portion of my thumb's nail. "Dammit."

What the hell are you so nervous about?

"My head is pounding! Bryce is nowhere to be found! The marina's six o'clock water-shuttle from Goat Island—just arrived! And—in about five minutes, I'll be standing here, face to face with a transsexual! What do you say to a transsexual? Especially to one—who took showers with you in high school?"

Whatever you do, don't ask how's it hangin'?

"Shut up!"

I guess you could ask—where's it hangin'?

I took an uneasy step away from the gangplank as the shuttle's passengers started to disembark.

Although, I did read an article once and it said a lot of transsexuals keep 'it' under their pillows. It has somethin' to do with closure. Or was it—the penis fairy?

After a brief moment of deep reflection, I came to the simple conclusion that I truly was—Fucked in the Head.

Told you.

The passengers continued to walk down the gangplank. "Good morning," I said to one woman. "Lovely day, isn't it?" I said to another. Not one of them returned my greeting.

Bunch of bitches.

They all just put their heads down—and hurried passed me.

Have I ever mentioned that you have a way with women?

"Will you please shut up?"

Don't feel too bad. That guy over there in the Stanford sweatshirt seems interested in you for some reason.

Sure enough, there was a big blonde haired guy across the pier—staring at me. Although, I doubted he went to Stanford. He didn't give off that—smart of a vibe.

Community college dropout, if you ask me. Probably bought the sweatshirt at the thrift store he works at.

He sort of reminded me of a tall—Barney Rubble.

Who?

"Barney Rubble," I mumbled. "Fred Flintstone's neighbor."

Speakin' of cartoons, what was up with that dream you had the other night?

I wracked my brain to remember. "What dream?"

You know, the dream where you and Ariel—from 'The Little Mermaid' was doin' it in that big bowl of clam chowder.

"Shut up," I said as I went back to watching the guy across the pier continue to—stare at me.

I'll have to admit, it was a smart move waitin' until she got legs. It might've been really tricky with the fuckin' fin.

Feeling as if my sanity was slipping away, I abruptly took several heated steps towards Mr. Rubble. "Can—I help you!" I snarled while not really meaning it.

He shook his head. "Sorry," he said. "I thought you were someone else."

I nodded and stepped back. "That's okay." I watched him walk down the pier until I remembered—Bobby. "What happened to Bobby?" I asked myself as I glanced around the pier and then up towards the shuttle. One of the deck hands was already reattaching the chain across the gangplank. "Dammit. He must've missed the shuttle."

Don't you mean she?

"He! She? What does it really matter? Neither one of them got off." What was I going to do now? "Dammit. What else can go wrong?"

"Hard! Ashley Hard? Is that you?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a rather short elderly man walking towards me, holding a walking stick and puffing on a huge cigar. The strange thing about it though—he wasn't using the stick to help him walk. He was holding it as if he was about to start bashing someone over the head. Fighting the sun's glare, I squinted to get a better look at him.

This guy has had one too many fuckin' Coppertone tans.

He was decked out in a skipper's cap and a rather bright yellow warm-up suit. Tightening my squint, there was something vaguely familiar about the way the little guy walked. He didn't walk like an old man. He had a cocky spring to his step and this unusual—up-right posture.

He looks like he has a fuckin' broomstick stuck up his ass.

He had to be ex-military—

Oh! Shit!

"It—it can't be?"

Yes it can! Run!

"It—it couldn't be?"

Run!

I carefully retreated several steps backwards. "Admiral?"

"Ashley, my boy!" came his booming response. "I thought that was you!"

It was him. Admiral William T. Gangiss. Wild Bill Gangiss—

The fuckin' Mad Admiral.

I hadn't seen him in ages. By my estimate—he had to be ninety years old. Wow! First old lady Steinburger, then Dr. Miles! Now him! "Don't evil people—ever die in Newport?"

You might be on to somethin' there. Your mother's still kickin' too.

He marched up to me and without provocation, jabbed me in the stomach with his walking stick. "It's good to see you again, boy," he barked. "How have you been?"

I just waved—needing a moment to catch my breath.

"You're getting soft, Hard!"

I nodded as I continued to search for a breath. "Yes—sir!"

"What?" he roared. "Speak up!"

I straightened my posture. "Yes! Sir!" I said, with a bit more gusto.

"What?"

"Have we misplaced our hearing aid this morning, Admiral?"

"What?"

"Your hearing aid!" I screamed. "Where is it?"

"Hearing aid?" he scoffed. "What would I do with a goddamn hearing aid? I'm not deaf!" Indignantly, he turned and faced the water. "Smell that ocean air, boy! There is nothing better than clean, fresh ocean air!"

He took the huge cigar out from between his blackened teeth and inhaled an exorbitant amount of air—for his puny size. Psychologically speaking, I always thought he had one of those Napoleon complexes—where he'd always try to be bigger than he really was. Even in his prime—he was a tiny guy.

Catching me off my guard, the little runt poked me again with his walking stick. "How's that fine looking mother of yours?"

The little fucker's deaf—and blind.

His question immediately stirred—something inside me. I'd forgotten the Admiral dated my mother for a time—after my father died. "She's fine," I said aloofly as all of the memories suddenly started to come back to me. Including—the one where he asked my mother out—at my father's funeral.

If I'm not mistaken, The Bitch said yes.

I nodded painfully. She did—didn't she?

Face it. Your mother's a fuckin' slut.

Forcing myself to refocus, I pushed out a half-hearted grin. "How—how are you doing, Admiral?"

"I'm concerned!" The Admiral's expression turned ice cold. "I hear rumors that you and some hot reporter from New York City are going around sticking your noses into places you shouldn't be?"

I heard his question, but it didn't quite compute. "Wh—what?"

"What?" he shouted back.

"Wh—what?" I screamed back.

The Admiral took his walking stick and pushed me back against the railing with it.

You know, if you stand on your tippy-toes and whip me out really quick, I'm pretty sure I could crush the little asshole's fuckin' skull in.

He gently gave me another little poke. "I hear you're going after Toothless Tommy's treasure?"

You could say it was a fuckin' accident.

"Wh—what?"

You whipped me out! He was standin' too close! BAMM! Goodbye Admiral!

It finally hit me. Not the Admiral's cane—Spike's big mouth! Spike and the Admiral were neighbors. "Dammit." I swiftly put my question to the Admiral. "Did Spike tell you that I was searching—"

"It doesn't matter who told me," he snapped. "You're wasting your time, boy! You won't find it!"

Suddenly—a memory came shooting back to me. It was a warm spring day. I was sitting on the back porch with my mother—

This isn't the one where she has you rub sun tan lotion on her breasts, is it?

"Noooo!" I hissed. It—it's where she tells me about the Admiral's obsession with Toothless Tommy's treasure. And—how he was certain he was going to find it one day. She even mentioned it was one of the reasons she broke off their relationship. That—along with the fact, he was so short, he would always be staring at her breasts.

Is that when she took out the fuckin' sun tan lotion?

"The treasure is mine, boy!" he shouted as he pushed his stick deeper into my chest—and pulled me back to the present.

Circumnavigating the thought of my mother's breasts—for the moment, I started to wonder—what would the Admiral do to keep someone from getting to the treasure before him? It was a long shot, I had to admit, but—could he be the one that has been following Bryce and I around Newport? Could he have somehow learned that Bryce's story on the Howell's robbery—was somehow connected to the Captain's treasure?

Could a fuckin' ninety year old sneak up behind you without you knowin' it and crack open your head?

I thought it over and chuckled at the absurdity. My chuckle was short lived though as the Admiral again jabbed me with his stick. "I've been looking for that treasure since my retirement from the Navy, boy! It's mine!"

Hearing that, I chuckled again. I knew the truth about his so-called retirement too. My mother told me all about it.

"Excuse me, sir," I blurted out, "but—I heard, the Navy kicked you out!"

His cataract-covered eyes quickly narrowed. "Lies!" he yelled. "Filthy lies! Who told you that? Nixon?"

"I heard you were forced to retire after you issued orders to the USS New Jersey to keep shelling North Vietnam."

"So?" he snapped. "What's wrong with that? War is hell, boy!"

"They signed the peace agreement in Paris two days before."

"So?" he snapped again.

Are you sure this guy isn't a fuckin' relative of yours?

"I blame Kissinger! Goddamn Kraut!" he said in a low growl. "Secretary of State! My ass! He was more interested in the—" The Admiral's eyes suddenly sparkled with a wild excitement as they locked on to something—behind me.

"Good morning! What am I missing?"

Recognizing Bryce's voice, I turned around and was instantly stunned by her smile. It was absolutely radiant. Everything about her was radiant; her makeup, the long dangling earrings, her long blonde hair pulled back into that incredibly tight ponytail—and the dress! I've never seen anything like it before!

Sure you have. Victoria's Secret Summer Sale catalog. Page 65, upper right hand corner. Hawaiian Blue. Regularly sixty-five dollars. On sale for forty-five.

"Sorry, I'm late," Bryce said.

"That's—okay," I replied as the urge to take another peek at her breasts—intensified.

What the hell do you mean another peek? You haven't taken your goddamn eyes off of them yet!

"I—I haven't?" I mumbled.

"My breakfast with Spike ran a bit long."

Not really paying much attention to Bryce's comment, I heard myself absentmindedly mumble, "They're actually—glistening in the sunlight."

How many times must I tell you! When you buy jeans, buy the ones with the relaxed fit. These slim cuts are cuttin' off my fuckin' circulation!

I suddenly realized what Bryce just said. "Spike?" I sharply questioned. "You had breakfast with Spike?"

"Yes," she said. "She left me a message, asking if I would meet her for breakfast. That's why I'm a little late."

Quick! Smell her breath! It doesn't smell like a fuckin' tuna taco, does it?

"She's going to be a handy person to have around," Bryce said while digging through her handbag. "You won't believe what she told me?"

I was way ahead of her. "That—she has a big mouth?"

Bryce appeared confused as she pulled her note-pad out of her handbag. "What?"

The Admiral stepped forward and clicked his heels together. "Hello, my dear!"

I just looked down at him—speechless.

Why don't you tell him to go play on the fuckin' highway?

Bryce leaned into me and lowered her voice. "Who is your little friend?"

Who the hell is she callin' little?

"Sorry!" I said, realizing my obvious faux pas. "Bryce Williams, I would like you to meet Admiral Gangiss. Admiral, this is—"

Bryce swiftly moved towards the Admiral with her hand extended. "Not—Admiral William T. Gangiss?"

The Admiral seemed downright pleased that Bryce had heard of him. I was downright amazed.

"At your service, my dear," he said, taking Bryce's hand and kissing it genteelly.

Quick! Ask the Admiral if Bryce's hand smells like it's been anywhere near Spike's stinky pinky?

Before I knew what was happening, Bryce locked arms with the Admiral and began strolling down the pier with him. I was dumbfounded. What was the attraction? What could Bryce possibly see in the Admiral?

Maybe she's into—fuckin' wrinkles?

"If I'm not mistaken, Admiral," shouted Bryce, "weren't you at the Howell's party the night of the infamous jewel robbery?"

I was rather surprised—but relieved to hear her question. She must've gone through the police reports and saw that the Admiral was one of the Howell's guests at the party that night. Very impressive!

Thank you.

"Not you! Her!"

"As a matter of fact," the Admiral replied, his eyes riveted to Bryce's chest. "Not only was I there that evening—I commanded the entire Pacific Fleet back then!"

I actually wasn't too surprised by the Admiral's revelation that he was at the Howell's party that night. The old fart was sort of a local hero back then. I'm sure the Howell's were thrilled to have him join in on their annual festivities. It probably only increased their party's status, having a Navy hero attend.

"Admiral, did the police interview you after the robbery?" Bryce asked.

"Of course," he said.

"Do you remember what you told them?"

The Admiral stopped and thought it over. "I'm afraid not, it's been a while."

Bryce wasn't about to give in. She was tenacious.

Tenacious? Does that mean she's really stacked?

She moved in closer towards the Admiral. "By any chance do you remember seeing Mr. Howell talking to the man he hired to play Santa Claus during the party?"

The Admiral took another moment to think over the question as he casually rolled forward up on his tippy-toes and peeked down the front of Bryce's dress.

Fuckin' little pervert.

"I don't remember ever seeing the two of them together, but I do remember Mrs. Howell being preoccupied with something," he said. "She was constantly going over to the window and peeking out towards the back of the house for some reason. I remember thinking to myself, how odd it was—for her, the hostess, to be doing that during her party."

Bryce suddenly turned to me with a quizzical smile. "Come to think of it, I didn't see your mother's name on the police's list. Did she go to the party?"

The Admiral broke out into a full blown laugh, interrupting Bryce's train of thought. She turned back to the old sea-dog with a confused smile. "Did I say something funny, Admiral?"

He probably just remembered what he looks like naked.

The Admiral took a moment to compose himself. "Just the thought of Ashley's mother—and Mrs. Howell together is quite comical."

Now, I was a bit confused. "Why is that?"

The Admiral glared at me painfully. "What?"

Jeez! "Why!" I screamed. "Why is that?"

"They hated one another," he said bluntly. "They couldn't be in the same room for five minutes without one of them trying to kill the other."

I was now totally confused. I knew my mother wasn't at the Howell's party, but I didn't know it was for that reason. She told me she didn't go because she hurt her back.

Bryce continued with her questions. "Are you sure, Admiral?"

He nodded affirmatively. "Absolutely!"

Why didn't my mother ever tell me she didn't like Mrs. Howell? Why the big secret? And—why can the Admiral hear Bryce and not me?

"Admiral," Bryce asked, "why did they hate each other?"

The Admiral shook his head. "I never really got the whole story from Marjorie." He tried again to think back as he once again rolled up onto his tippy-toes for another eyeful of Bryce's—

Floaters.

"It had something to do with a high school dance," he added. "That's it! The senior prom! Something happened at their senior prom."

Bryce excitedly turned my way once again. "Maybe Bobby will know why Mrs. Howell and your mother—" She fell silent as she glanced around the pier. "Where is Bobby?"

I shook my head. "No show."

She threw her head back—clearly annoyed. "Damn!" Composing herself, she again directed her question towards me. "Do you know when the next shuttle—"

I was way ahead of her. "Nine o'clock!"

Bryce didn't like that answer either. "Waiting until nine will really put us behind schedule."

The Admiral forcefully cleared his throat.

Watch it! Phlegm alert!

"Can I be of any assistance?" he asked Bryce.

She smiled weakly. "Thank you, Admiral, but—I really don't think you can. We were supposed to meet someone here this morning, then drive up to Maine. She's staying at the hotel on Goat Island. She obviously missed the first shuttle—"

The Admiral again cleared his throat. "I'll be more than happy to take you over on my boat."

Shit! Is it too early to send out a S.O.S?

I didn't know why, but for some strange reason—I had the same sentiments. "That—won't be necessary, Admiral."

"Could you?" Bryce eagerly asked the Admiral while ignoring my objections.

The Admiral pointed with his walking stick. "My boat is right at the end of the pier."

Why is he pointin' at the fuckin' T-shirt shop?

"That's fantastic!" Bryce said.

Am I the only one concerned with the fact, the old fucker can't even find the end of the fuckin' pier?

Bryce beamed me a smile as she and the Admiral started down the pier—arm in arm.

You do remember what happened the last time you were on a boat with him, don't you?
I had a vague recollection—something happened.

Somethin' happened all right! You fuckin' sank his fuckin' boat!
CHAPTER TWENTY

For whatever reason, it all started to come back to me. "I did sink—the Admiral's boat."

Told you.

He and my mother had been dating several weeks, when he invited her and I down to the marina to see the boat he'd just bought. It was a brand new thirty—maybe thirty-four footer. It was pretty awesome.

Sounds—sort of like me.

After about an hour of cruising up and down the coast, out of the blue—he offers me the chance to drive it!

What a fuckin' idiot.

"That's what I thought!" I was totally blown away. What kid would turn down a chance like that?

And?

The next thing I know—the boat is up on the rocks, split in half—and the three of us are swimming for shore.

That's all you remember?

I nodded. "Yes."

You don't remember the exhilaration of the wind in your hair? The oceans spray hittin' your face?

I shook my head. "No. No—I don't!"

How about turnin' around and seein' the Admiral suckin' on your mother's tiny tater tots?

Suddenly, my head felt like it split in half as that vision exploded into my memory. "That's why—" I whimpered, "I didn't see the rocks! I was too busy watching—"

"Ashley?"

Refocusing, I found myself standing at the end of the pier, just inches from falling into the water.

"Ashley! Are you all right?"

Turning, I saw Bryce standing on the pier about to step into one of those new fifteen foot Sport-liners. The Admiral was already in the captain's chair, revving up the engine. "Time's wasting, boy!"

I hurried over and helped Bryce into the boat, then jumped in next to her.

She immediately gave me a concerned look. "Are you sure you're all right?"

I nodded. "I'm fine!" Actually—I wasn't fine. The newly acquired vision of the Admiral having—my mother for brunch, was definitely not helping my pulsating headache.

"Cast off," yelled the Admiral.

"Yes, Mein Fuerher," I growled sarcastically as I untied the line and threw it on the pier. "Okay, Admiral! All clear!"

"What?" he yelled back. "Speak up, boy!"

"Gooo!" I screamed at the top of my lungs. "You deaf—"

Bastard.

The Admiral looked back at me and scowled. "What's the holdup back there, boy? Untying a boat from a pier is not that difficult! Do I need to come back there and show you how it's done?"

As I began to visualize my fingers tightening around his little neck, Bryce suddenly appeared in front of me. "We're all clear back here, Admiral!" she yelled as she gently pushed me back away from the Admiral.

Tell her she'd get a hell of a lot more leverage if she'd push down my way.

The Admiral flipped several switches. "Hold on!"

Bryce's smirk slowly turned into a little chuckle as her hands dropped to her side. "You wouldn't be any good to me if you were in jail—for killing him."

The Admiral suddenly gunned the engine. "First stop—Goat Island!"

As the boat accelerated away from the pier, Bryce lost her footing and fell into me. I in turn slipped—and fell backwards, sending both of us crashing to the floor.

You're on a fuckin' boat, asshole. It's called the fuckin' deck.

Trying not to use my hands, I somehow untangled myself out from in between Bryce's legs and scurried over to the other side of the boat—before jumping to my feet. "Sorry about that," I said, red-faced and totally out of breath.

"It wasn't your fault," Bryce laughed as she got to her feet and straightened her dress. "I'm the one who lost my balance."

I nodded as several moments of awkward silence followed.

Hey! Stop starin' at her flotation devices and say somethin'!

"Well—" I said, desperately wracking my brain for something to say. "Nice—flotation devices."

Bryce stopped pulling on her ponytail for a moment to shoot me a surprised grin. "Excuse me?"

Nice goin', Dick-weed.

If there was such a thing as a mental scream—I just had one. A really big one!

What the hell are you doin'! You're still starin' at her Isaac Newtons!

I swiftly re-calibrated my gaze some ten inches higher. Unfortunately, staring into those eyes of hers—wasn't helping much.

Change the subject, you fuckin' freak!

"Oh—by the way!" I blurted out. "What did—Spike tell you this morning that you found so interesting?"

Bryce's eyes filled with excitement as she directed me to sit down next to her. "Spike told me—" She fell silent as she glanced around boat. I sensed she didn't want to be over heard, so—to be polite, I gave the boat a quick once over myself.

Who the hell is goin' to hear you two? The fuckin' fish?

She eagerly leaned into me. "There was a rumor going around town that your father was having an affair with Mrs. Howell at the time of the robbery."

I just looked at her.

Your father had an affair? Holy shit! Stop the fuckin' presses! Alert the media!

Bryce quickly nudged me. "Did you hear what I said?"

I pondered her question. "I think so."

"Your father might've been having an affair with Mrs. Howell at the time of the robbery."

I nodded in agreement. "Along with several dozen other women—I'd bet."

Bryce tried again. "If your father was having an affair with Mrs. Howell, maybe that's why he was on Cliff Walk that evening. Maybe he was waiting for Mrs. Howell to come out."

I took a moment to give her idea some thought. It made sense. "Maybe that's why Mrs. Howell kept glancing out the window?"

Bryce appeared excited.

Are you sure? Quick! Check to see if her nipples are poppin'—

Bryce suddenly touched my arm. "That means your father probably wasn't involved in the robbery, like I thought."

She didn't let me fuckin' finish my—

I quickly scanned the horizon as I considered Bryce's observation—and to make sure I wasn't staring at her—

Nippies.

"My father might not have been involved in the robbery, but—he still was out there that night. The question is—why was he out there?" I was immediately inundated with a horde of unanswered questions. Did my father see Page running from the house? Did Page see him? And—if he did, did Page think my father would be able to identify him? Maybe Page—deliberately tossed him over the wall?

Suddenly, a black speed boat zipping off the port side caught my attention.

"Goddamn hot shot!" I heard the Admiral snarl. "Doesn't he know there are speed restrictions along this stretch of water?"

Our boat started to rock as the Admiral maneuvered through the speed boat's wake. "Hold on!" he yelled.

Bryce grabbed a hold of the boat's railing to steady herself.

Holy shit! Look! Look at Barnes and Noble! They're bouncin' around in all different—

Not wanting to be caught staring again, I stood up and looked off towards the marina. It was then, I noticed the black speed boat had turned around—and was heading straight for us.

Bryce must've noticed my concerned look as she walked up alongside of me. "What's wrong?"

I weakly pointed. "That speed boat—"

As she looked out towards the boat—the boat definitely appeared to accelerate towards us. "Do you think he sees us?"

There was no time to think. I immediately started waving my arms over my head, hoping to get his attention. "Hey! Hey! Slow down!" I yelled. "Slow down!"

Bryce started jumping up and down and waving her arms too. "Slow down!"

"What for?" yelled the Admiral, totally oblivious to what was going on behind him.

If that guy on the boat doesn't notice Bryce jumpin' up and down, he's fuckin' blind. Or gay!

"Or he wants to hit us." Unfortunately—I said that out loud.

Bryce immediately stopped jumping. "What did you say?"

You really need to stop doin' that.

The sound of the speed boat's engines intensified, suggesting to me, he opened up his throttles all the way. Whoever he was—he knew exactly what he was doing.

"Admiral!" I yelled. "Hard-a-port!"

He didn't hear me.

Will you just throw that old fucker overboard?

Out of time, I grabbed Bryce, forced her down onto the floor—

The fuckin' deck!

—and jumped down next to her. "Hang on!" I said, pulling two life preservers out from under the bench and covering our heads with them.

Well! Hello! I'm your new milkman. Would you like me to put it in the front? Or the rear?

A second later, the speed boat roared passed us. The resulting wake practically lifted the Admiral's boat out of the water and tossed it sideways, nearly capsizing us. The turbulent movement sent Bryce and I rolling across the—

Fuckin' deck.

—and waves of water crashing over us.

"What the hell!" I heard the Admiral scream.

As the boat's rocking subsided enough to let me get to my feet, I ran to the Admiral, who to my surprise, was still sitting in his captain's chair. He appeared a bit rattled, but for being as old as he was, I thought he was doing rather well. He did lose his skipper's hat though and his—hair? He was bald as a new born baby. "The Admiral wears a toupee!" I chuckled openly.

Let's fuckin' focus, shall we!

"Right!" Pulling myself together, and my attention off the Admiral's bald head, I hurriedly searched for our little friend in the black speed boat.

Who the hell are you callin' little?

"There! There he is!" I screamed, pointing him out to the Admiral.

"What's that asshole trying to do?" he yelled.

I was carefully studying the speed boat's movements when Bryce ran to my side. "What's he doing?"

"He appears to be turning again," I said. "Right—for us!"

"What should we do?" Bryce asked.

I eagerly searched for a possible escape plan. Unfortunately, none jumped out. We couldn't out run him and we were too far away from the marina. Nearing my panic stage, I noticed a huge sailboat anchored off the tip of Goat Island. It wasn't much, but it would have to do.

I grabbed the Admiral's arm and pointed out the sailboat to him. "Can you make it to that sailboat, Admiral?" I screamed in his ear. "It might give us some cover."

The Admiral rudely pulled away from me. "We're going back to the marina, boy! The Coast Guard will take care of him!"

"We won't make it back to the marina, Admiral!" I shouted, pointing back at the speed boat. "We'll never out run him!"

Bryce rushed to the Admiral's side. "He's gaining on us, Admiral! Please listen to Ashley!"

"We'll see about that!" The Admiral pushed the throttle wide open. "Don't worry my dear, we'll make it!"

Have you notice the front of Bryce's fuckin' dress? It's all wet.

Suddenly, the Admiral's rearview mirror shattered.

Bryce and I obviously had the same thought as we both glanced back over our shoulders. The speed boat had gained on us—and was now so close I was able to finally get a good look at the driver. He was wearing a hooded sweatshirt pulled tightly around his face and dark sunglasses. Oh! Yeah! He had a gun too!

Screaming, Bryce hit the deck as a chunk of the Admiral's chair splintered in front of her.

Will you please take the fuckin' controls! If you haven't noticed, I make a rather large target.

"Sorry, Admiral," I said as I grabbed him by the arm and pulled him out of his captain's chair. "I'm taking over!"

"What the hell are you doing, boy?"

Pushing him aside, I jumped in the chair, took the wheel and made a sharp turn—right in front of the speed boat. So close in fact—the black speed boat had to make an evasive move, so he didn't crash into us.

Do you think Bryce would maybe grant me a dyin' wish?

As I opened the throttles all the way, I picked up on Bryce's hysterical scream, "Admiral! No!"

I turned just in time to see the Admiral's cane come crashing down on the bridge of my nose. "Oooow!"

"This is mutiny, boy!" he screamed as he hit me again! And again! "I'll have you in irons for this! You'll do thirty years!" He hit me again. "Hard labor!"

Just as the Admiral was about to hit me again, Bryce grabbed him. "Admiral! Stop it!"

With Bryce distracting the Admiral momentarily, I ripped the cane out of his hand and threw it overboard. "There!" I growled. "Now! Go sit—" A bullet suddenly ricocheted off the boat's console—just inches from me.

That was a fuckin' close one.

I swiftly grabbed the Admiral and Bryce—and forced them down onto the—

Fuckin' deck.

"Get—down!" I snarled angrily. "And stay there!"

Hey! Look! Buoys!

"Ashley!" yelled Bryce while directing my attention back towards the marina. "Look!"

It was a Coast Guard Clipper coming towards us at full speed. "About time!" I yelled as I anxiously glanced back over my other shoulder and saw the black speed boat speeding away in a full retreat.

Aren't you supposed to stay on the other side of those fuckin' buoys?

"Wh—what?"

Those fuckin' buoys back there!

My attention instinctively shot to—the front of the boat.

You mean the fuckin' stern, don't you?

"Rocks!" I screamed.

They look really—fuckin' familiar.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

I switched the cell phone to my other ear and lowered my voice. "No! Mother! I did not kill the Admiral."

He was cryin', though.

"And—he wasn't crying," I forcefully added. "He's fine!" Wincing slightly, I reluctantly replayed the incident in my head. "Well—except for a few bumps and bruises."

"Ashley Wilkes!"

"Jeez! Both names—" I mumbled to myself, "I better—ease her concerns somehow."

I know I would.

"When he was thrown from the boat—he fell well clear of any of the really big rocks."

I heard a loud gasp just before she yelled, "He fell out of the damn boat?"

Yeah! That sure eased her concerns, you fuckin' dweeb.

"He's an excellent swimmer," I swiftly added.

The extended silence sounded rather tense. "How's that reporter friend of yours?" My mother finally asked. "Is she going to sue us too?"

I looked over at Bryce and found her eyeing me with a rather silly smirk. It was obvious she was getting a kick out of watching me get raked over the coals. "She's fine."

Have you noticed how the cab's shitty shock absorbers are makin' her kajoobies bounce around?

"You—haven't asked how I am, Mother?"

"That's very perceptive of you, Ashley," came her cool retort.

Ouch! I bet that hurt.

"What am I going to do with you, Ashley?" my mother finally asked. "Heather Walker's two sons are both lawyers in Providence."

I lowered my head and softly mumbled, "Here we go again."

"The younger one is thinking about running for Governor."

What's her point? Both of them are fuckin' gay.

"Millie Johnston's son is a doctor out in California."

The asshole's a goddamn podiatrist. Whoop-dee-fuckin'-doo!

I nodded. "Yes! Mother!"

"And what does my son do?" she asked herself. "He goes around having shoot outs!"

"Mother!" I growled softly. "May I say something—in my defense?"

"This is not the old west, Ashley! This is Newport! You do not go around having shoot outs in Newport!"

"I did not have a shoot out!" I snapped back. "We were—shot at! There is a difference."

Another awkward silence?

I nodded silently. However—it did give me a perfect opportunity to be heard finally. "May I ask, Mother, how you found out—"

"That you sank another one of the Admiral's boats!"

I nodded weakly. "Yes."

"This is becoming another one of your annoying habits!" She took a moment to catch her breath, before ripping into me—yet again. "What are the odds of you sinking two of the Admiral's boats?"

On the same fuckin' stretch of rocks.

I desperately tried to redirect her attention. "Who notified you, Mother?"

"I'm a personal friend of the Commodore."

I'll bet you a dollar, she polishes his torpedo regularly.

She cleared her throat, before continuing. "When he heard you were involved, naturally he called me."

"It wasn't my fault!" I yelled. "Someone was shooting at us—I had to do something! The Admiral would have gotten us killed!"

Another uneasy silence spewed from the phone. I could almost hear her shaking her head with that disappointed smirk of hers.

"Couldn't you think of something else, besides sinking his boat?"

As our cab rolled to a stop, Bryce directed my attention towards the front of the hotel. To be honest—I had no idea why. The hotel's front entrance wasn't that impressive.

Maybe she's pointin' at the six fuckin' police cars parked out front?

"I—I have to go, Mother," I said urgently.

What a fuckin' idiot.

I opened the door and stepped outside. "I'll talk to you later."

"I'm not done with you, young man," she said, in a no-nonsense tone. "I want you to stop all these silly inquiries into the Howell robbery. You're not up to the task, Ashley! I'm sure that woman reporter can fend for herself."

Don't listen to her! Bryce needs us. And we need Bryce for the threesome.

My mother was relentless. "You're just going to get yourself in trouble or killed! Remember what happened last night!"

The cab driver poked his head out of his window and looked up at me. "Eleven fifty."

Switching the phone to my other hand, I grabbed my billfold from my pocket. "Yes! Mother!" I said, rather stretched at the moment. "I remember! I need to hang up now. I need to get—"

"Now you have people shooting at you!"

I nodded again. "I really have to go, Mother." I pulled off the top bill and handed it to the driver. "Keep the change."

The cab driver looked up at me and smiled. "Well, thank you Mr. Rockefeller!"

I smiled back. "The name's Hard. Ashley—"

You just gave him a fifty dollar bill, you fuckin' idiot!

"Wh—what!"

Before I could react, the cab sped off. "Hey!" I screamed as I took several futile steps in an attempt to catch him. "Wait! I lied! I want change!"

"Ashley!" I heard my mother screaming over the phone. "What's happening?"

Annoyed—and fifty dollars poorer, I looked at the phone and came to a simple conclusion. I had my fill of my mother for one day. "I can't hear you Mother," I screamed into the phone. "You're breaking up! It must be the tunnel I'm driving through. I'll call you back!"

"Tunnel?" she yelled back. "What tunnel? Ashley! There are no tunnels in Newport!"

I violently pushed the phone's power button.

Take that bitch.

Bryce suddenly appeared at my side. "What do you think is going on?"

I glared down at her, somewhat confused. "Wh—what?"

Bryce sternly pointed at the police cars in front of me.

I'd say, happy hour at the donut shop.

I had a hunch—but to be perfectly honest, I hoped I was wrong. Putting on my best doomsday smile, I directed Bryce towards the hotel's front entrance.

She immediately caught my drift. "No! You don't think—"

I quietly steered her towards the front entrance as I continued to survey the scene. Thankfully, I liked what I saw. There was no sign of Carp—anywhere.

"What are we going to do?" Bryce asked.

I had several thoughts.

Does one involve bendin' Bryce over that police cruiser's hood, by any chance?

The hotel's poorly lit back stairwell was exactly what the doctor ordered.

You're no fuckin' doctor! Oh! No! Don't tell me you're startin' the visions of grandeur, again?

"Shut up." I mumbled.

Well, just in case you do, I think I should be God this time. I look a lot more regal.

As I grabbed the doorknob, I paused and glanced back at Bryce. "Ready?"

She nodded nervously.

"You know what to say?"

She nodded again.

I carefully opened the door and casually stepped out into the hallway. The uniform officer, putting up the yellow crime tape, immediately spotted us and held up his hand. "Excuse me! I'm sorry! But you're not supposed to be here."

Bryce reached in her handbag and grabbed her press identification. "Yes! We know that officer."

"That's all right, officer," I added. "We're with Sergeant Bass."

The officer did a double take. "Who?"

Realizing my error, I tried again. "I mean—Sergeant Carp!"

Nice goin', dip-shit.

Sorry—force of habit.

"He's not here," the officer swiftly replied.

"I—I know. He's downstairs talking with the manager," I lied. "He said we could come up."

The young officer warily walked towards us, stopping us about two doors away from room 410. He appeared cautious as he took Bryce's press card and inspected it.

He's inspectin' somethin' all right, but it's not her credentials. Do you see how he's sneakin' little peeks at her dynamic duo!

My plan was working perfectly. He was totally enthralled with Bryce.

Fuckin' pervert.

It took a moment, but the officer finally shot me a rather stupefied glance. "What's the Sergeant doing—again?"

I smiled. He was hooked—all right! I knew the feeling. "He's talking with the manager."

The kid immediately turned back to Bryce and smiled. "And you are—" He glanced again at her press card.

Yeah! Right!

Bryce held out her hand. "Bryce Williams," she said. "I'm writing a book on police procedures, specifically here in Newport. Sergeant Carp graciously consented to allow me to observe him while he's carrying out his day to day duties."

The kid again reluctantly looked my way. "And you are?"

"I'm Hard."

I am not.

Dammit. "I—I mean," I quickly added. "I'm—Ash Hard!" Somewhat embarrassed, I watched in horror as the kid's eyes checked out my—

Hey! You lookin' at me!

Bryce swiftly pulled the bag of donuts; we bought downstairs, out of her handbag. "Would you care for a donut?" she asked the officer.

The kid's full attention once again fell on to Bryce. He was definitely hooked. Donuts—and pretty girls! It works every time.

Smiling, Bryce leaned into him and opened the bag. "Bon Appetite!"

He does realize she's talkin' about the donuts, right?

Seeing that Bryce had the officer's full attention, I gave her a discreet nod and causally slipped under the yellow crime tape.

As I entered room 410, it was pretty evident that some kind of struggle took place. The phone was thrown on the floor. The desk chair was on its side. A lamp was smashed, and a rather large picture appeared to have been knocked off the wall.

Let's not jump to any hasty conclusions. Maybe it's just fuckin' lousy maid service.

Inching farther into the room, I stopped suddenly as I spotted several uniformed officers across the room. Luckily, their attention seemed to be focused on the torn drape hanging over the balcony's sliding glass door.

"Ash?"

Turning, I spotted Roger stepping out of the bathroom. "Boy!" I said, with a sigh of relief. "Am I glad to see you!"

He grabbed my arm and pulled me back towards the door. "What the hell are you doing here? Do you realize what Carp would do to me, if he saw you here?"

Just then, Bryce walked into the room. "Hello."

Roger openly cringed. "What the hell—"

"She's okay," I quickly whispered. "She's with me."

Roger couldn't believe his eyes. "How did you two get in here? This is a crime—" He paused a second. "What the hell did you do to Wallace?"

"You mean the officer—out in the hallway?" Bryce asked as her nose wrinkled up with embarrassment. "He went downstairs—to get me a coffee."

"He did what?" yelled Roger as he hastily turned to me—totally panic ridden. "I'm dead!"

"Quick—" I told Bryce, "give him a donut! That will calm him down."

Bryce opened the bag of donuts and handed him the bag.

Totally defeated, Roger just sort of—shrugged his shoulders. "Well—" he said, reaching into the bag. "A condemned man is entitled to a last meal, isn't he?" He pulled out a sugar donut and bit into it.

"Stop worrying," I said. "We just need to find out who the victim is—and we'll leave."

"A Bobby Upjohn," Roger said coldly.

"Oh! My God!" Bryce cried out.

A cold, empty feeling gripped me.

Roger took another bite of the donut as an avalanche of powdered sugar fell to the floor. "You knew her?"

"No—not really," I said as I noticed the two other officers across the room were now—staring at us. "I did know him, though."

Roger eyed me. "You mean—her?"

"No! Him!" I shot back.

Giving me a confused glance, Roger stepped aside. "She's—in the bathroom."

"Would you mind?" I asked, not wanting to step on anyone's toes. "If—I take a look?"

"It's pretty messy," he said. "She was strangled with a pair of her panties."

Bryce took a step back as her green eyes started to tear up slightly. "I think—I'll stay out here."

Okay! This is your big chance! Let's show these Newport hicks what made you a fuckin' legend in New York City.

I hesitated a moment.

Relax! I didn't mean me.

With a cleansing breath, I gently pushed open the bathroom door. Another cold empty feeling gripped me as I peered down at the lifeless body on the floor. She was bare-foot and dressed in a casual blue dress.

Holy shit! Look at the size of those goddamn feet! What are they? Thirteens?

"Shut up."

You wear a sixteen, right?

"Will you please—just shut up."

You got to wonder what size this guy's tube steak was—before he had it lopped off.

"I swear! I will lop you—"

Hey! You know that old sayin'! Big feet! Big—

"I'm warning you! One more word and—"

I'm just tryin' to point out—if you ever decided to follow in Bobby's footsteps, it might be a bit more complicated with me. The doctors will obviously have to—fuckin' blast!

After several cleansing breaths, I cautiously knelt down next to the body. I immediately noticed her—

Man hands.

—were tied behind her back, with some type of cord. I couldn't see her face though as she was wedged in between the toilet and the sink. Taking another cleansing breath—I carefully leaned forward and pulled her wet hair back away from her face. "It's Bobby," I said sadly as I stood up and faced Roger. "Who found her?"

Roger took another bite of his donut as he stepped back into the bathroom. "The couple next door heard a commotion and called the manager." After a few more chews, he continued. "It's open and shut, if you ask me."

Who the fuck is askin' him?

I wasn't that convinced. "Is it?"

"Sure," he said. "She lets the killer into the room. They start to quarrel. They fight! From the looks of it out there—it's pretty intense. He hits her over the head with the lamp and knocks her out. He then drags her in here and strangles her."

What a fuckin' boob.

I began to shake my head. "Why are her hands tied together? If she was unconscious, why would he need—to tie her hands? And why is her face and hair all wet?"

Roger appeared confused. So was I—actually. Why was there so much water on the floor? The tub was dry.

You found old lady Tortelli's head in the toilet.

On a hunch, I reached over Bobby and lifted the toilet seat. "There's hardly any water in the bowl." I pointed it out to Roger as I took a moment to think it over. "He—he was sticking her head in the toilet!"

Let's hope he was nice enough to flush first.

Roger's expression hadn't changed. "What was he trying to do? Drown her?"

I shook my head again. "No! I don't think so." I looked down at the water on the floor again. "He was trying to make her talk."

Roger's confusion only deepened. "What?"

Obviously, I needed to elaborate. "He was holding her head in the toilet to make her talk. She must've had some—information he wanted." I took a minute to see if I could piece together the rest of the puzzle. "I think you were right, though! They fought out there—just like you said."

Roger nodded excitedly. "I knew it!"

Lucky guess, Bozo.

I walked out of the bathroom and joined up with Bryce and the other two officers. "He probably knocked her out in here—then pulled the cord off the drapes and tied her hands together. He then—dragged her into the bathroom and stuck her head into the toilet to revive her, so he could ask her his questions."

Roger was finally catching on. "That's why her head's wet."

"Right!" I walked back into the bathroom. "I'd be willing to bet, she wouldn't talk, so—he started flushing the toilet while dunking her head in the bowl—until she finally did talk."

"Is that why—the water is on the floor?" Roger carefully asked.

I nodded. "Yes."

Finally braving the sight of seeing Bobby sprawled out on the bathroom floor dead, Bryce sheepishly stepped forward. "How do you know she finally talked?"

"A gut feeling." I said as I scanned the bathroom for some evidence that would back up my theory. Suddenly, I noticed several pairs of Bobby's panties—still hanging on the shower rod.

The red one is a thong.

"I think the killer—" I continued slowly, "having got the information he wanted out of her—knew he had to get out of here as soon as he could."

You're doin' great! Keep goin'! I can almost smell Bryce's cream wringer from here.

"He knew someone must've heard the commotion. So that meant—he had to kill Bobby as fast as he could." I pointed to the toilet. "Trying to drown her in the toilet would've taken too long!" I directed everyone's attention to the panties once again.

The red one is a fuckin' thong!

"Seeing Bobby's—undergarments, he grabbed a pair and strangled her with them. Quick! And easy!"

Bryce wiped a tear from her eye. "The poor thing didn't have a chance with her hands tied like that."

The poor kid! She must be an emotion wreak! With a few kind words of support from you, I could be dockin' in the old cock dock in no time.

"Shut up," I mumbled softly.

Roger sadly nodded. "She sure must've put up a fight. The old lady at the other end of the hall heard it too."

I despondently looked down at Bobby. "Why wouldn't she put up a fight? She was a guy—up until about a year ago."

As Roger looked over at me, a small piece of donut dropped out of his mouth. "What?"

I couldn't believe he didn't make the connection yet. "This is Bobby Upjohn."

Roger nodded a confused nod. "I know."

"Bobby! Upjohn!" I repeated, a bit more distinctly. "We went to school with him. He was on the football team with us. We—showered together!"

It took several seconds, but, I think Roger finally got it.

Maybe there's a reason he's still only a fuckin' patrolman.

Roger started to wildly shake his head. "No! No! It can't be! He beat me up in third grade!"

Wow! You get your ass kicked by a lesbian in grade school and pee-brain over there gets his head handed to him by a future transsexual. Are you sure you guys weren't Garry Marshall's inspiration for 'Laverne and Shirley'?

Roger continued to shake his head in disbelief. "It can't be! It just—can't be!"

"Hey! Roger!" I snapped. "When did the couple next door hear the commotion?" As I watched Roger stared blankly off into space, I got the feeling—I was losing him. "Roger! Focus!"

He reluctantly turned towards me. "Maybe a hour—and a half ago?"

Realizing I still had no watch on, I turned to Bryce. "What time you got?"

She checked her watch. "Nine."

I quickly turned back to Roger. "So she was killed around—what? Seven-thirty?"

Roger nodded. "I guess so."

I began to think out loud. "That's about the same time we were coming over on the Admiral's boat."

Bryce gently touched my arm. "About the same time we saw the black speed boat—"

We finished the sentence together, "—speeding away from the island!"

"Hard!"

Bryce turned. Roger turned. I didn't—I knew better.

"What the hell are you doing here?"

Obviously trapped, I warily turned around and smiled. "Good morning, Sergeant."

Carp pushed passed his two officers and marched up to Bryce and I. "What the hell are you two doing here?"

"Waiting—for you," I said coldly. "What kept you?"

I could see the vein in the middle of his forehead pulsating. "It's none of your fucking business!" He turned to Bryce and growled, "How the hell did you get in here? This is a crime scene!"

"That's what—I told them," added Roger, rather sheepishly.

Ignoring Roger, Carp kept his laser-like stare directed right at Bryce. "Well? I'm waiting for an answer!"

"We had an appointment with—" She awkwardly looked down at Bobby lying on the floor. "With the victim."

Carp immediately aimed his beady little eyes in my direction. "What the hell for?"

I cleared my throat before beginning. "We have—"

Correction! Pass tense. We had—

"We had—a mutual friend in Maine. Miss Williams and I were going up to see her today, so we invited Bobby to come along for the ride."

By the expression on Carp's face, I could tell he wasn't buying it.

"Soooo—" I continued painfully, "when Bobby didn't show up at the marina, we thought we'd drop by to see what was keeping her."

Roger unexpectedly stepped forward and addressed his boss. "Ash has already pieced together what happened."

Mentally—I winced. That was the last thing I needed Roger to say. I watched another vein pop out in Carp's neck. "Roger!" I growled sweetly. "I'm sure the Sergeant has his own theories."

"Oh! No!" Carp snarled. "I'd love to hear your thoughts, Hard!" His sarcasm was overwhelming. "Please! Enlighten me!"

Just then, a uniformed officer walked into the bathroom. "Excuse me, Sergeant!"

"What is it?" Carp barked.

"We found this on the floor." The officer handed Carp a small plastic bag.

As Carp inspected the bag, I causally leaned over his shoulder to get a closer look. There appeared to be some kind of white powder in the bag.

"Drugs?" Carp asked the officer.

The officer nodded. "This could've been a drug deal that went bad."

Carp eyed me with contempt. "Is that how you see it, Hard? Mr. Big Shot—New York City detective!"

"It could also be," I said, calmly looking at the bag in his hand, "powdered sugar."

Carp angrily opened the bag. "What the hell are you talking about?"

I swiftly reached over Carp's shoulder and stuck my finger in the bag. Swirling it around a few times, I pulled my finger out—and licked it. "Yep!" I said. "Powdered sugar! Probably from a donut."

Carp growled at his patrolman. "Are there any donuts—" He stopped suddenly as he noticed the white powder around Roger's mouth. "What the hell have you been eating?"

Roger swiftly handed the bag of donuts back to Bryce and wiped his mouth with his trembling hands. "Nothing!"

Carp immediately zeroed in on the bag of donuts in Bryce's hands.

Knowing she was caught, Bryce slowly opened the bag. "Would—you care for a donut, Sergeant?"

Carp immediately lowered his head. "Get out," he told Bryce while trying to keep his composure.

Bryce turned to me. "I'll meet you—"

"Get out!" he screamed. "Now!"

Bryce walked out of the bathroom.

"You too!" he screamed again, but this time at Roger.

Roger ran out of the bathroom.

Carp just stood there motionless, staring at the floor.

Time to go.

"Well—" I said while slowly maneuvering around the Sergeant. "I guess—I'll be leaving too. I'm sure you have a lot of work to do. I don't want to get in the way."

I was just about to step out of the bathroom, when Carp said, "Wait a second!"

I stopped and hesitantly looked back at him. He still hadn't looked up from the floor.

"We found a partial print of yours in Cottman's house," he said, in a monotone voice.

Oops!

Dammit.

"You were in that house, weren't you?" Carp raised his head and finally looked at me. "You lied to me."

"Well—" I said painfully. "It all depends on what your—definition of—is—is?"

Very smooth.

Well, it worked for that bastard Clinton. I don't know why it couldn't work—

"You know something, Hard?" he said—rather calmly. "I hate you. I really do hate you."

Well—say somethin'.

I nodded—and smiled. "Thank you?"

With a huge sigh, he raised his hand and pointed his fattest finger at me. "I'm going to get you one of these days, Hard. One way or another—I will get you."

In an odd sort of a way, I believed him. I'd been a thorn in his side for quite a few years. I guess it would be only fitting—if he did. "You probably will, Sergeant," I said soulfully. "But until you do—will you do me a favor?"

Carp just grunted.

"Check all the marinas around Newport for a stolen black speed boat. Thirty-two, maybe thirty-four footer!"

Carp's head titled to the side. "What the hell for?"

"Because—if you find the person who stole the speed boat, my guess would be you'd find Bobby's murderer—and I suspect Lieutenant Cottman's too."

Wouldn't it be funny, if we found out Carp owns a black speed boat?
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Bryce and I walked the short distance back to the marina and caught the next ferry back to Newport. Thankfully, it was an uneventful trip; the ferry didn't sink, no one shot at us, and we didn't come across any dead bodies. I had hopes—our luck was changing. However, I sensed Bryce didn't share my enthusiasm as she hardly said a word the entire trip back.

Maybe it's her time of the month?

I was pretty sure it wasn't. I figured it had to be seeing Bobby murdered like that, sprawled out on the bathroom floor. It couldn't have been easy for her.

I still think it's her time of the month. Ask her?

I gave my head a firm shake. "No."

Go ahead! I don't mind. I don't faint at the sight of blood.

"Nooo!"

Bryce quickly gave me a—look.

"Dammit," I mumbled. "I did it again." I was just about to make up a lie, when out of my non-twitching eye; I spotted my mother's Rolls Royce parked in the marina's parking lot. I eagerly pointed it out to Bryce.

Unfortunately, as we walked towards the car, something didn't feel right. My pace slowed as I approached the driver's side door.

Where's the fuckin' Nazi?

That was my thought—exactly. There was no sign of Heinrich anywhere. My mother assured me, she'd have Heinrich waiting for us.

Even Bryce noticed his absence. "Where's Heinrich?" she asked while walking around to the passenger's side.

I hastily surveyed the parking lot. "Where did he go now? I don't have the time to go searching—"

"Ashley!"

Bryce silently directed my attention towards the back seat.

Another fuckin' dead body?

I cupped my hands to the window and took a closer look. It was Heinrich, stretched out on the backseat with his eyes closed. Regrettably, he appeared to be still breathing. I banged on the window. "Hey!" I yelled. "Rise and—"

"Ashley!" Bryce snapped. "Let him sleep."

"Why?"

"Why can't you drive?" she asked; her voice barely above a whisper.

I lowered my voice too. "Because—technically, he's the chauffeur."

She shot me another one of those—looks.

Despite having to stop twice so Heinrich could go to the bathroom, I finally made New Hampshire with the only real casualty being my blood pressure. Navigating around Boston is a nightmare. And forgetting I-95 turned into I-93 just south of Boston, didn't help the situation.

You shouldn't have been starin' at Bryce's legs.

Oh! Yeah! Like those shortcuts you came up with—really helped?

Hey! Fuck you!

Bryce wallowed in her somber mood through most of the trip. I thought it advisable to give her some space. She'd been though a lot the past few days.

Tell her a joke. That will cheer her up.

"No."

Bryce turned towards me. "What?"

"Dammit," I mumbled. "I did it again."

Here's one! Why did Helen Keller use only one hand to masturbate?

"Did you say something?" Bryce asked.

Because she had to use the other hand to moan with.

Biting my lip, I turned to Bryce and just sort of—stared at her.

She returned—the stare.

Well—say somethin'!

Not knowing what to say, I forced out a smile instead. I was a lot better at smiles.

Ask her, how's she doin'?

"How—are you doing?"

She smiled back rather sadly.

That was a smile? Are you sure she just didn't have some fuckin' gas?

"Does it ever get easier?" she finally asked me.

Her sad eyes said it all. She was clearly—still upset over seeing Bobby. I realized then, I should've never let her come into the bathroom. "No," I said, shaking my head. "Not really." Feeling the need to change the subject and get her mind off Bobby, I boldly went for it. "How did you get interested in journalism?"

"My father is a sports writer for the local paper in my hometown," she replied, with a hint of pride in her voice. "He got me involved in it."

"Let me guess," I said, taking a good look at her, "you grew up in—Pennsylvania?"

What the hell is wrong with you? Does she look like some fuckin' coal miner?

"California," she said, with a laugh. "Los Angeles."

I knew it! They have the best breast men out there.

"How—did you wind up in New York City?" I asked. "Did you go to school there?"

"After I received my Masters from Pepperdine—"

Looks and money!

"—my father called in a few favors from some friends. To make a long story short, they hired me."

"Very impressive."

They certainly are. Just look at those love jugs on her!

For some strange reason, I felt a need to explain my last comment. "I—I meant your educational background—is very impressive. Not your—"

You wouldn't have to explain anythin', if you'd only stop starin' at her nefertitties!

I quickly focused my attention back on the road. "I—I meant to say, a Master's degree from Pepperdine—is very impressive!"

You might want to stop drivin' on the goddamn shoulder of the road and get back on the fuckin' highway.

"I—I went to Queen's College," I added as I steered the Rolls back onto the road.

Bryce forced out a pained laugh. "I don't think the guys at the paper were that impressed. They started me out writing obituaries." She seemed rather bothered by the memory. "This is my first really big chance to prove what I can do. That's why I came to you for help. I needed the best."

I'm sure she meant to say—the biggest.

Heinrich suddenly leaned over the front seat. "Excuse me, sir."

This could not be happening, I thought as I glared at him in the rearview mirror. "Not again!"

He nodded urgently. "I'm afraid so, sir."

I gave him one of my more annoyed expressions. "Can't you hold it?"

Bryce immediately cleared her throat in my direction. "Ashley!"

I forced out a rather—indignant smile. "This is the third time he's had to go—"

"We're in no hurry," she said. "Look! There!" Bryce pointed to the blue rest stop sign up ahead. "There's one in two miles."

Good. I have to go too.

I casually shook my head. "No! No—you don't!"

Yes! I do!

Rubbing my twitching eye, I pulled into the rest stop and parked next to a van with South Carolina plates. I shut off the engine and threw the keys on the dash. "Let's make this quick, Heinrich!" I said, with a frustrated sigh.

Heinrich got out of the car and shuffled off towards the building.

"Are you sure he'll be all right?" Bryce asked.

"He's fine."

I'm not! Can't you adjust the damn steerin' wheel up a bit? Heaven help us, if we come across Erin Heatherton hitch-hikin' along the fuckin' road in one of those skimpy Victoria Secret bustier slips.

I leaned back and closed my eyes—really tight.

Shit! I'll rip through your jeans; get tangled up in the steerin' wheel. You'll lose control of the car. We'll jump the medium, slam into a fuckin' semi head on—and all fuckin' die!

Bryce gently tapped me on my shoulder. "Maybe you should've gone in with him to make sure—"

I vigorously shook my head as a mental picture of Heinrich peeing popped into my head. It wasn't pretty.

He could be takin' a fuckin' shit?

I didn't even try to visualize that one. "No!" I said sharply. "No! I'm sure he's fine." I settled in for the long wait. "What were we talking about—before we were so rudely interrupted?"

You were just about to ask her if she's in the one percent of the adult female population that can achieve orgasm through just breast stimulation?

I eagerly opened my door. "I'll go see—what's taking Heinrich."

Just before I slammed the door, I heard Bryce's sweet voice say; "Thank you!"

"Why did I let my mother—talk me into bringing Heinrich along?" I asked myself as I stormed up to the main building.

Because you're a fuckin' idiot.

"I should never have brought him! He's nothing but trouble!"

I say we leave his no good ass here.

I pushed the door open and walked inside. "I'm turning into his nursemaid!"

The men's room is over there, to your left.

"I know that!" I snapped. "I can read!"

What's with the fuckin' attitude? Don't make me come out there and beat the shit out of you.

"That's a laugh!"

What's your fuckin' problem?

"You!" I yelled. "You're my problem! You and your orgasm—through breast stimulation comments! I don't need them!"

What you need—is to realize you're bein' watched at this very moment.

I stopped—and listened.

Three o'clock.

"Three o'clock?" I glanced down at my—

Stop lookin' for your fuckin' watch! You don't have it anymore! What the fuck is wrong with you?

"You said three o'clock!"

Three o'clock—means to look to your right! How many fuckin' times must we go through this! Just forget what I said! Just look over at the fuckin' vendin' machines, will you please!

After a cleansing breath, I turned towards the vending machines. Two young boys were standing there—staring at me. The older boy was probably ten or eleven. The younger one next to him, probably his younger brother, couldn't have been more than six or seven. They each had a candy bar in one hand and a soda in the other. Not the most nutritional meal if you asked me—but what could I say—I wasn't their father.

A fuckin' fact, I'm sure they're quite thankful for.

"Shut up!" I quickly nodded and smiled at the two boys. "Hello!" They didn't respond. They did keep—staring, though.

What the hell do you want them to do? They're fuckin' catatonic! You scared the shit out of them!

I've always wondered what kind of father I would've been.

You would've sucked.

Trish always wanted kids. She always told me, she wanted one of each—a boy and girl. She even suggested we go to one of those fertility specialists—

Hey! You're not goin' to blame that one on me, buddy! My boys are plenty potent! Shit! If they were any more potent, they could've gotten—John Wayne pregnant!

I was totally confused. "Wh—what?" I said as I grabbed my throbbing head. "You—want me to have sex with John Wayne?"

You asshole! I was just tryin' to make an analogy on how potent—

"Well—it sucked!" I screamed. "Have sex with John Wayne! He was one of my heroes growing up! Why would you say something like that? Are you crazy?"

Hey! You're the fuckin' crazy one!

"Shut up!" I screamed again. "You're the crazy one!"

We can discuss who the crazy one is some other time! Right now—you need to fuckin' focus! The two little brats just ran off to tell their parents that there's a fuckin' lunatic hangin' out around the men's room!

I turned to see the two boys racing back towards their van. "Dammit."

That went well.

"Shut up!" Shaking my aching head, I shuffled towards the men's room. "What else could go wrong?"

Well—you could find the old fucker lying on the bathroom floor in a puddle of blood, with his throat cut.

"Don't try to cheer me up!" I pushed open the door and yelled; "Heinrich!" Getting no reply, I walked into the bathroom and headed for the urinals. "What's taking you so—"

Or you could find the old fucker standin' in the middle of the bathroom—fuckin' masturbatin'.

I couldn't believe it. There was Heinrich—standing there with his fly open, holding his—

Massive man-root.

As hard as I tried, I couldn't pull my gaze away from his—

King sized kickstand.

"What are you doing?" I yelled. Thinking about my question, I concluded it was one of my dumber questions I'd ever asked anyone. I knew exactly what he was doing. I wasn't blind. Plus—you couldn't miss his—

Wallopin' whiz wand.

Finally noticing me, Heinrich slowly straightened up. Well—as straight as he could get, anyway. "My zipper, sir!" he said, in that chauffeur-like voice of his. "It appears to be stuck."

Feeling rather sheepish—for jumping to such an erroneous conclusion, I hesitantly bent down to take a closer look.

Not too close! He could start thinkin' about Maratha Stewart and poke your fuckin' eye out.

Jeez! It looked disgusting. The damn thing must've been nine, maybe ten inches—suddenly, my curiosity alarm went off in my head. "Heinrich?" I asked. "Where's your underwear?"

"I don't vear any, sir."

This was getting more disgusting by the moment.

"I find them too confining, sir," he quickly added.

At least we now know why The Bitch has kept him around all these years.

With—it—just dangling there, blocking my view, I was forced to try several angles to get a better look at his zipper.

It looks like one of those foot long hot dogs that has been overcooked and left out on a fuckin' paper plate for a week.

At my wits end, I painfully waved my hand at Heinrich. "Will you please move—it—out of the way? I—I can't see what's caught in your zipper!"

"Sorry, sir," Heinrich said as he grabbed—it—and flung it to the side.

Holy shit! I just thought of somethin'! Is that what I'm goin' to look like in forty—or fifty fuckin' years?

I finally saw the problem. "Heinrich! Your shirt's caught in your zipper!"

You wouldn't happen to have some moisturizin' lotion back at the car, would you?

"Vhat?" he said as he looked down at me.

Wait a minute! I bet Bryce has some.

I stood up and pointed. "Your shirt—Heinrich! It's caught in your zipper!" I yelled. "Pull it out! Zip up! And let's get out of here!"

Not able to bend over far enough to see what he was doing, Heinrich once again started struggling with his zipper.

"No! No!" I yelled impatiently. "Don't pull on your pants! Your shirt, Heinrich! Pull out your shirt!"

You're goin' to have to help the old Nazi or we'll never get back to the fuckin' car! I need my fuckin' moisturizer!

I pointed again, but this time—with a bit more vigor. "Heinrich!" I screamed. "There! There! Your shirt is caught! Pull it out!"

Unfortunately, Heinrich continued to struggle.

Totally frustrated, I knelt down in front of him and angrily slapped his hands away from his—

Jumbo Jimmy.

Nervously biting my lower lip, I carefully calculated the angle with the least chance of touching—

Repeat after me! I am not fuckin' gay! I am not fuckin'—

"Shut up!" With a cleansing breath, I dove in, grabbed Heinrich's shirt, and ripped it out of his zipper.

"That's him, Daddy! The guy pulling down the old man's zipper!"

I spun around to see the older boy from the candy machine, and apparently his father, standing behind me—staring at me.

Forcing out a crazed laugh, I stumbled to my feet. "No! Wait!" I said. "This isn't what it looks like."

The boy's shocked father swiftly covered his son's eyes and angrily mouthed, "You sick bastard!"

I held up my hand. "No! Wait! Please! You don't understand—"

Before I could say anything else in my defense, the father pushed his son out of the bathroom, gave me the finger—and followed his kid out the door.

Humiliated, I just stood there and watched Heinrich stuff his—

Sizable slammer.

—back into his pants.

Do you think Bryce would be willin' to rub some of her moisturizer on me?
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

"Oh! Come on," Bryce said jokingly. "You're really not going to tell me what happened back there at the rest stop?"

I shook my head. "Nope."

As we crossed over the Piscataqua Bridge and into Maine, I peeked into the rearview mirror and growled as I saw Heinrich once again fast asleep in the back seat.

"Come on," she repeated. "I won't tell anyone."

I shook my head again. "Nope."

"Something must've happened," she said. "You haven't said a word since the rest stop. Why did those two boys run out of the building like that?"

I continued to shake my head. "Nope."

I guess that means, you're not goin' to ask her about the fuckin' moisturizer?

Grinding my teeth, I tightened my grip on the steering wheel. "Cleansing breath," I snarled softly. "In—and out. In—"

"York Harbor!" said Bryce as she pointed towards the road sign. "Exit seven. That's the one we want."

Driving down York Harbor's main street, I marveled at how quaint and peaceful the little town seemed; the intimate cafes, the small antiques shops. The place had such a tranquil feel to it, I'd be willing to bet nothing really bad—ever happens here.

Taking a left on to York Street, Bryce pointed again and directed my attention to a large Victorian style house on the left. "There it is," she said, "The Knight's Inn! The white one with the white picket fence around it!"

Knowing we wouldn't be here that long, I took the liberty to park on the street, instead of trying to find a space in the already crowded parking lot on the side of the house.

Getting out of the car, I found my back in need of a stretch after the long drive. It was in the middle of this stretch—I noticed York Street continued down a rather steep hill, cut through a cluster of trees, and ended at an old wooden pier—that jetted out into the ocean.

The abrupt sound of Bryce shutting the car door caught my attention and put an end to my stretch. "What should we do with Heinrich?" she asked. "He's still sleeping."

I thought it over. "Put a plastic bag over his head?"

"Ashley!" she said painfully.

Totally frustrated with him at moment, I waved Bryce away from the car. "Just leave him." I started up the walkway towards the house while trying to take everything in. The place was rather picturesque. It was quite evident old lady Knight ran a tight ship.

Entering the Inn, we were greeted immediately by a short middle-aged woman. She was in early fifties, with frizzy blonde hair. She hurried up to us with her hand extended. "Good afternoon, I'm Sally," she said with a sweet smile. "Can I help you?"

Well—Sally! I have this annoyin' itch. I was wonderin' if you wouldn't mind reachin' down here and givin' it a little scratch?

Bryce shook Sally's hand—as I tried to control my coughing fit. "We're here to see Evelyn Knight," Bryce said while ignoring my coughs. "I called earlier."

Sally seemed to have a harder time ignoring me. "Are you all right?" she asked me. "Do you need a glass of water?"

I'd rather have a fuckin' scratch.

I shook my head in between coughs.

"Evelyn is on the porch," she said. "She's expecting you."

Sally graciously led us into the main reception hallway, through the breakfast area, and towards the French doors that lead to the porch. "You'll find her through there."

"Thank you," said Bryce.

I just nodded politely.

"Oh!" said Sally. "I should warn you that Evelyn is getting up there in years. She tires very easily."

Bryce swiftly responded. "We'll be brief."

Sally eyed us both. "You are aware Evelyn is blind?"

Bryce shook her head. "How awful!"

Sally nodded sadly. "A car accident about ten years ago."

I didn't hear anyone ask how it happened, did you?

"Shut up," I growled softly. "You insensitive—"

Hey! Fuck you! And the horse you rode in on!

As I carefully pondered—the horse reference, Sally again directed us towards the French doors. "Why don't you go on out," she said. "I need to get Evelyn's afternoon snack."

Stepping out onto the porch, Bryce and I immediately spotted a rather frail looking old woman, dressed all in black, sitting on the porch swing.

"Evelyn?" asked Bryce. "Evelyn Knight?"

Without turning her head, the old woman weakly waved us over. Bryce and I were just about to introduce ourselves when Sally walked onto the porch carrying a tray with a small salad on it. She apologized for the interruption and carefully placed the tray down in front of the old girl. "Are you feeling all right, dear?" Sally asked Evelyn. "Can I do anything else for you?"

I bet she'd scratch her, if she asked.

Evelyn gingerly picked up the fork off the tray. "I'm fine, Sally," Evelyn said. "You can go."

As Sally went back into the Inn, it was Evelyn who got the conversation rolling. "I understand you two are interested in my former employers?"

"Yes," said Bryce.

"Please! Sit!" Evelyn said as she took a small bite of her salad.

As I sat down in the chair across from the old girl, I couldn't help but notice her uncanny resemblance to the old caretaker's—scary looking wife in Vincent Price's original House on Haunted Hill. She had the same long unkempt white hair, the cold sightless eyes—and that crazed ghoulish gaze, which was unfortunately—staring right at me.

"I'm writing a story on the robbery that took place at Treasure Hall," Bryce said while going through her handbag. "Do you remember that night?"

"Absolutely," Evelyn said. "It was a horrible night."

I nervously squirmed in my seat. "She's—staring at me," I mumbled. "Why is she—staring at me?"

The woman is fuckin' blind. She doesn't know what the hell she's lookin' at.

Bryce leaned forward with her pad and pen in hand. "Why was it so horrible?"

"The construction," Evelyn said. "It was terrible! We couldn't use the main ballroom for the party like we usually did. Everything had to be moved to another part of the house. It was total chaos."

Bryce was frantically writing everything down. "What was Mr. Howell doing to the ballroom?"

"She's still—staring at me," I mumbled through clenched teeth.

Pull yourself together!

"Who knows," Evelyn said. "The man was completely mad. Would you believe, he wouldn't let anybody even near the ballroom, until it was done."

Evelyn's statement clearly peaked Bryce's curiosity. "He didn't let any of the staff see what he was doing in the ballroom?"

Evelyn shook her head while lowering her gaze. Right—at my groin.

Hey! How's it goin'?

I quickly crossed my legs.

"What about Mrs. Howell?" Bryce eagerly asked. "Was she allowed in the rooms?"

I could feel my perspiration start to accumulate on my upper lip. "She's starting to freak me out," I softly sang out—in a high pitched whine.

Let's see if the old bitty is really blind. Make me twitch!

"Wh—what?"

If she flinches, we know she's fakin'!

"I'm not sure," Evelyn answered. "But I can tell you, Mrs. Howell was furious about not having the ballroom available for her party."

"Those eyes," I continued to mumble. "Why doesn't she wear a pair of sunglasses—like Stevie Wonder or Ray Charles?"

Maybe she can't fuckin' sing.

"What could Howell have been doing in the ballroom that he had to keep secret from everyone?" Bryce asked herself, before continuing. "Did the Howell's get along?"

Evelyn laughed. "Are you kidding? They hated one another."

Bryce quickly followed Evelyn's answer with another question. "Was Mrs. Howell a faithful wife?"

Evelyn laughed again.

I suddenly stood up. "I—I can't take this anymore," I mumbled. "I can't take all of this—staring!"

"It was Mr. Howell who played around," snapped Evelyn. "In fact, he put in several secret passageways so he could get to the third floor without being seen, so he could have his little rendezvous with the upstairs' maids."

"Secret passages?" I asked as I eased myself back down into my chair. "He put in secret passages?"

Evelyn nodded. "Yes."

You know what? If you whip me out and she regains her sight, I could become a fuckin' saint! Saint Timmy!

"Th—that's how he did it," I told myself. "That's how he was able to get behind me—without me knowing it! Whoever hit me—knew about the secret passageways Howell put in." I quickly leaned forward so I could get Evelyn's full attention.

Hey! The woman is fuckin' blind?

Thinking it over, I casually leaned back into my chair. "Who else knew about these passageways?"

Evelyn shook her head. "I really don't know."

"Did Mr. Howell's nephew know about the passageways?" I asked.

Evelyn looked up with a strange expression on her face. "Mr. Howell didn't have a nephew."

"He doesn't?" Bryce asked. "We've been told at the hospital, he visits Mr. Howell quite often."

Evelyn shook her head again. "Mr. Howell was an only child."

Bryce and I looked at each other, before Bryce turned back to Evelyn. "Maybe it was a nephew on Mrs. Howell's side?"

"Sorry," Evelyn said. "Mrs. Howell was an only child too. Someone must be mistaken at that hospital."

I was perplexed—to say the least. Someone was visiting old man Howell under false pretenses. But why?

"Ash?"

Startled—I turned to find Trish stepping up onto the porch. "What the hell are you doing here?" she asked.

I quickly stood up. "I could ask you the same thing?" I said as I instantly found myself—ogling her. She looked absolutely gorgeous. She was wearing this sheer lace, strapless—top thingy. I could almost see—right through it!

Holy shit! You can! She's not wearin' a fuckin' bra!

"Ooooh!" I moaned as I fought to refocus. "Wh—why are you here again?"

Trish was just about to start explaining when another voice rang out. "Well, isn't this a coincidence!"

I turned again, but this time I cringed. It was—

Dickless.

My eyes shot back to Trish as—

Dickless.

—hustled up the porch steps with his hand extended. "This is downright spooky all of us meeting like this."

I reluctantly shook his hand.

Quick! Smell your hand. Does it smell like Trish?

I casually wiped my hand off on my pants—before speaking. "Yes—it is, isn't it?" It was more than just spooky, it was downright unbelievable. Why were they here? I don't remember telling them we were coming up here.

"You all know one another?" asked Evelyn.

Trish coolly nodded. "Yes—unfortunately."

Bryce stepped forward. "I don't believe we've met?" she said, extending her hand to—

Dickless.

"I'm Bryce Williams."

Smiling, he shook her hand. "Richard Gliss," he said politely.

Dickless—to his friends.

"Well—" snapped Trish, sounding rather ticked off. "Isn't this cozy?"

An awkward silence seemed to blanket the porch as Trish and Bryce gave each other an icy glare.

Have you ever seen such El Primo—penis pillows in such close proximity in your fuckin' life? I think—I've fuckin' died and gone to happy bag heaven.

Forcing myself to refocus, I carefully cleared my throat in Trish's direction. "What again—brought the two of you up here?"

"The Ogunquit Playhouse," Trish said. "A friend of Richard's gave him two tickets for The King and I."

I had to admit, it sounded plausible. The playhouse was world famous. It's been around for years. I've heard a lot of people, even as far away as New York City—say they travel up here—two, sometimes three times a season.

Remember Jodie Foster's remake? I was up for the roll of Jodie's son.

"For this evening's—performance?" I swiftly asked.

Trish nodded. "Yes."

"There might be some tickets left," suggested Richard. "If the two of you would like—"

"Thank you, but—no!" said Bryce. "We have to get back to Newport."

Trish forced out a rather fake—hurt look. "That's a shame."

A cold chill suddenly hit me. "Are you two staying here—at the Inn tonight?"

Richard nodded. "Absolutely! Evelyn's hospitality is known throughout the Northeast. I won't stay anywhere else?"

"Why thank you," blushed Evelyn.

Suddenly, Trish reached out and touched my arm. "Ash!"

I turned towards her only to see her looking—over my shoulder. "Yeah?"

"Did you drive up here in your mother's Rolls?"

"Yeah," I said painfully. "Why?" The way my luck was going, I didn't want to look. "Did I park in another no parking zone? Don't tell me—I'm I getting another ticket, aren't I?"

She shook her head. "No—it's rolling down the hill."

"Wh—what!" Spinning around, my eyes immediately locked on to my car—

Your fuckin' mother's car.

—rolling down the hill! With no one behind the wheel!

Bryce grabbed my arm. "Oh! My God!"

A little lower.

Her horrified face turned and—stared up at me. "Heinrich's in the back seat!"

Realizing what she just said, I turned back towards the Rolls—and screamed!

What the fuck are you doin'? Screamin'! This is so embarrassin'! No one's fuckin' lookin' at me, are they?

"Ashley!" Bryce yelled, stifling my scream. "Get him out of there!"

Panic stricken, I suddenly noticed Trish nudging—

Dickless.

—down the stairs.

Shit! She's tryin' to get Dickless to go after him! She obviously thinks you're a fuckin' loser and incapable of doin' anythin' right!

"Well—" I growled. "I'll—show her!" Throwing caution to the wind, I leapt off the porch and started running across the lawn.

Now we're fuckin' cookin'!

I sprinted around a bush—then another! My stride felt strong and powerful. I literarily jumped over the third bush.

Hey! Hey! Watch it! That one had fuckin' thorns.

I kept my eyes glued to the Rolls. Unfortunately, I appeared to be losing ground—as it was beginning to pick up speed, the further it got down the hill. "Heinrich!"

What the hell are you doin'? You missed the fuckin' gate! It's over there!

"Shortest distance—between two points—is a straight line!" I gasped.

Is that fuckin' code—for you're goin' to jump the fuckin' fence?

"That's the plan!" I said confidently as I pushed myself to go even faster. "I ran the hurdles—my junior year! Remember!"

Unsuccessfully! If I remember correctly!

"Shut up," I growled. "If I time it—just right!"

Whatever you do, don't start thinkin' about Stormy Daniels!

"Wh—who?"

That hot porn star, with the really huge woodymakers! I could get one nasty splinter on that fuckin' fence.

"Shut up!" I yelled as I focused on the approaching fence.

What the hell are you doin'? I told you to stop thinkin' about her!

"Then stop—talking about her!"

Why is she spreadin' her legs!

"Shut up!"

What the hell is she goin' to do with that bottle of Yoo-Hoo?

My right leg cleared the fence—

BAMM!

AAAAAGH!

My left knee—didn't!

That wasn't your fuckin' knee—

I hit the ground and started to roll down the hill.

You asshole!

Pulling myself together, I frantically struggled to get to my feet. The Rolls, still accelerating, was now on a collision course with the cluster of trees. Limping down the hill, I watched as the Rolls miraculously missed the trees by mere inches. I pushed myself to maximum limp! Unfortunately, deep down, I knew it wasn't going to be enough. Tiring and expecting the worst, I started to slow up as the Rolls head straight for the water.

You should've put the fuckin' emergency brake on.

"I did!"

Yeah! Right!

Then! All of a sudden! The Rolls veered left! I watched in amazement as it rolled up onto the pier—and stopped. I couldn't believe it. I had a glimmer of hope. "If I could get down there and back it off the pier," I told myself. "No one was hurt! Nothing was damaged—"

CRACK!

The pier suddenly splintered under the car's massive weight, sending it plummeting into the ocean with an enormous splash.

Tough fuckin' luck.

I watched in horror as the Rolls slowly turn over and disappeared under the water.

Boy! The Bitch is goin' to be fuckin' pissed.

I ran up on, what was left of the pier, and looked down into the bubbling water below.

Ashes to ashes! Bubbles to bubbles!

"Well—" I mumbled as I took a deep breath—

You gave it your best shot! Let's go get some dinner? I saw a Wendy's about a half mile—

—and jump into the water.

What the fuck are you doin'! I—I can't fuckin' swim!

Fighting the tide, I grabbed the Rolls and pulled myself along until I reached the rear door.

Shit! Not only am I goin' to die! I goin' to die—shriveled up! Help! Help! I'mmm mellltin'!

With my lungs burning—I grabbed the door handle and pulled on it. It was locked.

I want a closed casket funeral. I can't bear to have Bryce see me like this—all fuckin' shriveled up.

Fearing the worse, I hesitantly peeked into the backseat. I prayed I wouldn't see the ghastly sight of Heinrich—dead! His face distorted with the agony of seeing Death reaching out for him—

Where the fuck is he?

That was a good question. Where was he? The backseat—

Is fuckin' empty!

I swiftly inspected the front seat—and found that empty too! The car was empty!

Are you fuckin' tellin' me, I shriveled up for nothin'!

Breaking the surface, I stumbled out of the water and leaned up against the pier. Fighting for my next breath, I noticed a handful of blurry figures running towards me as I heard a police siren's wail—off in the distance.

Bryce was the first one I recognized as she ran up to me and threw her arms around my neck. "Are you all right?" she asked, with a relived smile.

I weakly nodded. "I'm fine."

Hey! I jumped in the fuckin' water too, you know!

Trish soon joined us. "My God! Ash!" she said, clearly frazzled. "Are you okay?"

"I'm—I'm fine," I repeated as Bryce let go of my neck and stepped away.

"That vas a valiant effort, sir!"

Recognizing the voice, my gaze slowly left—

Bryce's Sierra Madres.

—and locked onto Heinrich—who just happened to be standing behind her. "Wh—what?" I snarled, totally flabbergasted.

"I vill make sure I tell your mother vhat a valiant effort you made to save her Rolls, sir."

I suddenly felt my blood pressure spiking. "Why aren't you in the Rolls' backseat—dead?"

"I'm afraid, sir," he said, with all the chauffeur-like dignity he could muster. "I had to go—number two, this time."

Half-crazed, I lunged over Bryce and grabbed Heinrich by the throat. "That's it!" I yelled. "You're dead!

"Ashley!" screamed Bryce as the three of us toppled over into the sand.

As long as you're on top of her, why don't you give those two milk melons a little squeeze! I'm dyin' to find out if they're fuckin' real or not.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Sally looked up from her computer screen and sighed. "I'm sorry, but we only have that one room available tonight. Would you and the young lady be interested in sharing a room?"

We'll take it.

I mentally shook my head as I felt the perspiration start to ooze from every pore in my body.

Don't fuck this up.

Sally's eyes dart over to Bryce. "It's a very nice room. It has its own bath."

Bryce nodded. "We'll take it."

Yessss!

I cringed as Bryce pulled out her credit card and handed it to Sally. She didn't even ask how much the room was!

Who gives a fuck? Shut the hell up!

"Excuse me," I said, catching Sally's attention before she walked off with Bryce's card. "How much is the room?"

"One nineteen."

I put on a shocked look. "Dollars?"

Sally nodded oddly.

I gently pulled Bryce away from the front desk. "We can do better than that," I said, in a low whisper. "I saw a Holiday Inn several miles back—"

"How do you suggest we get there?" she asked—in her own whisper. "Your car is underwater. The rental car place is closed. I have sand all over me. I'm hungry! I'm tired! I'm paying!" She forced out a mocking smile and walked back to Sally. "We'll take the room."

Yessss!

Sally pulled the key from behind the front desk and extended her hand towards me. "Third floor—room eighteen."

I put my hands in my pockets and stepped away from the desk.

Take the key.

"No!" I mumbled. "I can't do it. I'm—not ready!"

Take the fuckin' key!

I nervously shook my head.

I will—fuckin' kill you, if you don't take that key!

Bryce reached in front of me and grabbed the key out of Sally's hand. "Thank you."

See! She wants me! I bet she's soppin' wet with fuckin' anticipation. Do you see any bodily fluids runnin' down her leg?

No—but I could feel my left eye-ball rattling around inside its socket.

Bryce placed the key in her handbag and threw it over her shoulder as she again addressed Sally. "Would you happen to know if there are any clothing stores still open? I'm going to need to get a few things. We weren't planning on staying the night."

Perhaps—a sheer see-through, off the shoulder black lace teddy with full length sleeves and matching thong.

"I think Millie's is still open," Sally said. "It's just down the block. It should have everything you'll need."

Handcuffs?

"Is there a good place to eat?" asked Bryce. "I'm starving."

Sally had an answer for that one too. "Harold's Bar and Grill is just down the street from Millie's."

Bryce graciously nodded. "Thank you for all of your help."

"Is Evelyn—still around," I asked timidly. "I still have one or two more questions; I'd like to ask her."

A perplexed expression crossed Sally's face. "To tell you the truth, I haven't seen her in a while, with all of the excitement." She hurriedly joined us in front of the reservation desk. "She's probably still on the porch. Just follow me."

As I turned to follow Sally, I bumped into Heinrich. "Dammit. Heinrich!" I growled. "Must you always sneak up on me?"

"Ashley!" Bryce snapped.

I smiled innocently. "Wh—what?"

Bryce quickly moved in and gently guided Heinrich away from me. "Are you hungry, Heinrich? Ashley and I are—"

"No—thank you, Fraulein," Heinrich said as he then turned and addressed me. "I think I vill retire for the evening, sir."

Two things suddenly dawned on me. One, there would be three of us in the room tonight.

Shit. That's not the fuckin' threesome I had in mind.

And two, my headache was back.

Bryce pulled the room key out of her handbag and gave it to Heinrich. "You go up to the room and take it easy. Ashley and I will be up later."

Heinrich bowed. "Very good, Fraulein."

Rubbing my aching head, I grabbed Heinrich before he got to the stairs. "Hey! Heinrich! Do you still carry around that bottle of aspirin?"

He began to search his pockets. "I believe so, sir." Reaching into his inside coat pocket, he pulled out a small bottle.

I quickly snatched the bottle out of his hand. "Thanks."

"Excuse me, sir! But those are—"

I pushed him towards the stairs. "Good night, Heinrich."

He hesitantly bowed. "Good—good night, sir."

As Heinrich slowly climbed the stairs, I noticed a fiery glare in Bryce's eyes.

"Wh—what?"

"You're lucky he didn't press charges against you," she snapped. "Honestly! Attacking an old man! You could've killed him!"

I opened the bottle and popped Heinrich's last two aspirins in my mouth.

Suddenly—a woman's scream ripped through the Inn.

Bryce pointed. "That sounded like it came from the porch!"

As Bryce and I ran onto the porch, we found Sally standing in the middle of the porch with her hands clamped tightly over her eyes. Bryce gently grabbed her arm. "What's the matter? What's wrong?"

I tapped Bryce on the shoulder and pointed towards the porch swing. She immediately gasped in horror. It was Evelyn—slumped over in her swing, with her face buried in her salad.

That reminds me, when the hell are we goin' to eat?

I watched from the porch as the two EMTs lifted the stretcher, with Evelyn's body, into the ambulance.

"Well! You've had some excitement today, haven't you?"

Turning, I saw Sheriff Boone, walking up the porch steps. I had the unpleasant opportunity to talk with him in length, earlier in the day, when the Rolls went into the ocean. He seemed sharp enough—although, I found him a bit too sarcastic for my liking. I got the feeling he didn't believe me, when I assured him—I did put the Rolls' emergency brake on.

He walked up alongside of me. "A runaway Rolls Royce—and now a dead body," he said. "You lead an exciting life, Mr. Hard."

I hate idle chit chat. "When will you get the results of the autopsy?"

He—stared at me. "Autopsy? What autopsy?"

I directed his attention to the ambulance. "On—" Dammit. I forgot her name.

"You mean, Evelyn?"

I nodded. "Has anyone else died in York Harbor today?"

He chuckled slightly. "She was over eighty years old. She's had two heart attacks in the last two years. The old girl was on borrowed time. Why have an autopsy? What would it prove?"

"That she was murdered," I blurted out.

He frowned. "What?"

First Cottman! Then Bobby! Now—Evelyn? This was getting too weird.

You know what's fuckin' weird; I think the ocean water is shrinkin' your pants.

"Who would murder her?" the Sheriff finally asked. "And—for what reason? Her recipe for blueberry pie? It was good, but it wasn't that good."

I didn't really want to go too deep into any details right now. This wasn't the time or place. I had no proof. It was just a gut feeling I had, and to be perfectly honest—the Sheriff didn't strike me as a person I could trust. Maybe it was his—blue teeth? I took a closer look as I pondered why would he have — blue teeth? "Excuse me, Sheriff," I asked. "Speaking of Evelyn's blueberry pie—did you have a slice of it this evening?"

He shook his head. "No. Why?"

I shook my head too. "No reason."

The Sheriff's eyebrow rose slightly as he continued. "Your girlfriend tells me, you're some kind of a hot-shot homicide detective back in New York City. Could you be letting your imagination get the better of you?" he asked. "I didn't see any signs of foul play. Did you?"

I shook my head again. "Nope."

"York Harbor is a quiet little town. Nothing happens up here. And you can be sure—no one gets murdered in York Harbor." He turned and started to walk away. "The old girl died of natural causes."

Maybe I was letting my imagination run amok. I guess people do drop dead—now and then.

"Oh!" The Sheriff said as he stopped and turned around. "I almost forgot to tell you. I was talking with some of the kids that were playing by the pier when your car went into the water. They said they did see someone running away from your car right before it started rolling down the hill. Maybe you did have the emergency brake on, after all."

My curiosity swiftly peaked. "Did the kids give you a description?"

"They said it was somebody in a red sweatshirt."

"A red sweatshirt?" I asked cautiously as I squinted again in the Sheriff's direction. But this time—I wasn't squinting at his blue teeth. I was more interested in his blue shirt. "Weren't you wearing—a white shirt earlier today?"

He tossed me a perplexed stare. "I still am."

By the time Bryce and I were allowed to leave, Millie's had already closed. I couldn't help but look up towards the star-filled heavens and mumble a heartfelt, "Thank you!" There'd be no see-though teddies tonight!

That's all right. Bryce will just have to sleep in the fuckin' nude!

I must've been still thinking about that—rather revealing predicament as I walked into Harold's Bar & Grill moments later. Why else would I walk right into a—pole! "Ouch! Jeez! Who put that there?"

That's what you get for starin' at Bryce's ass again.

"I wasn't—though," I mumbled as I looked around the bar. It was so dark in the place; I could barely see my hand in front of my face. "What's with the lights in here? Didn't they pay their electricity bill this month?"

"Shhh!" hissed Bryce. "There's nothing wrong with the lights."

"I just may write a scathing letter to whoever—who drew up this place."

Bryce rudely grabbed my arm. "Shhhh!"

I continued my critique in silence. Except for the sub-par lighting—overall the place seemed decent enough. It looked clean. There were several pool tables in the rear of the building. But as for customers, except for the four guys playing pool, Bryce and I were the only other patrons in the place.

"I'll be right with you folks," said a haggard looking waitress as she rushed by with a tray of empty beer bottles.

Bryce smiled. "Thank you."

Am I fuckin' crazy or are Bryce's cha-chas gettin' even bigger?

Immediately redirecting my gaze, I walked off and found myself looking at a large bulletin board filled with fliers and local announcements. All of which, strangely enough, were printed on—blue paper.

"Maple syrup for sale," I read aloud. "August Moon Dance this Friday!" A large blue poster in the upper left hand corner of the board caught my eye. "The Ogunquit Playhouse proudly presents My Fair Lady."

"Ashley!"

Hearing Bryce, I turned around to see her standing next to the waitress. "Are you ready?" she asked. "She has a table for us."

Nodding, I followed the two women back towards the pool tables. I sort of winced as the waitress led us to the table adjacent to the pool table, where the four reprobates were playing a game. It clearly wouldn't have been my first choice. I immediately noticed several of them eyeing Bryce, but since it didn't seem to bother her, I figured I could live with it too. As we sat down the waitress handed both of us a menu. "Can I get you—"

"Hey!" screamed one of the four goons. "Where's my fucking beer?"

She ignored him and pulled out her pad. "Can I get you folks something to drink?"

"Just some water," Bryce said.

"Hey!" he called out again. "Did you hear me?"

"In a minute," she screamed back.

All four of them started laughing hysterically. I must've missed the joke. They were all in their twenties—I'd guess, and from the way they were dressed, I'd say they worked construction somewhere. Probably came in after work to let off some steam.

And some fuckin' B.O.

"What about you?" the waitress asked me.

"I'll have—an ice tea."

She wrote it down and walked off.

"Don't forget our fucking beers!" screamed a tall, long haired guy—who strangely enough looked a lot like one of the Olsen twins, from that old T.V. show Full House.

Fuckin' faggot.

I silently turned back to Bryce and caught her gazing aimlessly into the glass candle holder sitting on the table. Once again, she appeared rather troubled.

Look at those babies! They are without a doubt, the best looking flesh melons I have ever seen. Ask her if she'd mind, if you'd reach over the table and jostle them around a bit.

"What's—wrong?" I asked.

"I was just thinking about Evelyn," she said sadly, "having a heart attack like that—all alone on the porch."

"Who said she had a heart attack?"

Her expression changed to one of disbelief. "You're not going to tell me, she was—"

I leaned over the table and lowered my voice. "Murdered?"

She shook her head. "You can't be serious?"

I calmly sat back in my chair. "It's a possibility."

"How can we find out for sure?"

I carefully thought over my answer. "We need an autopsy done on her."

Bryce quickly shook her head. "The Sheriff told me there wouldn't be one. She was too old."

"Yes—I know," I said, as our eyes met. "I—I need to examine her body."

Maybe Bryce would let you practice on her?

Bryce smiled. "How are you going to do that?"

I was about to answer her question when I suddenly noticed something. "You have the bluest eyes I have ever seen."

Bryce appeared rather surprised by my comment. "Well, thank you," she said, with a slight giggle. "But—they're actually green."

"Wh—what?" My squint immediately went to super tight. "Since when?"

She laughed openly. "Since birth."

I mentally cringed.

Forget her eyes! Check out her body language! She has her fuckin' legs crossed under the table. And—her foot is pointin' directly at me! You know what that fuckin' means don't you?

I began to rub my throbbing head.

She wants me!

"How many times must we go through this?" I growled softly. "If I can't see under the table—you can't see under the table!"

Her legs are fuckin' crossed! I swear it! Look for yourself.

I started shaking my head. "No! No!"

"Are you okay?" asked Bryce.

I continued to gently rub my temples. "I'm fine! It's—my head! I'll be okay—when I get some food in me."

Here's what you do! Drop your fork! And when you bend down to pick it up, look under the table.

Intuitively, I grabbed my fork. "You're not going—anywhere!" I mumbled to the fork.

Holy shit! Look! She's bouncin' her foot up and down. You know what that means?

I tightened my grip on my fork.

She's masturbatin'! I read it in Master and Johnston's book! Chicks can do that!

My hand suddenly went spastic. Unable to control it—the fork flew out of my hand and landed on the floor. "Dammit."

Bryce and I just sat there—staring at one another. After what seemed like an eternity, I forced out a smile.

"You dropped your fork."

I nodded knowingly. "Yes—I know."

We—stared at each other a bit longer.

"Would you like me to pick it up for you?" she asked nervously.

Brilliant! Have her pick up the fork! With a little luck, when she—bends over, Bert and Ernie will fall right out of that—

"No!" I screamed. "I'll get it!" I reached down and felt around for the fork.

Bryce politely cleared her throat. "You might find it faster, if you open your eyes."

I slowly opened my eyes and peeked under the table. Dammit. Her legs were crossed. And—she was bouncing her foot. Dammit.

Suddenly, I saw the waitress' blue sneakers walk up to the table. "Did you lose something?" she asked. I grabbed the fork and swiftly repositioned myself upright in my chair. "Got it!" I said, proudly holding up the fork.

The waitress eyed me strangely as she placed our drinks in front of us and grabbed her pad. "Are you ready to order?"

Bryce handed the waitress her menu. "I'll have the Caesar salad, please."

The waitress then turned to me. "What would you like?"

A beaver burger! And—can I get some extra beaver with that?

I carefully cleared my throat. "I'll have—an ice tea, please."

She pointed to the ice tea in front of me. "I just brought you one. You haven't touched it."

I glanced down at the glass of ice tea in front of me and—pondered it for a moment.

"You want another one?" she asked.

I nodded weakly. "Yes. Please."

The waitress slowly walked away shaking her head.

"Are you sure you're all right?" Bryce asked me.

I couldn't keep the charade up any longer. "No," I said as I put my head in my hands. "I'm tired! I'm hungry! My head is killing me! I'm dizzy! I think—I'm coming down with a cold. I'm congested! And to top it off—everything is blue!"

Bryce openly chuckled. "Did you say everything is blue?"

I looked up at her—

Blue bangers.

I quickly put my head back into my hands. "Yep! Everything!"

I lifted up my head for a second time as I heard Bryce chuckle again. "Did I say something funny?"

"I don't really know how to ask this," Bryce said, with a slight grin, "but—have you taken Viagra lately?"

"Wh—what?" I asked as I quickly covered up my twitching eye.

What is right! Who the hell needs Viagra! Not this guy! I've never felt better in my life! In fact—I might invade fuckin' Poland tonight! What does she think about that?

"Viagra?" I asked, lowering my voice.

She leaned over the table and grabbed my wrist. "Your dizziness!"

Holy shit! Do you see—her professors? They're about to topple right out of there! I think they're—fuckin' alive!

I forced myself to look into her blue eyes. I mean—green. Her green eyes!

"Your headache," she quickly added. "Your congestion! Everything tinted blue! These are all side-effects of Viagra."

I was clearly confused. "How—how do you know?"

A sly little smirk crossed her face. "Let's just say, I dated an older guy, a while back."

My left eyebrow curiously rose as I patiently waited for an explanation.

Her eyes seemed to well up. "He was a very nice man."

I bet he didn't have no seventeen inch love muscle.

"Was?" I asked carefully, rather interested by her verbiage.

"He died."

My right eyebrow quickly followed my left. "While you two were—" I paused a moment to search for the right words.

Doin' the fuckin' nasty.

Unable to articulate the right words, I attempted several primitive hand gestures. "You know!"

She finally got my drift. "Of course not!" she snapped sternly. "If you must know, he died in an explosion."

"An explosion?"

"There was some kind of gas leak at his house."

"Well—" I snapped indignantly. "I—I don't need Viagra!"

She obviously doesn't believe you. You're goin' to have to whip me out! My fuckin' honor is at stake here!

I suddenly froze—as a horrible thought came to me. "But—Heinrich might!" Scrabbling, I began to pat myself down as I searched for the bottle I took from Heinrich.

Bryce started to giggle. "You don't mean to tell me—"

Feeling it in my front pocket, I quickly reached in—

Hey! Hey! Watch it!

—pulled it out, read it, and—screamed!

Laughing, Bryce reached over the table and took the bottle out of my hand. "How many did you take?"

I looked aimlessly out the window and into the—blue darkness. "Two."

She broke out in a fit of laughter. "It says take only one."

Fuck Poland! I'll invade Russia!

"This—isn't funny," I snapped.

"I'm sorry," Bryce said, gently touching my hand. "Is there anything I can do?"

I froze again. What did she mean—by that? Would she really—

Danger! Maximum extension! I repeat! We are at maximum extension!

I rapidly shook my head. "Noooo! No! I'm fine!" I quickly stood up. Well—I didn't stand—all the way up. It was more like a stand—slash—crouch position. "Will you excuse me?"

As Bryce bit her lower lip to control her laughter, I gently waddled away from the table.

Where the fuck are you goin'? Bryce's fun hole is back there!

"Shut up," I mumbled as I headed towards the bar. "Just shut up!"

The elderly bartender standing behind the bar saw me coming and walked over to me. He looked a lot like President Carter, but a lot smarter. "What can I get for you, Sonny?"

I carefully leaned up against the bar—and thought for a second. "Tape."

He looked at me strangely, and then leaned over the bar. "What did you say?"

"Tape," I yelled annoyingly. "Do you have any tape lying around here anywhere?"

He scratched his thinning hairline. "Tape?"

"Yes! Tape!" I snapped. "It doesn't matter what kind! I need tape!"

What the hell do you need fuckin' tape for?

The bartender looked behind the bar and pulled out a roll of old duct tape. "I have this stuff for when the old sewer pipe in back starts leaking—"

I grabbed it out of his hand and dusted it off. "I think this will work."

What the hell are you goin' to do—wait! Wait one fuckin' minute!

I unrolled a small piece and checked it out—before asking, "Where's your men's room?"

You no good, low life, rat bastard! You wouldn't!

The bartender hesitantly pointed towards the back of the bar. "Through those doors and to your left."

"Thank you," I said—

You wouldn't dare!

—as I hobbled off towards the bathroom.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Making sure I was the only one in the bathroom, I hurried into the last stall, shut the door, and locked it.

You can't do this to me! I have fuckin' rights!

"Just watch me." I undid my belt, pulled down my zipper, and let my jeans fall—

WHOOSH-ZING!

I staggered backwards—in disbelief. Totally lost for words, I just stood there looking down at my—

Blue-veined throbber.

"Shut up!" I quickly ripped off a long piece of duct tape and grabbed my—

Hooded knight.

"I said—shut up!"

This is fuckin' penis abuse! There are laws against this kind of shit!

Biting my lip, I struggled to force—

Unhand me! I don't know where your hand has been! Ouch! I don't fuckin bend that way!

"Stop it!" I yelled. "Stop fighting me!" I placed the tape around my leg and wrapped it around my—

I—I can't breathe!

I ripped off another piece of tape. "This is for your own good! It's just until the Viagra wears off."

You could've at least shaved your leg! The fuckin' hairs are ticklin' me.

"Shut up!"

Hey! Where did you get this scar on your knee?

I wrapped another piece of tape securely around my leg before straightening up. It was a bit uncomfortable—but nothing I couldn't handle.

You'd be a lot more comfortable, if you just threw me over your fuckin' shoulder.

As I walked out of the bathroom, my pace automatically quickened when I noticed all four of the drunken goons gathered around Bryce. As I approached the table, the guys disbursed and meandered back to the pool table. Sitting down, I had the unmistakable feeling that something happened during my absence. Bryce's whole demeanor had changed. She appeared livid as she just sat there—silently jabbing her fork into her salad.

I took a small sip of my ice tea before leaning into the table. "Were they bothering you?"

She looked up at me and forced out one of those imitation smiles. "No! Everything's fine."

She's lyin'.

Yes—she was.

I think it's time we kick some—Maine ass!

I leaned into the table once again. "Are you sure?"

Not looking up this time, Bryce took her fork and viciously stabbed a tiny tomato in her salad. "I'm fine!"

It was obvious, they said something to her. I leaned back and calmly surveyed the four goons.

"Hey, Wally!" said the Mary-Kate Olsen look-alike. "I can't believe that slut turned you down for that asshole! What the hell does she see in him?"

"I don't know, Vern," said the big fat guy. "Maybe the whore likes—little dicks?"

Did Wally—just call me little?

From where I sat, it appeared Wally was the ring leader. The other three jerks clearly hovered around him. Old Wally was definitely a big boy. He was about my size, but he had to be at least three hundred pounds. He had a goofy grin, protruding brow, and a—

Low fuckin' IQ.

Bryce put down her fork and grabbed her handbag. "I think we better go."

Go? What does she mean—we better go? The fuckin' asshole just called me little! I demand satisfaction!

"I haven't finished drinking my—" I looked down at the two iced teas in front of me. "My two ice teas, yet."

"They're drunk," Bryce said in a low whisper. "They're just looking for trouble."

I nodded. "I know."

"I don't want you doing anything foolish," she said, lowering her voice even more. "There are four of them!"

I didn't want to do anything foolish either. All of them—were pretty big. I immediately started to have second thoughts. "Maybe—you're right," I said. "Maybe we should leave."

Did I hear that right? Ashley Wilkes Hard is goin' to run from trouble? Is that fuckin' chicken soup, I'm smellin'?

"There are four of them," I mumbled.

Have you forgotten that time in Chin Woo's? There were six of them that day. We fuckin' wiped the fuckin' floor with them.

Technically—I wiped the floor with them.

Hey! Fuck you! I helped!

"She sure has nice titties," Wally said, rudely interrupting my trip down memory lane.

I don't fuckin' like him.

Neither did I.

"They're huge," laughed the bald headed guy with the eye patch.

I don't like him either.

Bryce picked up the check and stood up. "Can we go now?" she asked sternly.

"Don't you get tired of lugging those babies around all day?" Baldy asked Bryce.

"Maybe she's like a fucking cow?" Wally said. "She probably needs to be milked!"

"Yeah!" came the unanimous cheer from the other three dorks.

Watch it! The fuckin' natives are getting' restless!

I had the same thought—especially when Wally threw his pool stick on the pool table and began walking towards our table. "You need to be milked—Cupcake?"

I believe—it's fuckin' ShowTime!

Lacking any real plan, I surprised myself by—standing up.

Wally stopped in his tracks and—stared at me. "Why don't you go stand over there in the corner and watch," he said. "You might learn something."

"Ashley," Bryce mumbled nervously. "Please! Don't do this! Let's just go!"

"There's—nothing to worry about," I said as I kept a watchful eye on the four weenies. "I was the number one mediator in the New York City Police Department."

No you weren't. You flunked the trainin'! They said you didn't have the fuckin' patience.

"Soooo!" I growled impatiently. Hearing no rebuttal, I stepped forward and raised my hands slightly.

You might want to smile.

I swiftly turned on the old' pearly whites. "Why don't you boys go back to your game," I said while taking another small step towards them. "The lady and I have had a rough day. All we want to do is have a quiet—"

The Mary-Kate look-a-like suddenly grabbed his crotch. "Eat me! Fuck face!"

Uh! Oh! Homo alert.

All four of them erupted into a fit of laughter.

If you do start a fight, try not to wrestle with that one. He might grab for—you know who.

I truly didn't want to fight. I didn't know if I could take all four of them. I was out of shape. I was tired. And to top it off—I had no gun! But—I just couldn't stand there and have them taunt and verbally abuse Bryce like that. What would she think of me?

Are you sure you don't have your fuckin' gun? Did you check all of your pockets?

I slowly began walking towards them. Maybe I could reason with them? I could shoot a few games of pool with them—drink a few Buds, have a few laughs. I walked up to Wally and was about to extend my hand in friendship and comradery—when he spit on my shoe.

Maybe that's how people greet one another up here in Maine?

Suddenly—someone touch my shoulder. Turning my head, I found Bryce standing behind me, grimacing.

You have to admit, she does have huge titties.

She nervously motioned to me to look to my left. I didn't have too, though. I was way ahead of her. I already noticed Wally's buddies quietly surrounding me.

Well, I'd help you, but some asshole taped me to your FUCKIN' LEG!

"I need no help," I murmured. "I have—a plan!" I calmly strolled over to the pool table and surveyed my opposition once again.

This is your fuckin' plan? Starin'? What are you tryin' to do, bore them to death?

I casually reached across the pool table and grabbed the cue ball.

What the hell are you goin' to do now? Fuckin' juggle?

"Noo—" I mumbled. "I saw Clint Eastwood do this in one of his movies." I quickly whirled around and threw the cue ball at Wally's head. Unfortunately—I missed. I did however hit the massive mirror behind the bar.

Wait a minute! I think I saw that movie too! 'Coogan's Bluff', right! But in the version I saw, CLINT HIT THE FUCKIN' ASSHOLE!

As I heard Bryce scream, I felt a cue stick break across my back. I fell forward onto the pool table, sending the balls scattering in all directions. I madly reached out to grab one, but each time I did—it somehow eluded me.

Fuckin' butterfingers.

Just then, two of the goons picked me up and threw me across the room. I immediately crashed into a table and fell to the floor. Opening my eyes, I found myself staring at, not only a bluish-black eight ball—but two empty ice tea glasses.

What asshole buys two fuckin' ice teas?

I grabbed the eight ball and stumbled to my feet, just in time to see Wally coming at me. I would've had to be—Jose Feliciano to miss this one.

Feliz fuckin' Naidad!

The eight ball bounced off Wally's head with a dull thud. He fell to his knees faster than one of President Clinton's interns. He then slowly closed his eyes and planted his face in the floor.

One down! Three more fuckers to go!

Old baldy was next.

Untape me, dammit! He's fuckin' mine!

Growling like some crazed animal, he ran at me, violently swinging his cue stick at my head. Surprised to find, I still had my cat-like agility still intact—I ducked, dodged, and danced around him. He missed me every time!

The fuckin' guy has one eye! He obviously has no fuckin' depth perception! He couldn't hit Orson Wells, if they were both trapped in a fuckin' phone booth!

Seeing an opening, I grabbed his cue stick; head-butted him, and buried my knee deep into his groin. As he crumbled to the floor, I snatched his cue stick from his limp fingers and poked him in his good eye.

How many fuckin' times do I have to tell you! Never say limp!

I automatically spun around to find Mary-Kate about to pounce on me.

Homo alert! HOMO ALERT!

Instinctively, I took the cue stick; I just ripped out of Baldy's limp fingers—

What the fuck did I just tell you?

—and broke it across Mary-Kate's nose. Screaming, he clutched his bleeding nose and fell forward. Unable to resist—I kicked him in the face, sending him crashing over a table.

Fuck with me, will you.

Feeling rather good about myself, I smiled and turned around to receive—what I hoped would be Bryce's undying appreciation. Unfortunately, what I got—was a cue stick across my chest.

You forgot there were four of them, didn't you?

Dazed, I quickly backpedalled away from him. He was certainly—the ugliest of the four. He sort of reminded me of Sister Mary Patrick, my old Catechism teacher. The beady eyes! The hooked nose! The foam around the mouth!

Remember how she wanted me.

Tightening his grip on his cue stick, he charged at me.

Come to think of it, I think Father Bennett wanted me too.

I raced over to the pool table and jumped up onto it.

Ouch! Goddamn you! There's nothin' worse than a fuckin' tape burn!

With two vicious swings, he took out both lights fixtures over the pool table. Trying to put some distance between me and his cue stick, I fleetly jumped to the other pool table—and stuck my tongue out at him.

Ouch! I bet that hurt him.

He obviously didn't like that as he jumped up onto the pool table and came at me like some—rabid rabbit!

A rabid rabbit? What the fuck are talkin' about?

"I don't know!" I yelled as I inadvertently tripped, fell off the pool table, and slammed into the wall.

You fuckin' klutz!

I looked up and saw Sister Mary Patrick catapulting himself off the pool table—straight for me.

IN COMIN'!

Out of time and options—I held up my hands and hoped for the best. He hit my hands—and with all the strength I had left, I glided him over my head and—

SMASH!

—out the window.

We're on the first floor, aren't we?

Too exhausted to even worry about such things, I fell against the wall and slid down it. Before I even hit the floor, Bryce was at my side. "Are you all right?"

"I think so," I said wearily as I glanced up at her—

Grand Tetons.

She touched my arm and gushed, "You were awesome!"

You want to fuckin' awesome? Unzip—

"Well! Well! Here we are again!"

Bryce guardedly peeked over the pool table. "Oh! No!"

"Who is it?" I whispered.

Bryce slowly stood up. "Good evening, Sheriff Boone."

I lowered my head and closed my eyes. "Dammit."

What the hell are you closin' your eyes for? This is your fuckin' chance! She's standin' right there! Look up her dress! We still have that fuckin' bet, you know!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

I ripped out the check and hesitantly handed it to the bartender. "It's a little damp, but I hope this will cover everything."

You didn't forget the two fuckin' ice teas, did you?

"Shut up."

The old bartender inspected the check with a look of surprise. "I'm sure it will."

It's amazing what one errant little cue ball can do, I thought as I looked at the destruction behind the bar. "Please tell—Harold, I'm very sorry about the mirror."

He looked up at me and shook his head. "This is very generous. Why are you paying for everything? Wally and his idiot friends should—"

"Yes," interrupted the Sheriff as he moseyed on up to the bar. "Why are you paying for everything? And why did you tell them you'd pay for any medical bills?"

I wanted to take a moment to think over my answer—unfortunately, he didn't let me finish.

"One of my deputies mentioned he saw you writing out checks for their so-called pain and suffering."

"Well—" I said while mentally organizing my thoughts. "I—I like to think that everyone is basically good. You know what I mean? I'm sure deep down—they're good guys."

What the hell are you talkin' about? Did you get hit in the fuckin' head again?

"I've always felt, Sheriff—that everyone deserves a second chance."

What the fuck happened to Ashley 'One Strike and You're Out' Hard?

"I'm hoping—they've learned something tonight."

Oh! I get it. You can't afford havin' them bring any charges against you, since you're still on probation.

Boone appeared even more suspicious. "That's big of you."

"Yes," I said painfully while nonchalantly pressing down on my pant leg. "I'm—very big."

Gargantuan.

Still glaring at me, Boone grabbed a handful of peanuts out of the bowl in front of him. "It smells like a payoff to me." He popped the peanuts in his mouth. "For some reason, you don't want any of them to make trouble for you. Am I right?"

I took a moment and thought it over. Fortunately, Bryce appeared next to me, allowing me to forgo any answer.

"Are you ready to go?" she asked.

I nervously turned to Boone. "Are we done here, Sheriff?"

After some thought, he nodded. "I'll have a deputy take you back to the Inn."

"Thank you," Bryce said.

The Sheriff immediately shot me a stern grin. "May I suggest you stay put tonight?"

I forced out a little grin. "I better. That was my last check."

As Bryce started towards the door, I stayed back and casually grabbed a handful of peanuts out of the bowl. "You're still not going to order an autopsy on Evelyn's body, are you?"

He gave me cold stare. "Not unless you have some new evidence that shows me, that one is necessary."

I popped the handful of peanuts into my mouth.

"Do you have any?" he asked.

I forced out another smile. "Not yet."

The deputy dropped us off in front of the Inn and without even a goodbye, drove off. As the sound of the engine faded, an eerie quiet quickly surrounded us. Turning towards the Inn, a cold chill dribbled down my spine as the old place seemed to step out of one of those creepy gothic novels. Except for a single porch light, swaying gently in the ocean breeze—the place was totally dark.

Suddenly—a twig snapped somewhere off in the darkness. I turned and yelled, "Who's out there?"

Bryce gently pulled me towards the house. "I think we better get you inside."

Pull me! Pull me!

"Didn't—you hear that?" I said as I continued to scan the darkness. "Someone is out there, walking around."

Bryce guided me up onto the porch. "I heard a twig break."

"Twigs—don't break themselves," I quipped. "Someone needs to step on them."

Bryce opened the front door. "No one is out there. It was probably a raccoon."

Maybe it was one of those fuckin' rabid rabbits?

Growling, I took one more glance around the grounds—before Bryce pushed me inside the Inn.

Wait! Did you see that? I saw somethin' red behind that fuckin' tree.

"There you two are!"

Startled—I twirled around and found Sally—staring up at me. She was dressed in a long robe and slippers, and carrying a blanket and pillow. "I was starting to worry about you two," she said, sounding rather relieved.

Bryce shut the door and followed Sally back to the front desk. "We had a little trouble in town."

Sally placed the pillow and blanket on the front desk. "Nothing serious I hope."

Bryce hesitantly shook her head. "No! Nothing—serious."

I causally stepped over to the front window and peeked outside.

"Is there something wrong, Mr. Hard?" Sally asked.

I suspiciously checked out the tree again. "Oooh—no!" I replied. "Nothing's wrong."

"Good," said Sally as she patted the pillow. "Here's an extra pillow and blanket for you. And I found a pair of pajamas for you—just in case you need them."

I call the tops.

"Thank you," said Bryce. "You're too kind."

Sally held up a finger. "And—we found a cot for you! We had it brought up to your room."

Bryce thanked her again.

"An extra cot," I mumbled to myself as I backed away from the window. "I could sleep on the cot and—"

And—let the fuckin' Nazi sleep with Bryce? What the fuck is wrong with you?

As I walked up to Bryce, a strange—almost taunting smile spread across her face. "Did you hear that? Sally found an extra cot for us."

I forced a nervous smile. "Th—that's great."

"It is great." Bryce's smile brightened. "We'll give Heinrich the cot—and we'll take the bed."

Yessss!

All of a sudden, I felt one of the pieces of duct tape pull away from my leg. "She—she's just joking around," I mumbled softly to myself. "She—she's yanking my chain."

In ten minutes, she'll be yankin' somethin'—but it won't be any fuckin' chain.

Sally grabbed the pillow, blanket, and the pair of pajamas off the front desk and handed them to me. "Have a good night!"

I nodded weakly. "Thank you."

Let's go! Upstairs! Move it!

Bryce once again turned to Sally. "Would you happen to have any vending machines?"

Sally politely pointed towards the eastern wing of the house. "You'll find them outside by the old barn."

"The old barn?" Bryce asked.

"I'm sorry," Sally laughed. "It used to be the barn."

Fuck the barn! Let's move it! Upstairs!

Sally gently guided us towards the stairs. "It was converted into a guest lounge a couple years back."

Good! Super! Real interestin'! Let's keep movin'—upstairs!

Bryce nodded and smiled. "Thank you."

Enough with the fuckin' thank you's! Let's get—upstairs!

I nervously nodded goodnight to Sally and followed Bryce up the stairs.

Look at that ass!

"Ouch!" I winced. "There went another—piece of tape."

Bryce looked back over her shoulder. "Did you say something?"

"Nooo!"

Ridi pagliacci! I'm fuckin' Bryce—tonightie!

"No! No—you're not!" I growled softly. "Once we get in that room, you're going to be a perfect gentleman. You're going to be on your best behavior. You're not going to say—or do anything that going to embarrass yourself—or Bryce! You're going to get through this evening with your dignity intact!"

Look at those fuckin' legs on her.

I shook my head. "No! No—I won't!"

Do you realize what's between them?

"I'm—I'm not looking."

The holiest—of all holes!

"I'm—I'm not listening."

"Ashley?"

I stopped. "Yes?"

"Why are you covering your face with the pillow?"

Pulling the pillow away from my face, I found myself staring down a dark hallway with no sign of Bryce anywhere. "Where are you?" I asked.

"I'm over here."

Turning around, I saw Bryce posed halfway up another staircase. "Our room is on the third floor," she said. "We need to go up another flight."

I forced out a little chuckle as I walked back towards her. "I—I forgot."

Ridi pagliacci! I'm fuckin' Bryce—tonightie!

Bryce quietly opened the door and peeked inside. "The room's dark."

That didn't really surprise me. "That happens sometimes—when all the lights are turned off."

Bryce clearly didn't appreciate my comment. "I mean," she snapped, in a low whisper, "what if Heinrich's asleep? We might wake him up."

"Good," I growled. "He's done nothing but bother me all day; I don't see why I can't bother him a little. In fact—" I reached into the room and flipped on the light. "Allow me."

"Ashley!" Bryce snapped as she slapped my hand away from the light switch. "Why are you so mean to him?"

I glanced into the room and saw Heinrich fast asleep—on my cot!

I guess we get the fuckin' bed. Yessss!

Heinrich suddenly let loose a grizzly snore.

Frustrated, I turned to Bryce. "That's why!" I yelled. "He snores!"

"Shhh!" hissed Bryce as she pulled me inside the room and shut the door. "You'll wake him."

"Nothing is going to wake him," I snarled. "Watch!" I gave the cot a swift kick.

"Ashley!"

Heinrich let loose with another horrifying snore.

Bryce swiftly pulled me away from the cot. "Will you stop that?" Shaking her head at me like I was some naughty two year old, she grabbed the blanket, pillow, and the pajamas from me and threw them on the bed. "Do you mind if I open a window?"

I shook my head. "No."

I knew it!

Finally getting a calm moment, I took a cursory glance around the room.

She sleeps in the nude.

"Wh—what?"

She sleeps in the nude!

Rubbing my throbbing head, I casually turned my back to Bryce. The last thing I needed was to have Bryce see any—unauthorized moment.

I read it in Cosmo last month. Eighty-six percent of women, who sleep with the window open at night, sleep in the nude. Ridi pagliacci! I'm fuckin' Bryce—

"Cosmo?" I growled. "Who reads Cosmo? I don't—read Cosmo!"

"Did you say something?" asked Bryce.

"Why do I keep doing that?" I mumbled as I positioned myself strategically behind the bed's rather large bed post. "Ah! No! No—I didn't."

She looked at me blankly. "I could've sworn you said something."

I innocently shook my head.

"Well—in that case," she replied, "would you mind helping me with this window? It's stuck." She turned back to the window—bent over—and tried again to open the window. "I think the wood is warped."

I slowly walked towards Bryce, who was still—bent over—the stuck window. "The Titanic sinking," I muttered. "The Hindenburg blowing up!"

You're tryin' to push the image of Bryce's ass out of your consciousness, by thinkin' about terrible events in human history, aren't you?

I nodded. "The Black Plague!"

"It must be painted shut," Bryce said as she stood up, wiped her hands on her—short skirt, and looked over her shoulder at me. "Why don't we do this together? I lift from the bottom and you lean over me and push up from the top."

I watched intently as Bryce—bent over—and grabbed a hold of the old window handles. "The Chicago fire!"

"Ready?" I heard Bryce ask me.

"Wh—what?"

Bryce straightened up and looked over her shoulder at me again. "You're not going to be much help to me standing way back there."

She was right. I was still a good six feet away from the window.

"I don't bite," she said.

Oooo! Does she lick?

I reluctantly returned the smile and cautiously continued towards her.

Bryce turned back to the window and—bent over—again. "Ready?"

I inched up behind her.

A little to the left!

I carefully leaned over her, parted the curtains and grabbed the top of the window. "Obama getting elected President!"

A little bit more to the left! I need this lined up perfectly!

"Wait a minute," Bryce said. "Let me get a better grip." She swiftly repositioned her hands and—widened her stance.

"Obama getting re-elected!"

"Okay! I'm ready!" she said.

Fuck this! Cover me! I'm goin' in!

"Wait!" she snapped. "Let me take off these shoes before I break an ankle."

Before I knew what had happened, Bryce lifted her leg to take off her shoe—thereby causing her—

Ass.

—to bump into my—

Ass pounder.

"Oooh!" I moaned painfully.

"Sorry," Bryce said as she took off her shoe and looked up at me. "What do you have in your front pocket?"

I immediately recoiled. "Wh—what?"

Your eighteen inch—midnight snack!

I felt a drop of perspiration trickle down the side of my face. "A diversion!" I mumbled excitedly. "I—I need a diversion!"

I got one! Whip me out and—

"Why don't we—" I yelled, with a maniacal laugh, "just do this the easy way?"

Bryce casually pulled off her other shoe. "What's the easy way?"

I grabbed her shoe out of her hand and put the four inch heel—right through the pane of glass.

I think my diversion would've been a bit more mature.

Bryce jumped back away from the window. "What the hell are you doing?"

I quickly repeated the process on the other three panes of glass. "Opening the window," I said as I looked down at the shards of glass on the floor. "Sort of."

Bryce just stood there—staring at me with a blank expression.

I forced out a rather dry smile. "We'll tell Sally—we're part of a rock band."

Bryce wasn't smiling. "She's going to charge us for that!"

"She can put it on my card."

Bryce snatched her shoe out of my hand. "I used my card for the room, remember?"

I smiled weakly. "I think—I'll go take a shower."

Maybe she'd like to join us? We would be doin' our part for water conservation.

I took off my socks and tossed them on the bathroom floor, next to my other clothes. I wasn't relishing the thought of putting them back on tomorrow morning. I couldn't imagine what they were going to smell like. I then turned on the shower, brushed my hair out of my face and looked at myself in the mirror. "You look like crap." I turned my head from side to side and assessed the damage. "Well—I guess it isn't too bad. A couple of scratches, one or two bruises."

At least you don't have fuckin' duct tape hangin' off of you.

"Shut up!" I carefully checked my teeth. None seemed loose.

Hey! What about me? Do you realize how fuckin' embarrassin' it would be if someone walked in here right now?

I looked down at myself and shook my head. "Is that stuff—ever going to wear off?"

Never mind that! Just get the fuckin' tape off of me!

"It's going to hurt."

I can take it, you fuckin' puss! Start pullin'!

Taking a deep breath, I grabbed the tape—and ripped it off! I immediately cupped my hand over my mouth—to muffle my scream.

Oooh! Fuckin' Mother Mary!

As my body convulsed, I heard an urgent knock at the bathroom door—then Bryce's concerned voice. "Ashley?"

Steadying myself against the sink, I fought back a tear. "Yesss?"

"Are you all right in there?"

"I'm—I'm fine!" I said, through clenched teeth.

"What happened?"

I crumpled up the duct tape and threw it in the trash. "I—I stubbed my toe."

"Is there anything I can do?"

Maybe, she'd be willin' to kiss it and make it all better.

"No—no thanks!"

There was a moment of silence before I heard Bryce's voice again. "I'm starving."

Tell her you have somethin' she can nibble on.

I banged my head against the mirror.

"I'm going to go out and get something from the candy machine," she added. "Can I bring you back anything?"

I shook my head.

She can't see you shakin' you head, you moron. She's in the other fuckin' room!

"No thanks," I shouted.

There was another moment of awkward silence. "Are you sure you're okay in there?"

"I'm—I'm fine."

"All right," she said. "I'll be right back."

"Okay!" I turned on the sink's hot water and doused my face.

Just look what that fuckin' tape did to me? Do you see it? All of that—sticky tape residue shit! Bryce will never go down on me—with me lookin' like this!

I doused my face again.

Go find out if they have any Irish Spring bar soap around here. I read in Cosmo that ninety five percent of women rather give blow jobs when the guy uses—

I closed my eyes and screamed, "I don't read Cosmo!"

I didn't say you read it. I READ IT!

"You can't read! I read!"

Oh! So you're goin' to start again with the fuckin' technicalities?

"Shut up! Just—shut up!"

Look at me! I'm fuckin' gross! I'm sticky! And smelly! Look at those red blotches! Paris Hilton wouldn't even touch me!

I opened my eyes as my head suddenly cleared. "Red?"

Yes! The red blotches! Look at them!

"No!" I said. "You said you saw something—red—behind the tree, when we came back to the Inn tonight?"

Oh! Now you want my help! Well—fuck you! Figure it out yourself! That's what you get for tapin' me to your fuckin' leg!

I quickly grabbed my—

Cumgun.

—with both hands. "All right!" I yelled. "Start talking!"

You're not so tough without a broken beer bottle, are you?

"That's it!" I placed the sink's stopper in the drain and turned on both faucets—full blast! "We'll see who won't talk?"

You don't scare me.

Half-crazed, I grabbed my—

Fuck stick.

—and forced him into the sink.

What the fuck are you doin'?

"Seeing how long—you can hold your breath!"

You can't do this! This isn't Guantanamo!

On my tippy toes, I leaned even farther into the sink and pushed him down as far as I could. "You better talk!" I yelled. "What did you—" Suddenly, it hit me! I let go of my—

Wet wang.

—and straightened up. "What the hell am I doing?" I looked up at myself in the mirror. "Am I nuts?"

All right! I'll—(cough)—I'll talk! Yes! You are nuts!

"He—he didn't see anything," I swiftly rationalized. "I—I saw it!" I ran my wet hands through my hair. "Think, Hard! Think—"

Of Bryce! In a skimpy thong! High heels! And nothing else!

"Bryce!" I yelled. My eyes darted towards the bathroom door. "She's outside—by herself." I anxiously looked around the bathroom for the pajama bottoms.

What the hell are you so worked up about?

I began to wildly search through my pile of dirty clothes for the pajamas. "I saw someone in a red sweatshirt by that tree. And—he could still be out there!"

Sooo?

"What if it's the same guy who rolled the Rolls down the hill? Maybe—it's Bryce, he's really after?"

Shit! I didn't think of that. That could put a real damper on this evenin' fuck-fest if somethin' happens to her, couldn't it?

I nodded as I heard—a strange noise.

It's comin' from the other room.

"It's probably—just Bryce," I mumbled softly as I carefully opened the door a crack and peeked into the room.

Is it Bryce? Is she masturbatin'?

"No!"

Are you sure?

Actually—I wasn't. The room was totally dark. "I—I don't know. I can't see anything. Bryce must've shut the lights off before she left."

Get the fuck out of the way! Let me take a look.

"Will you—shut up," I growled as I heard the noise again. "Wait! There it is again!"

It sounds like it's comin' from outside!

I swung open the bathroom door so the bathroom light would help laminate the bedroom. "It sounds like—something getting dragged across the gravel driveway."

Shit! I hope it's not a fuckin' dead body—with huge honkers?

I immediately jumped the bed, hustled over to the broken window, and looked outside.

There! There! Nine o'clock!

"Don't start that again!"

By the fuckin' barn!

Sure enough, two people were struggling by the barn. Tightening my squint, it looked like a man and a woman. He had his arm around her waist and dragging her back behind the barn while his other hand was over her mouth.

If I'm not mistaken that guy has a fuckin' red sweatshirt on.

And the girl looked a lot like—Bryce! "Hey!" I screamed, out the window. "Let her go!"

Let her go? You were a goddamn New York City cop for God sakes! Say it right!

"Hey! Let her go—asshole!"

That's better.

He must've heard me that time as he looked up towards the window. In that split second, Bryce broke away from his grip and screamed for help. Unfortunately, he immediately grabbed her again.

Totally distraught, I twirled around. "Where are those pajamas?"

Forget the fuckin' pajamas!

I heard Bryce scream again.

Get the fuck out there!

"Dammit." Hurdling Heinrich, I ran for the door.

Don't worry, I won't say a word! No one will even notice me!
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

As I rushed out into the hallway, I froze—as the door across the hallway suddenly opened. With a quick Hail Mary, I turned around just in time to see my door close and to hear the lock latch. I gently closed my eyes as the painful realization hit me. I just locked myself out of the room—naked. Those Hail Mary's sure aren't what they used to be. Opening my eyes, I tried an Our Father.

Shhh! Don't move! Maybe they won't see us.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a plump middle-aged woman, very reminiscent of Mrs. Potts, in Disney's Beauty and the Beast, step into the hallway. She must've just gotten out of the shower as she was wearing a bathrobe, slippers, and a towel wrapped around her head. "I'll be right back," she said to someone inside her room. "I want to see if I could get a—"

Slab of salami.

I turned away and closed my eyes as a sudden silence engulfed the hallway. "This—can't be good," I mumbled as I tried to stay absolutely still. As the silence continued, I nervously started to wonder—why she hadn't said anything. She must've seen me by now.

She probably went back inside the room to get her fuckin' camera.

Carefully opening my eyes—I hesitantly looked over my shoulder and found her—staring at me. I pushed out a smile. "Good—good evening."

The shocked expression on her face said it all as her eyes slowly traveled down my body. Suddenly—her plump little hands flew up to her mouth. "Oh! My goodness!"

Howdy!

I desperately scanned my memory for another prayer.

I know it's impossible—but you might want to at least try to cover me up.

All out of prayers, I straightened up and tried my best to cover up.

Do somethin'! She's about to scream.

Reaching out with my hand, in what I hoped was a spirit of friendship; I took a half-hearted step towards her. "If you'll let me explain—"

She suddenly threw herself back against the wall and started to scream.

Told you!

"Shut up!"

I probably should've reached out.

Not really expecting this reaction, I swiftly recoiled. "No! No!" I screamed while motioning to her to keep her voice down. "Please! You're going to wake everyone up! Let me explain!"

Do you really think you have the fuckin' time to explain?

"I need to shut her up!" I growled. "She's going to get me arrested!"

Aren't you forgettin' somethin'?

"Wh—what?"

Let me give you a fuckin' hint. Really big—zoom zooms.

"Bryce!" Panic stricken, I fleetly lunged forward and plucked the towel off the woman's head. "Would you mind if I borrowed this?"

Her screams intensified as she slapped me away and bolted back towards her room.

"I'll take that as a yes."

As she threw open her door, I heard a man's voice yell, "What the hell is going on out there? What the hell happened to you?"

All I heard was one word. "Rape!"

In the immortal words of Hanna/Barbara's Snagglepuss—Exit! Stage left!

I agreed whole heartedly. I wrapped the towel around me and sprinted down the hallway. Unfortunately, the towel wasn't exactly what I hoped for. A large beach towel—it wasn't! It was more like a large hand towel.

Goddamit! Your thighs are slappin' the shit out of me! Slow up!

The towel barely went around my waist. I actually had to hold the towel's two ends together so it wouldn't fall off. "It sure looked bigger on her."

I obviously have a much bigger head.

Another wave of panic swept over me as I came to the end of the hallway—and found two staircases leading downstairs. "I don't remember—two staircases! Which one should I take?" I nervously looked back over my shoulder. "Maybe I missed the—"

You're lucky I was payin' attention. Take those stairs over there, the ones to your left.

I vigorously shook my head. "No! I don't think so!" I pointed to the staircase on my right as my towel hit the floor. "Dammit."

The left!

I picked up the towel. "The right!"

The fuckin' left!

Suddenly, I heard a man's voice behind me yell, "Stop or I'll shoot!"

Fuck it! I'm not one to argue. Take the one on the right.

I sprinted down the staircase with no idea where I was, or where I was going. About the only thing I did know—I'd wasted too much time all ready. Who knew what that guy was doing to Bryce? Jumping the last half dozen steps, I found myself in an unfamiliar hallway.

I told you it was the other fuckin' staircase.

"Shut up!" The hallway was dark and totally deserted. I looked around, hoping I would see something that would give me a hint to where I was in the house. "Which way, Ash?" I asked myself. I needed to make the right choice. It could mean the difference between life and death! Bryce's!

I say right.

I went left.

Hey! Fuck you! See if I ever help you again!

I ran around the first corner and found myself in the main lobby. "Yes!"

"Mr. Hard? Is that you?"

Startled—I noticed Sally standing behind the front desk, holding a large flashlight. "What's going on up stairs?" she asked. "What are you doing?"

Before I could answer her, I heard heavy footsteps running down the main staircase—and a voice yelling, "You bastard! I'll get you!"

Exit! Stage right!

I had the same thought. I quickly turned to Sally and smiled. "Would you be a dear—and call the police for me?"

"The police?" she asked. "What for?"

I searched for the right words. "Someone—stole my clothes!"

"What?" She immediately shined the flashlight on my towel. "Oh! My stars!"

Shit! She just blinded me with that fuckin' flashlight!

"There you are, you bastard!"

I looked up to see an old man in a robe and slippers—standing on the staircase, pointing a gun at me.

Sally screamed, "Mr. Collins! No!"

I ducked into the dining room just as he fired. The sound of a picture shattering and hitting the floor only inspired me to run faster. I ran to the French doors and—found them locked! "Dammit."

What French doors? Where the hell are we! I'm fuckin' blind!

I checked over my shoulder to see if Quick Draw was coming. Thank goodness, he wasn't—but that still didn't solve my problem. I had to get outside! But how? Suddenly, it came to me. "I already owe Sally for a window. Why not make it a window—and a door?" I snatched the towel from around my waist, wrapped it around my hand—and put my fist through the glass door.

CRASH!

Mucho macho! But, you're in a goddamn dining room! You could've used a fuckin' chair.

I thought about it as I inspected my hand for any cuts. "I guess—that would've been a lot safer, wouldn't it?" I growled openly. "Now—you tell me!"

That's for not listenin' to me back there in the fuckin' hallway!

Unlocking the French doors, I wrapped the towel around my waist again, and tipped-toed over the broken glass.

Hey! Hey! What the hell are you doin'? Shake the goddamn towel out first! There could be fuckin' glass particles in there!

"That's for not telling me to use a chair!"

Hey! Fuck you!

I swiftly crossed the porch, jumped over the bannister, crouched down behind a large bush—and listened.

I don't hear anything. Do you?

"I hear you! Shut up!" I peeked out from behind the bush. The only lights I could make out were several floodlights around the barn.

There! Did you hear that?

I shook my head. "No."

What the hell is wrong with you? Are you fuckin' deaf?

"Wait!" I did hear something. It was faint—but I did catch it that time. It sounded like a muffled scream. Holding on to the towel, I took off running across the driveway.

Will you stop runnin'! I think your left thigh just gave me a fuckin' concussion.

As I reached the corner of the barn, I couched down again and surveyed the packed parking lot, along with what appeared to be another building—just beyond the barn.

You do realize too many hits to one's head could lead to Parkinson's, don't you.

"There!" I whispered, hearing the sound again. "I think it's coming from behind that building."

What the hell are you goin' to do if I get Parkinson's? Uh? How are you goin' to explain me twitchin' in your fuckin' pants constantly?

"Will you—shut up!" Still in my crouch, I began to move silently towards the building using the cars in the parking lot as cover.

Will you stand up! I'm gettin' a fuckin' cramp!

Out of cars to hide behind, I darted over to the building and hugged the side of it for cover.

All right! We're almost there. How are we goin' to handle this?

"Wh—what?"

What if he has a gun? Or a fuckin' knife? What are you goin' to do?

I thought it over. "I'll just rush him, I guess."

You might get someone killed! Or—shot off! Or—cut off!

I nodded. "I do need a plan!" I desperately looked around for one. "I—I need a diversion of some kind."

Afraid to take a peek around the corner until I was ready to make my move, I cringed as I heard an angry voice growl, "Stop struggling!"

I got one! Make a sound like a police siren!

Totally frustrated, I looked towards the star-lit heavens. "Why me?"

Don't you remember the movie 'Hold That Ghost'? The one with Abbott and Costello! They inherit the old lodge from this mobster and they go there to check it out—

"The diversion," I snarled softly as I listened to Bryce struggling with her attacker. "Get to the diversion!"

I'm comin' to that! In the next to last scene, the mobsters ties up Evelyn Ankers to this chair. You must remember her? Damn! Was she fuckin' hot! Did you know she was known as the 'The Queen of Screams' back in the forties?

I mentally screamed. "Get to the diversion!"

Costello scares off the mobsters by makin' the sound of a fuckin' police siren.

I paused a moment. "That's your diversion?" I snapped angrily "That's the best you could come up with? Making a noise like a siren?"

Hey! Fuck you! I don't hear you comin' up with anythin'!

"Forget it!" I snarled as I tightened my grip on my towel. "I'll rush him! With a little luck, I'll catch him off guard and—

Just try it! It'll work! I'll guarantee it!

Vigorously shaking my head, I prepared myself to rush him. "All out, Hard!" I told myself in a determined whisper. "When you turn the corner—you focus only on him! Nothing else!"

What if Bryce—is naked?

I swiftly closed my eyes. "Hit him high! And hard!" I grimaced. "On three!"

I'll tell you what, if she is naked—I'll focus on her! You just keep concentratin' on him. Okay?

Opening my eyes, I nervously licked my drying lips. "One!"

Just go!

I wiped the sweat from my brow. "Two!"

Go!

I was just about to say three when I heard—a siren.

That's really good. That almost sounds like a real siren.

I shook my head. "I'm not doing it!" I thought over the other possibility. "Are you—"

It's not me!

Suddenly, from around the corner, I heard what sounded like a groan—and something hitting the ground.

Don't just stand there! You have your fuckin' diversion! Go! Gooo!

As I ran around the building, someone came sprinting out of the darkness and collided with me. I hit the side of the building and slid to the ground. Momentarily dazed, I rolled over and saw Bryce lying on the ground unconscious.

Oh! Super! You killed her. Good goin'! There goes the fuckin' threesome!

I quickly crawled over to her.

I wonder what Sally is doin' tonight?

Bryce had a gag in her mouth and her hands were crudely tied together with some twine. "Bryce!" I said, pulling the gag out of her mouth and untying her hands.

She's still not movin'. Maybe I should give her mouth to mouth?

I grabbed her wrist and checked her pulse.

You might want to check her underpants too.

Finding her pulse, I cautiously looked her over. Except for her top being torn in several places, and a few buttons missing, she didn't look that bad.

Her hair is fuckin' fright.

Trying to stay positive, I gently tapped her cheek. "Bryce! Wake up!"

I know another way we could wake her up, which she might enjoy.

Bryce's eyes slowly opened. "Ashley," she said, with a slight smile. However—the smile was short lived as she finally remembered where she was. She quickly sat up and looked around. "Where is he?"

"I don't know," I said. "Did he hurt you?"

"No."

"Who was he?"

She shook her head again. "I don't know. He had a ski mask over his face."

I bet it was Jean Claude Killy! You can't trust those fuckin' French skiers.

I helped Bryce to her feet as I continued my line of questioning. "What about his voice? Was there anything familiar about it?"

She shook her head. "No."

"How did you get away from him?"

"He was sitting on top of me and trying to tie my hands together, when—he stopped and listened to something. I—I think it was a siren."

I told you it would've fuckin' work!

"Go on," I said.

"I pulled away from him, grabbed a rock and hit him with it."

Looks! Money! And brains!

"He fell over. I got up and ran!"

We both froze—as we heard a moan somewhere off in the darkness. Bryce flung her arms around my neck and buried her head into my shoulder. "Oh! My God! He's still out there!"

"Shhhh!" I whispered, instinctively wrapping an arm around her. "Did he have a gun? Or—a knife?"

Shaking her head, she lifted her head up off my shoulder and peered up at me with a perplexed look. "What's that poking me in my thigh?"

Shit! I missed!

"Hold it! Right there!" yelled a voice. "Don't move!"

Bryce and I froze again—as a half dozen flashlights suddenly illuminated us.

"This is not good," I mumbled as every flashlight—strangely enough, seemed to be directed towards me.

"Miss! Please step away from him!" came the voice again.

Bryce held her ground. "Who are you?"

Half dozen deputies suddenly stepped out of the darkness with their guns drawn—and pointing at me.

"Move away from him, Miss!" repeated one of the officers.

"You!" said another deputy as he motioned to me with his gun. "Hands on your head!"

This could get fuckin' embarrassin' really quickly.

Bryce bravely stepped in front of me. "He's not the one who attacked me!"

One of the officers ran up to Bryce, grabbed her by the arm, and pulled her away from me. "He tried to rape one of the guests in the Inn."

Bryce pulled away from him and turned back to me. "What are they talking about?"

I held up my free hand. "Gentlemen," I said, with one of my better smiles. "There's been a terrible misunderstanding! If you will allow me to explain—"

"Put your hands on your head!" screamed another officer. "Or—I will shoot!"

I think that dude has watched one too many reruns of Hawaii Five-O. The good one with Jack Lord!

I slowly put my hand, I wasn't holding up my towel with—on my head. "Okay! It's up! No shooting!"

"Both of them, sir!" he growled while jumping into a Dirty Harry-like stance. "Or—I will shoot!"

"Ashley!" Bryce added nervously. "You'd better do what he says."

What happens if you drop the fuckin' towel and they think I'm a loaded bazooka? They may start shootin'.

I took a closer look at the deputy and saw his trigger finger begin to twitch. "Okay! Okay!" I said as I carefully let go of the towel and gently placed both of my hands on top of my head. "They're up! See!" Holding my breath, I carefully peeked down at the towel. It was still—around my waist. "Don't move!" I mumbled to myself. "Don't think of nothing! Or anybody!"

Not even—Karolina Kurkova?

I felt a slight tweak—right before the towel hit the ground. "Dammit."

Oops! Sorry!

I closed my eyes as all six flashlights lighted up my—

"Oh! My God!" squealed Bryce.

Shit! I'm fuckin' blind! Again!
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

"Leave me alone!"

Com'on! It's not goin' to kill you!

Seething, I forced myself to take several cleansing breaths. "In—and out! In—"

Just roll up the towel so it's not touchin' me. They obviously have never heard of fuckin' fabric softeners up here.

"How can I roll up the towel?" I screamed. "My hands are handcuffed behind my back!" I stepped away from the patrol car and rattled the handcuffs. "See!"

"Hey! What the hell are you doing?"

I fell silent as I remembered I was being watched from the porch by the ever alert, Deputy—Douche! He nervously unlatched his police revolver and descended the porch steps.

I forced out a smile. "Nothing."

"Who the hell are you talking—" Suddenly, he stopped and looked out across the parking lot. "Did you see that?"

Is he talkin' to me?

"See what?" I asked him.

"Someone just ran behind the barn!" He moved in that direction while pointing his finger at me. "You stay right there! Don't you move!"

Yes, sir!

"Shut up," I moaned painfully.

"Ashley?"

Startled—I instinctively turned. Unfortunately, as I did, my towel got caught on the patrol car's door handle—and fell to the ground. "Dammit."

That's better.

"Ashley? Is that—"

The silence was downright unnerving as I stood there staring down at the towel.

How the hell can you see the goddamn towel? Aren't I blockin' your view?

I closed my eyes. "Why me?"

"Oh! God!" came the voice again. But this time, it had sort of an exasperated tone to it—a very familiar, exasperated tone.

Expecting the worst, I opened my eyes and reluctantly raised my head. Sure enough—that's exactly what I got. "Hello," I said casually. Well—as casually as a handcuffed naked guy, standing in front of his ex-wife, could get.

Hey! How's it goin'?

Trish just stood there—staring at me. Her facial expression and body language said it all; the narrowed eyes, the pursed lips, the clenched fists. "What the hell have you done now?"

I cleared my throat. "Nothing."

Has she always had this suspicious streak?

She took a menacing step towards me. "It's nearly three o'clock in the morning! You're standing outside—naked! Handcuffed! And surrounded by four goddamn police cars! It doesn't take a detective to see you must have done something!"

That was a very good piece of deductive reasonin'.

I was impressed.

This might be a prudent time to mention how hot she looks.

"Have I mentioned how nice you look?"

"Stop it!" she snapped. "Just stop it! You're doing this on purpose!"

"Wh—what?"

Her voice turned to a low growl. "You're trying to humiliate me in front of Richard!"

"Why would I do that?"

"To get back at me!" she snapped.

I vigorously shook my head. "I wouldn't do that. What do you think—"

"I think—" she snapped again. "You need help!"

Thinking it over, I nodded in agreement. "I do need help." I made a rather weak attempt to retrieve my towel. "Would you mind?"

Suddenly, we were both distracted by another voice. "What's going on?"

Trish and I nervously turned.

"Dammit," I mumbled as I saw—

Dickless.

—walking towards us. I looked skyward and prayed for a merciful death. "Take me now! Please!"

"Oh! Shit!" I heard Trish murmur, under her breath.

He casually walked up alongside Trish. "What's all the—" As his voice fizzled, I could only assume he finally grasped the situation.

Is that code—for he spotted me?

I forced out a smile. "Hello," I said sweetly. "How—was the show?"

He didn't answer me. He did however—stare at me with wide eyed disbelief.

Poor Dicky! Feelin' a bit inadequate are we?

Noticing Richard's obvious anguish, Trish snatched up the towel, stepped in front of me, and hurriedly wrapped the towel around me before growling, "If you think, you're going to intimidate Richard with—"

Timmy, the throbbin' thrill-hammer!

"—your little friend, you're going to be greatly disappointed!"

Did she just call me little?

"I'm not trying to intimidate anyone," I whispered back as I caught a strong smell of liquor on Trish's breath.

Has she forgotten Mary Lou Retton used to practice her fuckin' balance beam routine on me?

"What the hell is going on here?" Richard asked.

I poked out from behind Trish and smiled. "It's a long story."

About eighteen and a half inches long.

"What the hell is going on out here?"

Trish and I again turned—to see Sheriff Boone and one of his deputies walk down the porch steps.

Richard eagerly stepped forward. "That's what I'd like to know!"

Boone didn't reply, but his pace did quicken as he approached us. He appeared rather bothered by something; agitated almost. "Where the hell is the deputy that was watching you?" he asked me. "Where did he go?"

Trish leaned into me and lowered her voice. "You didn't kill him, did you?"

I didn't feel I needed to dignify her comment with a reply—so I didn't.

You didn't kill him, did you? I wasn't payin' attention.

I suddenly had a moment of self-doubt. "I—I don't think so."

"Well?" snapped Boone. "Where is he?"

I motioned with my head in the direction of the barn. "He said he saw somebody running around by the barn. He told me to say here, while he checked it out."

"What the hell is going on here, Sheriff?" demanded Trish.

"That's what I'm trying to figure out," Boone said, through gritted teeth. "And—who the hell are you, again?"

Trish reluctantly pointed at me. "His ex-wife."

The Sheriff looked at me, then back to Trish. "Smart move."

Bite me, Boner.

"Hey, Sheriff!"

We all turned this time and saw another deputy coming out of the Inn's front entrance, followed closely by Bryce.

"Oh! God!" I heard Trish growl under her breath. "What part does she play in this mess?"

"Well—"

Before I could elaborate, Boone yelled to his deputy. "Is the Collins woman going to press any charges?"

"Collins?" Trish snapped, redirecting her indignant glare once again at me. "Mrs. Collins? That sweet little woman?"

Richard stepped forward. "Didn't we bump into her and her husband when we were checking in today?"

Who pulled his fuckin' string?

Trish once again directed her growl in my direction. "What the hell did you do to her?"

Besides givin' her the thrill of a life time?

"Nothing."

With a burst of enthusiasm, Bryce hurriedly answered for the deputy. "No—she's not, Sheriff," she said pointedly. "Hearing the whole story, she feels she might have over-reacted to seeing Ashley naked in the hallway."

Trish gave me another one of those—looks. "What the hell were you doing running around the Inn naked?"

"Nothing."

Bryce boldly stepped forward and addressed the Sheriff. "Since Mrs. Collins won't be pressing any charges against Ashley, don't you think it's time you take off those handcuffs?"

Ask Booner, if we can borrow the handcuffs? They might come in handy tonight, if you know what I mean?

The Sheriff scoffed. "I can always get him for indecent exposure."

"Oh! Please!" Bryce snapped. "We've been all through this! He was about to take a shower when he heard me scream for help. Did you really want him to waste precious time putting on his clothes, while I was out here being attacked?"

An annoyed grimace shot across the Sheriff's face. "Those handcuffs stay on him until I find my missing deputy."

The Sheriff's other deputy cautiously stepped up next to him. "Mrs. Collins also mentioned, she hoped Hard would be as forgiving towards her husband—and not press any charges against him for taking a shot at him."

Trish appeared totally shocked at what she was hearing.

The Sheriff questioned his deputy. "Is his gun licensed?"

The deputy nodded in the affirmative.

"Absolutely!" I said, with little hesitation. "No harm done!" Having the feeling things were momentarily going my way, I stepped up to push along my agenda for a change. "Did any of you guys happen to see any sign of the guy who attacked Bryce?"

Boone took off his hat and wiped his forehead. "We found a few footprints where you said you heard him last. As soon as it's light, we'll do a complete search. We'll get him."

The deputy cleared his throat to get his boss's attention. "Sally did bring up the question of who's going to pay for the French doors in the dining room?"

The Sheriff threw me another annoyed smirk.

I caught the hint. "Just tell her—to put it on our bill."

"What happened to the French doors?" Bryce asked apprehensively.

"I'll pay you back," I quickly told Bryce.

"Quiet!" Boone shouted. "Everyone!" Having our full attention, the Sheriff pointed a stern finger at Trish, Bryce, and I. "The three of you stay right here! No one leaves!"

"Excuse me, Sheriff," snapped Trish. "What do you mean, no one leaves? Richard and I have to get back—"

The Sheriff held up his hand. "No one leaves until I find my missing deputy! Is that clear?"

Trish threw her hands up in total frustration. "This is ridiculous."

"You," snapped Boone, pointing at Richard. "I want you to go check inside the Inn for my deputy. If you find him, you tell him I want to see his ass out here immediately!"

Richard nodded.

Boone then motioned to his other deputies. "We'll check out here."

Without another word, the three men walked off.

Richard, giving Trish a small pat on the back—and a 'what can I do' look, hurried off towards the Inn's front entrance.

As the three of us stood there—

The four of us.

As—we stood there, I couldn't help but think how peaceful it was; the faint sound of the ocean waves, the gentle evening breeze rustling through the trees, the—

Hey! Earth to moron!

I looked up into the star filled sky and marveled at the Milky Way above me. It was truly inspiring. "You never see that in the city," I mumbled as I remembered astronomer Carl Sagan telling Johnny Carson one night, on The Tonight Show, that there were a billion, billion stars.

Forget the fuckin' stars! The three of us are finally alone! It's—threesome time! When I count to three, drop the towel—

I gently shook my head. "No! No! No!"

No! It's one! Two! Three!

I shook my head again, but—with a bit more potency this time.

Suddenly, I heard Trish's annoyed voice. "Ashley!"

One!

I turned to her. "Wh—what?"

She appeared rather confused. "What the hell are you doing?"

Two!

I shook my head again. "Nothing."

"You were counting!" Bryce added, in a rather concerned tone.

Three! Drop the fuckin' towel!

"I—I was counting the stars," I said weakly.

You suck.

Trish eyed me suspiciously. "What?"

I glanced over at Bryce, then back to Trish. "I was counting—the stars," I repeated. "Carl Sagan once said that there were a billion, billion stars. I've always been curious to know if he was—right."

Trish immediately turned on Bryce. "This is your fault!"

Bryce clearly stiffened at the accusation. "What are you talking about?"

"You should never have asked him to help you with your stupid story!" Trish gave me a pathetic look. "Look at him! He's not ready for something like that."

I stared down at her—rather indignantly. "Who's—not ready?"

I'm fuckin' ready!

Bryce stepped over to me and touched my arm. "I think he's doing just fine."

How many times do I have to tell her, I'm still down here!

Trish eagerly pointed her finger at me. "Look at him!" she repeated. "Take a good look at him! He's counting the goddamn stars!"

Quick! They're both lookin'. Pull off the towel. It'll be like—Di Vinci unveilin' the Mona Lisa! Give me a second—and I'll try to get the fuckin' smile right.

I quickly closed my twitching eye.

Holy shit! Get a load of Trish's bullets! They're about to shoot right through that blouse of hers!

I could feel every pore in my body open up. Sweat was gushing out of me. My chest was pounding. My head was throbbing. My towel was—tightening.

Before Bryce could say a word, Trish continued to push her point. "He's breaking into homes! Falling down stairs! Now you have him running around naked—and attacking defenseless women!"

"Actually—" I grunted. "Breaking into the Howell's place was my idea. Bryce didn't have anything to do—"

Trish swiftly faced me. "Shut up!"

"I haven't done anything to him," Bryce snapped. "This evening has been one big misunderstanding!"

Trish pointed at me again. "What's there to misunderstand? He's naked!" Her hostility seemed to be escalating. "What the hell were you two doing?"

Bryce looked shocked at the allegation. "Nothing!" She then turned to me, hoping for some support.

Unfortunately, I wasn't quite keeping up with the current conversation to be much help to her. My attention seemed to be—focused elsewhere.

I agree! I've never seen Bryce's thighs look firmer.

Bryce gave me a gentle slap on the arm to bring me back to the conversation. "Well?" she snapped. "Say something!"

Please blow me.

I momentarily lost my focus—again. "Wh—what?"

Bryce slapped me again. "Tell her we weren't doing anything!"

I turned to Trish. "We weren't doing anything."

"Oh! Please!" Trish said with a fake laugh. "If you two weren't doing anything, why the hell is your penis all red and blotchy?"

It all started to come back to me. The Viagra! The duct tape! "I had to—sort of restrain him," I replied, rather feebly.

Trish looked at me oddly. "What?"

"I had to tape him—to my thigh." I slowly leaned into her. "I accidentally took some Viagra."

Trish did not look amused.

I swiftly stepped away from her. "It's—a long story."

About eighteen and three quarter's inches long.

"It was Heinrich's fault!" I blurted out. I was about to reiterate my point when all of a sudden something—felt different. I felt—an odd breeze.

Peek-a-boo! I see you!

Bryce suddenly gasped—and quickly turned away.

Ignoring me completely, Trish angrily took a step towards Bryce. "Can't you see what you're doing to him? He's not ready for this. He can't take all of this stress. He's going to have a relapse. And it's going to be your fault!"

"He's doing just fine," Bryce shot back. "You should've seen him today!"

Trish laughed mockingly. "He's taping his penis to his goddamn thigh!"

I caught Bryce giving me a rather strange glance. "Is that why you hurried off to the bathroom at the bar?"

"See!" Trish hissed, still not looking at me. "He's totally out of control! And—you're the cause of it! You're not helping him. Leave him alone and write your damn story yourself!"

"I think I am helping him," Bryce said. "Do you want him riding that stupid lawnmower for the rest of his life?"

"Of course not," said Trish as her voice steadily increased in volume. "I want what's best for him."

"Do you really?" Bryce asked hotly. "I suppose divorcing him, right when he needed you the most, was best for him?"

Cat-fight alert! I repeat! Cat-fight alert!

This clearly wasn't going well. Knowing Trish and her Irish temper, I slipped in between the two women in hopes of somehow defusing the rather sticky situation.

Let's make some fuckin' ground rules! The first one to rip off the other one's panties wins! That's if Bryce is wearin' any.

"Hey!" I shouted frantically, trying to get their attention. "It's been a long day! Everyone's tried! Why don't we all go inside—"

And have a threesome!

Trish annoyingly pushed me aside as she took several threatening steps towards Bryce. "You have some nerve saying that," she snarled. "You have no idea, what I went through after his break down."

Bryce, showing no fear herself, took several steps towards Trish. They were practically toe to toe.

It's more like fuckin' tit to tit! Holy shit! Did you see that? Bryce's left one just rubbed up against Trish's—

My right eye was now doing the Mambo. "Ladies!" I chuckled manically. "Please!"

Trish turned to me and was about to read me the riot act when—she stepped back and screamed, "Oh! You sick bastard!"

Somewhat confused, I turned to Bryce. "Wh—what?"

Red faced, Bryce gasped and covered her mouth—in disbelief.

Sensing something was askew, I hesitantly tracked the trajectory of their horrified looks to find—

The Duke.

—jetting out from underneath my towel, completely exposed, and to my utter embarrassment—fully erect.

Howdy, Pilgrim!

I timidly looked up into Trish's blank stare and forced out a sickly grin. "They sure don't make towels like—they use to?"

Would either one of you fine ladies be interested in a hunk of burnin' love?

"My God, Ashley!" hollered Trish. "What the hell is wrong with you? What are you thinking about?"

You! Bryce! Me! And a rather large amount of cherry favored J-E-L-L-O!

Before I could come up with a plausible lie, an inner calmness seemed to grab hold of Trish. She appeared as if—she was just harpooned by a spiritual revelation of some kind. She just stood there—staring at me. "Timmy's back! Isn't he?"

I was speechless. Trish's deductive reasoning clearly bordered on amazing. What in the world—could've tipped her off?

Could it be the nineteen inch thigh spreader stickin' out from underneath your fuckin' towel?

"No!" I blurted out.

"He is back! Admit it!" Trish yelled. "And he's totally out of control, isn't he!"

She's fuckin' good!

I shook my head. "No!"

"That's why you had to tape him to your thigh," she yelled again. "You can't control him! Can you?"

I was running out of ways to say no. "Noooo," I repeated again, holding the vowel sound a bit longer for some added effect.

Trish took a step towards me. Her eyes were riveted on me. "Do you know what I'm going to do, Ash?"

Quick! Throw the towel down on the ground in front of you so she has somethin' to kneel on. That gravel is murder on the knees.

I hesitated a moment as I thought of the countless possible answers to Trish's question. Strangely enough—all of them seemed to end with me in some kind of pain. "No! No—I don't!"

She took another step towards me. "Since its quite obvious Dr. Benjamin hasn't been much help to you, I've decided to help you—with your little problem."

Is she callin' me little?

"Well! I wouldn't say Dr. Benjamin has been—totally ineffective," I replied. "He got me to stop—biting my nails."

No he hasn't.

Trish carefully placed her hand over my mouth and smiled. "I should've done this a long time ago."

Still somewhat confused as to what Trish was referring too, I raised a nervous brow as I felt her hand suddenly grab a hold of my—

Clit tickler.

Trying to keep my composure, I watched her slowly reached down and grab me again with her other hand.

Oh! Yes! Now we're talkin'!

"Isn't it a bit late in the evening—to be practicing your golf grip?" I asked, with a forced laugh.

Trish tightened her grip.

Oooooh!

She finally looked up at me—and smiled again. But this time, her smile had a hint of—animosity about it. "I'm going to get rid of Timmy—once and for all."

"Wh—what?"

Excuse me! I didn't fuckin' catch that. What the hell did she say?

"It's the only way," Trish said, with a crazed gleam in her eyes. "He's wrecked your life! Destroyed our marriage! He's ruined your career!" Her grip tightened again. "He's evil! You'll never get better as long as he's still around."

Why is she—lookin' at me like that? Quit fuckin' around! Do somethin'!

I tried to break free of the handcuffs.

Could we try somethin' that has a slightly higher chance of fuckin' success! Maybe like—fuckin' screamin' for help!

Bryce suddenly appeared at Trish's side. "What are you doing to him? Let him go!"

Trish shot Bryce a hostile glare as she began to pull me around the parking lot. "This is none of your goddamn business!"

I awkwardly jogged along to keep up with her. "Trish!" I yelled. "This isn't funny!"

Oh! No—no! Oh! Don't stop! Keep pullin'! That's right!! Keep pullin'—the taffy!

Bryce grabbed a hold of Trish's wrists. "Let him go!"

Holy shit! They're goin' to fight over me! How fuckin' hot is this? I need more blood down here! ASAP!

I winced nervously. "Ladies!"

Trish yanked again, even harder.

Oooooh! More! Pull more!

Bryce painfully looked up at me, then back to Trish. "Stop it!" she yelled. "You're hurting him!"

"No kidding," I said, though gritted teeth.

Seeing my obvious distress, Bryce grabbed Trish's hands in her one hand and hesitantly grabbed the base of my—

Throbbing meat thermometer.

—with her other hand!

Blood! More blood! I need more fuckin' blood!

"Let go of him!" screamed Bryce as she tried to pry Trish's hands from my aching—

Pussy plower.

I began to feel rather strange as Trish continued to twist—and turn me. "No! No—bending!" I screamed. "No bending!"

Mr. Scott! I need more power!

Suddenly, I saw Richard running towards us. "What the devil is going on out here?"

Quick! Start hummin' Ravel's 'Bolero'!

I wildly shook my head. "No! No!" I closed my eyes as tight as I could.

Scotty! Full power! I need warp drive!

I opened my eyes and found myself—bent over—and staring directly into Bryce's—

Pumpkin patch.

As I closed my eyes again, the inside of my eyelids exploded with a billion, billion stars! Dr. Sagan was right! As I staggered backwards, I suddenly became aware of the fact—Trish no longer had me in her clutches. I opened my eyes and warily focused. Trish and Bryce were both standing there—staring at me. Trish had a look of total shock on her face. Bryce—sort of—had the same expression, but hers was a bit tougher to read as her hands were cupped over her nose and mouth. I forced out a weak smile as I asked, "What's wrong?"

"You fucking asshole!"

Stunned to hear such a venomous tone, I immediately turned towards—

Dickless.

He was standing next to Bryce with a rather murderous expression on his face—while wiping some sweat off his cheek.

I don't think that's fuckin' sweat.

My eyes instinctively narrowed into a squint as I hastily took a closer look. It did appear rather thick to be sweat. And the spray-pattern was all wrong for sweat. Sweat didn't glob like—

You are such a fuckin' moron.

I felt my face burn with humiliation as it finally hit me. "Oops!"

Hey! It wasn't my fault! The fuckin' wind must've changed directions. I was aimin' for Bryce's sweet rolls.

A fist suddenly came out of nowhere and hit me in the face.

"Richard!" I heard Trish yell.

Bryce just screamed.

Losing my balance, I staggered backwards and fell over. Sprawled out on the driveway, I raised my head and watched Trish and Bryce drag—

Fuck face.

—away from me. Feeling rather—empty at the moment, I laid back and just stared up at the stars. "One. Two. Three. Four!"

Are you just goin' to lie there—and count the fuckin' stars?

"Five. Six!"

You're goin' to let that Dickless asshole get away with that? He sucker punched you!

"Seven. Eight!"

People will start thinkin' you're some kind of fuckin' pansy!

"Nine. Ten!"

They'll start sayin' you were a member of N*SYNC.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

"All right," I said while looking at myself in the bathroom mirror. "I want you to walk into that room—"

Grab Bryce, throw her on the bed, and fuck her till she's blue!

I painfully rubbed my temples as I shook my head. "No!"

Magenta?

"Nooo!" Composing myself, I ran my fingers through my wet hair—and tried again. "I want you to walk into that room! Walk over to the bed! Get under the covers! And—go to sleep! I paused a second while I waited for any further comments. "You've embarrassed yourself in front of her enough—for one day! Got it!"

Your nipples are hard.

Grabbing a towel off the rack, I draped it around my neck so the ends would fall down onto my chest. "Cleansing breath," I said. "In—and out! In—"

Maybe I should gargle? Do you have any Listerine?

Double knotting the drawstring to my pajamas bottoms, I carefully opened the bathroom door and peeked into the bedroom. Heinrich was still fast asleep on the cot while Bryce was standing by the dresser, with her back to me, putting up her hair.

Here's your chance! Grab her!

It was my chance! My chance—to get into that bed without her noticing me! Not wanting to draw any attention to myself, I made a mad dash for the bed.

Ow! Ow! Oooow!

Pulling back the covers, I quickly jumped into the bed, and pulled the blankets over my head.

"I won't be long," I heard Bryce say.

"Okay," I said as I peeked out from under the covers just in time to see the bathroom door close. With a sigh of relief, I wearily laid my head down and closed my eyes. "Sleep! I need sleep!"

No one's sleepin' tonight! This is Bryce's and my night! Ridi pagliacci! I'm fuckin' Bryce—tonightie!

I turned on my side, closed my eyes, and repositioned my head on the pillow. "We'll see about that."

Suddenly, I noticed an odd gurgling sound. I opened an eye—and listened. "There it is again."

Where the hell have I heard that noise before?

I sat up and looked around the room. "It sounds like it's coming from Heinrich's cot."

Now—I remember! I've heard that sound comin' from your mother's bedroom.

"What are you talking about?" I snarled as I quickly diverted my attention back to the cot. "Heinrich," I hissed softly, not wanting to alert Bryce.

I'm positive—I've heard that sound comin' from your mother's—

"Heinrich!" I screamed—not caring if Bryce heard me or not.

I say, you take your pillow, walk over there, and suffocate the fuckin' Nazi.

I thought over the idea as I sat there listening to him—gurgle. "The idea—certainly had merit," I thought out loud. "Who would know? The police would think he died of natural causes. They wouldn't suspect me—his faithful employer for all these years. It would be—dare I say it? The perfect crime?"

Knowin' you, you'd fuck it up, somehow.

Finding myself nodding in agreement, I plopped back down on the bed, rolled over, wrapped the pillow around the back of my head, and punched it down around my ears.

No! No! There's no sleepin' on your stomach. You could accidentally suffocate me.

Heinrich's snorting continued unabated. Feeling myself inching closer to total madness, I sat up and wildly launched a pillow in his direction. Unfortunately, I missed Heinrich. I did hit the desk lamp, though. And—I did plunge the room into total darkness. "Oops!"

Good goin'.

"What was that?" Bryce yelled from the bathroom.

"Nothing."

Don't worry about it. She's already payin' for the window and the door. What's a fuckin' lamp?

Heinrich suddenly stirred—before farting.

With a frustrated groan, I flopped back onto the bed and pulled the covers over my head once again. "Will someone please—just shoot me?"

I don't like to hear that kind of shit! They could miss you and hit me.

"What am I doing here?" I thought out loud. "Maybe—Trish is right? Maybe—I'm not ready for all of this yet?"

You're doin' great! Bryce thinks so. Didn't you hear her stick up for you in front of Trish?

I pulled the covers away from my head. "After tonight—Bryce must think I'm some kind of sicko sex fiend!" Humiliated at just the thought of my actions tonight, I covered my head again with the covers. "How can I ever look her in the face again?"

Don't try. Just focus on those massive milk duds of hers.

I groaned openly as I pulled the covers away from my face.

Hey! Do you hear that?

I listened. Heinrich's snoring—did seem to be lessening a bit.

I'm talkin' about the water, you moron! The water's runnin'! Bryce is takin' a shower!

"Cleansing breath!" I blurted out. "In—and out! In—"

She's probably in there right now latherin' up Stanley and Livingston.

I swiftly wiped a bead of sweat off my upper lip. "Focus!"

Shit! What I wouldn't do to be that fuckin' bar of soap, right now.

"Shut up! I'm—thinking."

About Bryce's shirt stuffers?

"Nooo!" I snarled. "About the person who knocked out the Sheriff's deputy—"

Who?

"Deputy Douche!" I snapped annoyingly. "You know, the deputy that ran off—when he saw somebody by the barn. Remember? They found him unconscious behind the barn. He had to be knocked out by the same person who grabbed Bryce."

Speakin' of grabbin' Bryce, the water stopped.

My eyes shot back to the bathroom door. A faint disruption of the light from underneath the bathroom door suddenly caught my attention.

That's probably her, steppin' out of the bathtub—naked!

"Focus!" I reminded myself while continuing to watch Bryce's moments from underneath the door.

What do you want to bet; she's lookin' at herself in the mirror right now and massagin' those two huge beach balls of hers.

"Wh—what?"

Can't you see her—just fuckin' squeezin' those babies! And lickin'—

The sound of the door knob turning abruptly dragged me away from the beach balls—and back to reality. Snapping into a hasty fetal position, I pulled the covers up over my ears and closed my eyes just as the bathroom door swung open.

"Ashley?"

I held my breath as I remained perfectly still.

What the fuck are you doin'? Answer her! You spineless worm!

I mentally shook my head. There was no way I'd be able to face her right now—not after what happened this evening.

Hey! There's nothin' to worry about. I got plenty of spunk left. I always keep some in reserve. You never know when we're going to see Shania Twain walkin' down the street.

"Are you still awake?" Bryce asked.

Sensing I needed a bit more realism—I threw in several faint Heinrich-like snores for good measure.

You fuckin' bastard! If you screw this up for me, I will kill you!

Opening my left eye a smidgen, I carefully peeked over the covers to see Bryce standing in the doorway.

Erection alert! I repeat! Erection alert!

I could almost feel my pupil in my eye contract as my breathing automatically quickened. She looked amazing—just standing there in that pajama top. Back lit by the bathroom light, the flimsy top was practically—translucent.

Translucent? Fuck! You can see right through it! Holy shit! I can see her fuckin' meat flaps! They must be hangin' down two—maybe three fuckin' inches!

I slammed my eye shut and intensified my snores. Hearing a little 'click'—along with the inside of my eyelids going dark, I figured Bryce finally switched off the bathroom light. Every muscle in my body seemed to relax as I let out a sigh of relief. I did it! I fooled her into thinking I was asleep!

You no good rat-bastard—

Tomorrow—hopefully, I'll have thought of something to tell her. Right now though, I needed some time. I needed sleep.

I fuckin' hate you!

Unfortunately, my relaxed state did last long as the covers were suddenly pulled away from my face. I cowered as I felt Bryce—climb into bed with me!

Hey! Hey! Roll over! She might accidentally roll on top of me!

I mentally shook my head again as I willed my eyelids to squeeze my eyeballs even tighter.

All right! If you're not goin' to roll over, at least lob me over your hip in her general direction? I'll take it from there.

I bit my lower lip as Bryce's bare leg glanced off of mine as she attempted to find a comfortable position. "Steady, Ash!" I mumbled. "Steady! You can do this!"

At least roll on your fuckin' back. I can't see what the hell she's doin'. She could be masturbatin' over there!

"Our Father, who art in heaven—"

Hey! All I want is a fuckin' good night kiss! Is that too much to fuckin' ask for?

The bed suddenly stopped bouncing. I listened intently as an unholy calmness spread across the dark room. Even Heinrich, oddly enough—fell silent.

Wouldn't it be fuckin' cool—if he just fuckin' dropped dead?

Unable to stop myself, I openly chuckled at the thought.

Suddenly, I felt Bryce stirred. "Good night, Ashley!"

I froze—as I held my breath.

"Pleasant dreams!"

"Dammit," I mumbled, under the covers. She knew—I wasn't sleeping. Humiliating myself in front of her—was becoming a really nasty habit.

You're fuckin' goin' to pay for this—you know that, don't you?

As I strolled along the beach, I couldn't help but marvel at my quaint surroundings; the blue sky, the white sand, the palm trees, the clear turquoise water—washing up over my bare feet! I'd never seen the Jersey shore look better.

I hadn't gone that far, before I came upon a woman lying on the beach. Lying on her back, she remained motionless as I walked up to her and stood over her. She was quite beautiful. I noticed right away that her emerald green eyes were closed. How—I knew she had emerald green eyes, when her eyes were closed, was beyond me. I must be a better detective than I thought.

She appeared to be sleeping. Her arms were draped seductively over her head, allowing her fingers to interweave with her long flowing blonde hair. As my inquisitive gaze slowly moved down her incredibly firm body, I couldn't help but be captivated by the tiny bikini she was wearing. I found myself watching her with great interest as her deep breaths—heaved her massive breasts to where they practically overwhelmed her delicate bikini top. It was right around this time, I had the strange sensation that my swim trucks were beginning to shrink. I knew right then—I shouldn't have washed them in hot water last night.

Suddenly, she stirred as she began to moan softly. With her eyes still closed, she slowly began to spread her long tanned legs. My gaze was mysteriously drawn to the two tiny bows holding the bottom of her tiny bikini together. Nervously licking my lips, I took another cursory glance down the deserted beach as my mind filled with numerous possibilities. Most of them were rather naughty, to be perfectly honest. "Don't do it," I told myself. "Someone will see you! You'll get in trouble!" Just then, it dawned on me that this had to be a dream! I never go to the Jersey shore!

I anxiously looked back down at the woman as she once again stretched rather suggestively in the sand. "And—it was my dream!" I reminded myself as my trunks shrank a little more.

Not wanting to wake her, I quietly knelt down beside her as she stretched again. After a quick cleansing breath—I carefully reached over and untied the first bow. Holding my breath, I hesitated a moment, just in case she reacted negatively. Seeing no reaction at all, I felt—rather emboldened! I reached over and untied the second bow. Her moans intensified as I cautiously reached down and—

SHWAH-ZING!

I gasped in horror as my engorged penis—ripped through the front of my trunks. Frantic, I watched as it continued to grow! Bigger! And bigger! It had to be two—maybe two and a half feet and still growing, when—

KA-BOOM!

The pain was excruciating! I grabbed my groin, doubled over and fell into the sand, writhing in agony! Suddenly, an unsettling silence fell over me as my pain mysteriously stopped. I slowly opened my eyes and sat up. Gathering all the courage I could, I cautiously peeked down in between my—

"AAARGH!"

"Are you all right, sir?"

"No!" I screamed. "It's gone! My penis—just blew up!"

"Vake up!"

"Nooooo!" I yelled as my penis' shredded stump started to spew blood all over the white sand.

"Sir! Vake up! You are dreaming!"

"Wh—what?" I opened my eyes and found myself sitting up in bed. I quickly turned and looked out the broken window. It was daylight. I turned back towards the clock on the end table and growled, "One thirty?"

"Are you sure you are all right, sir?"

Looking up, I saw Heinrich—staring down at me. Remembering my dream—I gently felt—

Don't touch me, you fuckin' asshole! Now you're blowin' me up! You really are one sick motherfucker!

I sighed weakly and plopped back down on the bed. "Yeah," I said. "I'm fine."

You sure know how to fuck up a wet dream.

"Can I get you something to eat, sir?" Heinrich asked. "You slept right through breakfast and lunch. You must be hungry."

"Where's Bryce?" I asked as I noticed the empty side of the bed. "Has she gone down stairs already?"

"She left early this morning, sir."

I popped up into a sitting position. "Wh—what?" I yelled. "She left? Where did she go?"

Heinrich gingerly bent over and picked up a pillow off the floor, fluffed it several times and placed it back onto the bed behind me. "Back to New York."

AAARGH!
CHAPTER THIRTY

Having some difficulty making sense of it all, I painfully repeated Heinrich's words once again. "She left?"

Shit! She didn't even kiss me goodbye.

I frantically shook my head. "Why would she leave?"

What a bitch.

Heinrich grabbed another pillow off the floor and placed it on the bed. "She left around ten o'clock, sir."

I threw myself on the bed and buried my face in a pillow.

Do you smell anythin'?

"Wh—what?"

She might've slept with that pillow between her legs.

I immediately sat up and heaved the pillow over my shoulder. "Will you please—focus!" I told myself. Unfortunately, as hard as I tried, I couldn't! I couldn't get that one question out of my mind. It continued to bombard me from all directions. Why did—she leave?

Cause you're a fuckin' lunatic?

I thought it over and concluded it was a very distinct possibility.

You should've let me boink her last night. She would've been too sore to go runnin' off this mornin'.

"Why would she go back to New York? We're so close!"

Obviously, not fuckin' close enough!

There had to be more, I thought. "Heinrich!" I yelled as I rolled out of bed and shuffled after him. "What do you mean she went back to New York?" I grabbed his arm, momentarily stopping him from picking up the pillow I'd just thrown. "How'd she leave?"

He thought it over. Painstakingly slow—I might add.

"Did she rent a car?" I blurted out, trying to speed things up. "A bus? Did she take a bus back to New York? A train?"

"I believe I heard her mentioning something about chartering a plane."

My arms immediately dropped to my sides. "Dammit."

Depression alert! I repeat! Depression alert!

"Are you sure she didn't say something like; 'Tell Ashley—I'll give him a call when I get back to New York?' Or—"

Tell Ashley, he should've pounded my tight ass when he had the fuckin' chance!

Heinrich shook his head. "I'm afraid not, sir."

I stood there totally dumbfounded as Heinrich shuffled back to the bed and began to straighten out the covers. "I think you vill be pleased to hear, sir, I vas able to use the laundry facilities this morning."

"After last night," I rambled incoherently, "she must've lost all confidence in me, to make her drop her story and head back to New York. She must think I'm some kind of—"

Fuckin' loser with an extremely huge yogurt slinger?

"You vill find all of your clothes on top of the dresser, sir," interrupted Heinrich. "Pressed and folded!"

Rubbing my throbbing temples, I grunted my thanks as I aimlessly wondered over to the dresser. "I don't get it?"

I didn't get any either, thanks to you.

"Why would she leave like that? We were making progress with the investigation. The simple fact someone tried to kill us in the boat yesterday clearly means—we were getting close!" Just then—a perplexing thought hit me. "Close to what—though?"

Hoping for a new perspective on things, I diverted my eyes to an old black and white photograph hanging over the dresser. "Why would someone kill three people over a robbery that happened years ago?" I asked myself as I continued to look at the photograph. There were a couple dozen people huddled together in a large room, waving to the camera. I figured it had to be a group picture of some wealthy family's household staff. All of the women were dressed either as a maid or cook, while the men appeared to be gardeners, butlers or chauffeurs. As I continued to scan the old photograph—something seemed rather familiar to me. The wallpaper! The high ceilings! The chandeliers! Even the way the sunlight—came through the large stained-glass doors! "I think—I've been there. When—was this picture taken?" I asked myself as I zeroed in on the group of people. "From the hair styles and the people's uniforms, I'd say it was probably taken in the late sixties, maybe early seventies."

I'd say, March 14, 1976.

"March—what?" Slightly rattled, I cautiously leaned into the photograph for a closer look. "What had—I missed? How did he—"

Hey! Moron! The lower right-hand corner!

"Dammit." There it was, hand written in the lower right-hand corner, right in plain sight. "March 14, 1976".

You are such an—

"Ash? What are you doing?"

Startled—I jumped back to see Trish standing in the doorway—staring at me. I forced out a smile. "Wh—what?"

She walked towards me with her usual suspicious glare. "What are you doing?"

I weakly pointed to the photograph. "I—I was just admiring—"

Your meatbags.

I'm staring right at them—aren't I?

Yep.

Trish suddenly reached out and gave me a stern slap on the cheek. "Will you please try to focus?"

"I—I was just admiring this photograph—" I finally replied, "over here."

She gave me another one of those—looks, before walking towards the dresser.

"It looks really familiar to me for some reason." I walked up behind her. "I think I've been there."

Holy shit! Do you smell that? Her perfume!

Trying not to inhale, I shakily pointed at the photograph. "I—I know, I've been here! See these stain-glass doors in the back—"

I think it's called, Twilight Twat.

Immediately stepping away from Trish, I pointed my trembling finger at the photograph again. "I've seen—these doors before."

Reluctantly, Trish took another glance at the photograph before glaring back at me. "It should look familiar to you. It's the Grand Ballroom at Treasure Hall."

"Wh—what?"

"Look," she said, pointing out a woman in the picture. "That's Evelyn."

Somewhat perplexed, I took a closer look.

Trish's frustrated sigh said it all. "Evelyn! The poor woman who died here yesterday!"

Nice goin', Miss Marples.

"She was the Howell's cook back then," she added.

I knew that—but something still didn't feel right. There was something about the room that didn't look right. "That's not Treasure Hall," I said, "it looks nothing like—"

Trish pointed again at the photograph. "It's all been redecorated," she said. "Look here! This entire section has been redone. Over here, this wallpaper is gone. And there's new trim around these doors."

When the hell did she turn into Bob Vila?

Trish was right. It was a photograph of Treasure Hall's ballroom. Before Howell began all of his redecorating. I excitedly pointed to the fireplace. "That's been redone too!"

"Good! I'm glad we got passed that," Trish said, with a sigh of satisfaction.

I eagerly searched for more changes that Howell made to the house. It was like that old picture game—where you had to find the differences between the two pictures. I was pretty good at it, as a kid.

Speakin' of games, ask Trish if she'd like to play Post Office. I've got a first-class package I'd like to stuff in her slot.

I excitedly pointed again at the photograph as I found something else that didn't seem right to me. "Were these—"

"Ashley," Trish snapped as she gently touched my arm.

I'm still down here! It not like I went anywhere.

Forgetting the photograph for the moment, I turned to her. She appeared rather mournful as she lowered her head and casually fingered the pile of clothes on the dresser. "I would like to apologize for last night."

I started to shake my head. "You don't—"

"I was totally out of line."

Do you see this? Are you watchin' her body language? See how she's shiftin' her weight from side to side.

She did appear rather nervous.

Check out her eyes! See the way they're shyly lookin' off into the distance. And look! See the way she's absentmindedly fondlin'—the zipper on your pair of pants?

I casually straightened up to my full height. "Steady—Ash!" I mumbled.

If I'm not mistaken, she's wants to kiss and make up!

"Steady," I mumbled again.

Holy shit! Full eye contact! Get ready for a big wet one! I'm talkin' tongue too!

Dammit. She was looking right at me. Forcing down a swallow, I tried to nonchalantly moisten my lips, just in case—

I wasn't talkin' about you, you fuckin' turd! I was talkin' about me! Quick! Whip me out!

Trish reached out and touched my hand. "I hope I didn't hurt you."

"Wh—what?"

She angrily stepped towards me. "Last night! I didn't hurt you, did I?"

Caught off guard momentarily, I coughed out a high-pitched chuckle. "No! Of course not! Forget it! No problem!"

What the hell are you talkin' about—no problem? I'm two inches longer. Another inch and I'd be draggin' on the fuckin' carpet right now.

Trish once again began to caress my folded trousers. "I was totally drunk," she said, sounding rather embarrassed. "It was the four margarita's talking."

I sensed an opening. "You didn't tell me how the show was?"

Trish's hand violently convulsed. I winced as her fist grounded up my defenseless zipper into a little ball.

Ouch.

"He lost the tickets!" she growled, releasing her grip on my now permanently creased trousers. "Do you believe that? We come all this way to see the show—and he goes loses the damn tickets!"

I calmly picked up my trousers and threw them over my shoulder. "I'll just get Heinrich—to iron them again."

"I was so mad at him, I could have—"

Having my own problems, I steered my attention away from Trish and back to the photograph. "That's—too bad," I said, rather absentmindedly as my eyes again found the photograph's date. "March 14, 1976?"

"Ashley?"

I glanced back at Trish. "That was before the robbery, wasn't it?"

She swiftly punched me in the shoulder. "Are you listening to me?"

"Hang on!" I said as I excitedly turned back to the photograph. "This picture—was taken before the robbery!"

She looked at the photograph totally perplexed. "So?"

I was just about to tell Trish my theory—when it suddenly hit me! I knew—where the jewels were.

No you don't, you fuckin' liar!

I nodded as I mumbled to myself. "Yes! Yes—I do!"

"Ash?" asked Trish. "Are you all right? You're mumbling, again!"

How can you know where the fuckin' jewels are—and I don't?

I faced Trish, beaming with excitement. "Wh—what?"

Trish waved her hand in front of my face. "Are you all right?"

"Wonderful!" I grabbed Trish and began to waltz her around the room.

"Heinrich!" yelled Trish. "Call Dr. Benjamin!"

Do you think Fred Astaire ever did Ginger? She was really hot back then. Or do you think old Fred was more of an Edward Everett Horton type guy?

On that sour note—I stopped dancing.

Trish immediately pushed me away and retreated to a safe distance. "What's gotten into you?"

Making sure no one else could hear me, I excitedly moved towards her and whispered, "I know—" I abruptly fell silent as another thought—hit me! What if Trish was mixed up in all of this somehow? What if she's—the murderer? I didn't know where she was while those three people were being murdered. I back pedaled away from her as I continued to think things through. And—what if I'm right and the jewels were still there?

Where?

I could be playing—right into her hands. It'd be like handing the jewels over to her. Then all she'd have to do is pull out a gun—and shoot me. She could claim I attacked her and she had to kill me in self-defense. No one would challenge it. The entire police force thinks I'm a lunatic.

A ravin' lunatic.

I needed to keep this to myself—until I was sure who was all involved. I needed to know for certain—who the murderer was before I showed my hand.

Are you tryin' to tell me—you don't know who the fuckin' murderer is?

I thought over the question. "Well—I did have my suspects," I said while shaking my head. "But—no! I didn't know!" Realizing, I said that out loud, I slapped myself in the head. "Dammit. I really need to stop doing that."

Trish immediately turned and headed for the door. "I'm calling Dr. Benjamin."

Look at that ass on her.

I hurriedly chased her down. "Wait!"

She stopped and in a frustrated huff—faced me. "What?"

That's really weird; you don't know who the murderer is? I know who it is!

I froze at the surprising revelation. "Wh—what?"

Trish's hands shot to her head and grabbed her temples. "I said—what!" she seethed.

Could I really know who the killer is—and not know it? Is that possible? Could I be blocking it out on purpose? Maybe—I don't really want to know? Maybe—the answer would be too painful for me to take? Maybe—the killer—is standing right in front of me?

Trish again slapped me across the face—and screamed, "Ashley!"

"Wh—what?"

"What—do you know?"

I tried to focus. Unfortunately, it didn't work. "Wh—what?"

"You said you knew something!" Trish snarled. "What do you know?"

I could feel my brain scrambling for an answer. "I—I know who the killer is."

Trish stepped back in amazement. "You do?"

I nodded. It was a pretty weak nod, though.

I don't think you should've done that.

"Who is it?" she asked.

"It's—"

I was fuckin' lyin', you idiot! I don't know who the fuckin' killer is! It could be your goddamn mother for all I know!

My mouth was so dry; David Lean could've filmed Lawrence of Arabia 2 in it. How was I going to get out of this one? I gazed up towards the heavens for some guidance.

Ashley! This is God speakin'. You're fucked!

"Well?" Trish asked.

Ashley! This is God again. Tell her—it's a fuckin' secret!

My brain shifted into super-scramble mode. "I—I can't tell you—quite yet." I cautiously watched for a reaction. Seeing none—I continued. "When is the first ghost tour at Treasure Hall?"

She appeared rather puzzled. "We're going to have a practice run through this Friday night. Why?"

"Well—"

Trish's facial expression suddenly changed as she brought her hands to her mouth. She seemed almost impressed with me. "You're going to announce who the killer is—at the ghost tour?"

I cringed. "Wh—what?"

She actually bounced with excitement. "That would be fabulous," she beamed. "Can you imagine the publicity we would get? That would make the tour the hottest ticket in Newport!"

Ashley! This is God again. You're really fucked this time!

Before I could open my mouth, Trish walked off, leaving me standing there totally dumbfounded.

"This is great!" she said, totally inspired. "It will be like those Thin Man movies, back in the thirties. We'll get everyone who's involved with Treasure Hall to come to the tour on Friday, along with all of the possible suspects. And at the end of the tour—" she spun around and pointed her finger at me. "You'll reveal the killer! Just like William Powell did in the movies!"

We may need to change the name of our movie though. How about—The Fuckin' Stupid Man?

I weakly shook my head as I realized our discussion wasn't going as planned.

Trish gave me a serious smirk. "We'll naturally have the press there and the police, just in case!"

Trying to get back into the conversation, I began to pace alongside her. "I don't think that would be a very good idea."

She abruptly stopped. "Why not?" After thinking it over, her little smirk turned into a snarl. "You do know who the killer is—don't you?"

Do I tell her—I really didn't know who the killer is—and have her think I'm some crazed basket-case who shouldn't be let loose on the unsuspecting public? Or do I say yes—and just make a total fool of myself in front of dozens of Newport's finest? It was definitely a tough choice.

"Well?" she snapped.

If you say no, you can kiss any fuckin' chance of ever seein' her Foo Foo valve ever again.

I continued to struggle with my decision.

Plus—she'll never speak to you again! And remember, you already screwed up any chance of us depositin' anythin' into Bryce's spit bucket.

"I—I still had two days!" I mumbled softly. I could figure out—who the killer is in two days. I've solved tougher cases—in less time.

Sure you did! Remember the Brown case? You picked him up less than an hour after he shot that guy.

"Yes," I snarled. "But having two dozen witnesses' seeing him do it—did help."

Shit. I forgot about that. But—you have somethin' this time, which you've never had before!

I wracked my brain to remember—what that something was.

You want to show up Dickless!

As I thought it over—I found myself nodding. I did want to show him up, more than anything.

"Ashley!" screamed Trish. "Do you know who the killer is?"

"Yes," I said weakly as I lowered my voice to an inaudible mumble. "I think."

Trish beamed with pride. "Great!"

I quickly grabbed her elbow as I looked around the room to make sure no one was listening. Heinrich didn't count. "But—" I whispered sternly. "You can't tell anyone! I need the element of surprise, if this is going to work."

She nodded and winked at me. "I'll see you back in Newport." With that, she took my hand and gave it a little squeeze. As she walked towards the door, I couldn't help but savor that moment—as she squeezed my hand.

There would be a hell of a lot more to savor—if she squeezed me.

Nothing could wreck this moment for me. I could feel the connection between us. I hadn't felt this good in years. There was definitely—something there!

Wouldn't it be funny, if she turns out to be the fuckin' killer?

Having the moment wrecked, my attention immediately shot back to the photograph on the wall. "Well—Ash!" I told myself. "You better get moving. You—have a killer to catch!"

I didn't hear you? You're fuckin' babblin' again! Where are the jewels again?

Ignoring the question, I took the photograph off the wall and yelled, "Heinrich!"

He slowly shuffled over to me. "Sir?"

"Go rent us a car," I barked as I fumbled with the frame to find a way into it. "I need to get back to Newport as soon as—"

"I rented one earlier this morning, sir," he said. "It is vaiting downstairs."

I gave him a surprised glance. "You did?"

He returned my surprised glance—with a snooty nod.

"Vhat—about the bill?" I asked.

He nodded again. "I have already taken care of it, sir."

I hated it when he was so efficient. "Vhat—about the vindow and door?"

"Paid in full, sir."

I eyed him carefully. "The lamp?"

He smiled. One of those cocky smiles he knows I hate. "Paid in full, sir."

I quickly waved the photograph in his face. "Did you pay for this?"

Heinrich looked at the photograph somewhat puzzled.

I swiftly smashed the picture frame against the corner of the dresser, sending glass splintering to the floor.

Heinrich just nodded. "I vill take care of it immediately, sir."

"Thank you, Heinrich," I said as I pulled the photograph out of the broken frame.

You know! It would've been a lot manlier if you whipped me out and smashed the picture frame over—

"No!" I screamed. "No! Nooo!" I didn't have the time—or the fortitude to let that thought continue!. It sounded—rather bloody.

Fuckin' sissy.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The last forty-eight hours had been one long, continuous learning experience for me—not to mention an expensive one. I learned for instance; if you drive back from Maine in a rental car, and you get a flat, never allow a senile eighty year old to help change the tire. They sometimes get disoriented, walk out into on-coming traffic, and cause a multi-car pile-up. Some of the drivers hold grudges—along with names of their lawyers. On the positive side, I was pleasantly surprised to find out a great deal about friendship.

Give me a fuckin' break.

During our school days, there wasn't anything Roger and I wouldn't do for each other. I was pleased to find out—the passage of time hadn't changed that. When I called him and told him what I had gotten myself into—

Some friend! The asshole couldn't stop laughin'.

"He met with me when I got back to Newport—didn't he?"

Promising him five grand didn't fuckin' hurt.

"Well—"

We don't need that fuckin' idiot.

There's clearly too much information for me to sift through in the limited time I have. "There's the information Bryce had—"

Shit. I forgot about Bryce. I wonder what she's doin' right now?

"There's the information we got from old man Howell. Then there's the sleazy French chauffeur's story! There's the Admiral's tall tales! I need to make sure all these people were telling us the truth and not making crap—"

I bet she's masturbatin'—with one of those huge dill pickles. Remember them? You used to get them at that little luncheonette on Canal Street.

I began to vigorously shake my head.

Sure you do! It was a couple blocks off Wall Street.

I enthusiastically pushed forward with my rational for needing Roger's assistance. "There's no way—I can check all this out by myself! What would Sherlock Holmes do without Dr. Watson? What would Batman do without Robin?"

Stroll down to that luncheonette and buy one of those huge dill pickles—if you get my drift?

Massaging my throbbing temples, I pressed on. "I need Roger!" I snapped. "He's a cop! He can get into places—I can't!"

So can I. Big fuckin' whoop.

I closed my eyes as I pressed my palms deeper into my temples. "No! No—you can't!"

I can slip into Trish when she's—bendin' over—and check around for any of Dickless' fuckin' DNA. Can that asshole Roger do that?

"Leave me alone!" I snapped. "Just—just go away."

"Ashley?"

I opened my eyes and turned—to find Bryce walking towards me.

"Are you okay?" she asked. "What's wrong with your head?"

I was momentarily dumbstruck. I couldn't believe it was her. But there she was! In a dress so tight—it appeared to be painted on her. Like what—Sport's Illustrated does in their swimsuit issue where they paint the swimsuits on the models.

I had this dream once; that I was the brush they were usin' to paint in between Marisa Miller's legs.

"Are you all right?" she asked.

They finally had to stop usin' me because every couple fuckin' stokes, I started spurtin' out my own paint.

Well—I think that's what she said. To be perfectly honest—I was more interested in the incredibly sexy way she had her hair pulled over to the one side and—

That's not what she said! I heard her quite clearly. She said—'Please, fuck my ass!'

She walked up to me and carefully pulled my hands away from my head. "Are you all right?"

Somewhat rattled at the moment—I just stood there and stared at her.

"Are you all right?" she repeated for the third time.

Second time! The first time she said—'Please, fuck my ass!'

"I've been worried sick," she said. "It's almost nine! We were supposed to meet two hours ago. Where have you been?"

"Where have I been?" I asked myself as I looked around me. A better question might be—where was I?

Here we go again.

I had no idea where I was.

What a fuckin' asshole!

Fortunately, a swift scan of the area—thankfully, brought everything back to me. I was on Cliff Walk, in back of Ocean-Ridge Castle, which—just so happens to be located next door to Treasure Hall. I decided to walk to Treasure Hall by the way of the Cliff Walk so I could follow my father's final footsteps. I hoped it would clear my head—and perhaps give me some insight into who might be the killer.

Did it?

I shook my head. "Nope!" I was no closer to knowing who the murderer was today; than I did 48 hours ago—up in Maine. If Roger didn't come up with anything on the last few leads he was following up on—I was screwed. I'd have to go on Trish's ghost tour and somehow—bluff my way through.

"The tour will be starting pretty soon," Bryce said, interrupting my train of thought. "The guests are starting to arrive already." She touched my elbow with a concerned look. "Where have you been?"

Down here.

"I—I could ask you the same question," I shot back, remembering how I felt when Heinrich told me she had left me high and dry back in Maine. "Where have you been?"

It might've been close to nine o'clock, but it was still light enough to make out Bryce's confused smirk. "What?"

"You heard me," I snapped. "Some partner you are. I accidentally—"

Blow my wad on my ex-wife's lover.

I hesitated as I mentally edited my next thought. "And—and you high tail it out of town without even an explanation!"

Or a fuckin' kiss!

She gave me a slight chuckle. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about you flying back to New York! You didn't even have the decency to tell me why you were leaving."

It's not like I wanted a fuckin' blow-job.

She openly scoffed. "Didn't you read my note?"

A few well-placed licks might've been nice.

I hesitated momentarily. "Wh—what?"

Several gentle nibbles around—

"The note!" she growled. "The note, I wrote—telling you I was flying back to New York to meet Spike."

Spike!

"Spike?"

Bryce nodded firmly. "She called me that morning in Maine."

What did I fuckin' tell you! That large lesbian is makin' a move on her. Quick! Whip me out, before she goes over to the dark gooey side.

Bryce opened her purse and began to search through it. "Spike did some checking for me—"

This is your goddamn fault! You had your one fuckin' shot in Maine—and you go waste it on Dickless!

Bryce pulled out a piece of paper and handed it to me. "—and she came up with the name of the lead investigator who worked on the robbery for the insurance company. She and I met at the airport and we drove out to his place on Long Island to meet with him."

I smiled sheepishly as I started to read the paper.

"I wrote in the note, we should meet tonight in front of Treasure Hall, so we could go over what Spike and I found out."

You don't think she had a threesome with Spike and that investigator, do you?

Cringing, I forced out another sheepish smile.

Bryce disappointedly shook her head as she lifted herself up onto the cement wall. "So you didn't read my note?"

"I—I didn't get your note," I said as I watched her cross her long—shapely legs. "Honest!"

She openly scoffed. "I told—"

CRACK!

That sounded like—

A small section of the cement wall next to Bryce suddenly fragmented.

—a fuckin' gunshot!

Before Bryce could complete her scream, I swooped in, grabbed her, and dove under a bush.

Ouch! Will you fuckin' watch what the hell you're doin'!

Taking the full brunt of hitting the ground, I layed there motionless with my eyes closed—so Bryce could—compose herself.

You knocked the fuckin' wind out of yourself, didn't you?

I nodded painfully as I felt Bryce's warm breath spill over my face.

"Did someone just shoot at us?" she asked, in a nervous whisper.

I opened my left eye and winced as I found myself looking down the front of Bryce's plunging neckline.

Don't fuckin' panic! Here's the plan! Start feelin' her up. If she says anythin', just tell her—you're checkin' for bullet holes!

"Are you all right?" Bryce whispered.

I nodded. "I'm—I'm fine."

Since when are you a fuckin' soprano?

Bryce lowered her voice even lower. "If you're all right, what's wrong with your right eye? It's closed."

Clearing my throat—and opening both eyes, I rolled over and gently laid Bryce down on the grass next to me. "How—are you?" I asked. "Are you all right?"

She nodded rather nervously.

I tried my best not to appear too conspicuous as I watched her struggle to readjust her clothing—so nothing of real importance was left—exposed.

You know, you could give her a hand with that. Why don't you help her smooth out that wrinkle in her dress? See it, the one right on her ass? Take your hand and sort of—pat it down for her.

"Ashley!"

I heard Bryce say my name, but—for some reason, I found—the small leaf gently blowing across her perfectly shaped calves—a bit more interesting. "Yes?"

"Shouldn't you be looking that way?"

Reluctantly, I tore my eyes away from her legs.

Now tear them away from her wallopin' whammers.

I finally found myself looking into her concerned face. "Wh—which way?" I asked.

Bryce pointed towards the Castle. "Whoever shot at us is probably out there somewhere! Don't you think?"

"Yes!" I snapped. "Good! Very good! Good thinking!" I instinctively lowered my head and searched for an escape route. As usual, our options were limited. Fortunately though, not more than ten feet away was a row of hedges that lined the Castle's back property line. They weren't the tallest hedges, but they'd have to do. "Stay low and keep your head down," I told Bryce as I motioned for her to follow me. Flat on my belly, I crept towards the hedges.

Ouch! How many times have I told you? Never creep! You're draggin'—ouch! That was a fuckin' tree root you just crawled over!

Getting to my knees, I carefully peeked over the hedges.

"Do you see anyone?" asked Bryce as she suddenly appeared along side of me.

I shook my head. "Whoever it was—could be anywhere by now."

Just then, Bryce's hand shot across my face as she excitedly pointed at something. "Look!" she whispered. "Over there!"

Do you smell that? If I'm not mistaken, isn't that the faint aroma of a woman's—inner-most chamber?

Holding my breath—I followed Bryce's index finger to a row of large hedges.

And—it's comin' from Bryce's fuckin' finger!

I casually pushed Bryce's hand away from my face. "Yes," I whispered as I finally exhaled. "I—I see it."

She was masturbatin'! I told you!

I fine-tuned my squint on the obvious movement behind the hedges. There was no doubt about it; someone was walking on the other side of the hedges. Without looking back, I got into a low crouch and began to move in the direction of our mystery guest.

I don't particularly like you crouchin' either. If you unexpectedly whip me out, you know damn well, I'm goin' to hit the fuckin' ground.

"Be careful!" I heard Bryce say in a strained whisper.

Motioning to her to stay where she was, I quickened my pace towards the hedges.

You have considered the possibility that this guy you're about to pounce on, is the fuckin' shooter, right?

Thinking it over, my pace—slowed. "Yes. Why?"

Ergo—if he's the shooter, there's a high probability he still has the fuckin' gun on him.

Thinking it over, my pace—stopped.

Wouldn't it be a lot easier if you just tossed me out there and have the asshole trip over me? Then you could—

I frantically thought through my dilemma. Whoever he was—he was almost right on top of me. In a moment, he'd be able to see me. I had to make a choice! It was now—or never!

I vote never.

I quickly got to my feet—and with two long powerful strides; I jumped—propelling myself into the hedges.

Noooo!

I shot out the other side of the hedge in perfect position. I grabbed him, threw him to the ground, and had his one arm pinned behind his back in one lightning-quick move. I was amazed at how easily I was able to overpower him. He must've known he was no match for me and decided to forgo any resistance. He felt almost like—a rag doll.

Rag Doll! Four Seasons! 1965!

As I patted him down, I noticed that he was quit tall and rather thin—almost boney.

"Ashley!"

I looked up and found Bryce leaning over me. She appeared rather upset. "Don't worry," I said while reassuring her with a smile. "He's not going anywhere."

She impatiently tugged at my arm. "Get off of him! Let him go!"

I suspiciously glanced up at her. "Why?" Suddenly—I felt what appeared to be a barrel of a gun in his front pocket. It was huge! It must've have been a .44 magnum.

"It's Heinrich!"

Ewwww!

Remembering the incident at the rest stop, I immediately let go of his—magnum. I then stood up and casually wiped my hand off on my pants. "Are you sure?"

"Yes!" Bryce swiftly pushed me aside and—bent over—right in front of me.

Poke her! POKE HER!

Backpedaling away, I watched from a safe distance as she helped Heinrich to his feet. "Are you all right, Heinrich?" she asked sweetly.

"I—I believe so, Fraulein."

At the moment, I wasn't quite sure if it was my embarrassment for unknowingly pouncing on Heinrich—or my anger for not killing him—that was fueling my emotions. Eager to find out, I forcibly stepped forward. "What the hell were you doing sneaking—"

"Good evening, sir," he said while bushing the dirt off his soiled jacket. "No harm done."

"No harm done?" I shouted. "I could've killed you!"

Why didn't you?

I immediately grabbed him by the arm and rudely pulled him back on to Cliff Walk. "What are you doing out here?"

He looked at me with a nervous glare as his hand jetted up to his chin. "Vhat?"

I studied him for a moment before I rephrased my question—and increased the volume. "Vhat vere you doing—in there?"

"Ashley!" Bryce snarled, in that scolding tone of hers.

Appearing unable to look at me, Heinrich immediately turned away. "Vhere?"

With a stern finger, I pointed in the direction of the Castle. "There!"

He hesitated slightly. "Going—for a valk, sir."

The Nazi bastard's lyin'.

He was demonstrating text book signs of lying; the nervous look, his hands touching his face, the lack of eye contact, and the interrupted speech pattern! "A valk?" I asked while continuing to observe him. Then it hit me. I snatched up his hand and checked it for any signs of powder marks. "You didn't happen to take a shot at us a couple minutes ago—did you?"

"Ashley?" asked Bryce. "What are you doing?"

I dropped Heinrich's hand to his side and finished patting him down.

You've already checked his front pockets.

Bryce swiftly came to his aid and shooed me away. "Don't be silly! Why would Heinrich shoot at us?"

I stepped back and pondered Bryce's question as I continued to keep a curious eye on my mother's so-called chauffeur. "That's a very good question," I said. "And—here's another one! Why were you taking a walk so far away from the house? My mother never lets you leave the house after dark." I stepped towards him, my eyes glued to his pained face. "She's terrified that you'll fall down and hurt yourself. Does my mother know you're out here?"

Hey! I've got a couple of fuckin' questions too? Have we ever substantiated if Bryce swallows or spits?

I grabbed Heinrich's arm and shook him—just to get his attention. "Vell? Does she?"

"I—I don't know, sir."

Was he answerin' your question or mine?

"A couple of days ago," I snapped, "when Bryce's car blew up, you bumped into us at the marina. You said my mother sent you out shopping. That was a lie!" I pulled him over to the wall where I could see him more clearly—in the little light that was left. "She never sends you out alone to go shopping." I raised my voice slightly as another question came to me. I was really on a roll. "Why are you following me?"

"I'm—not following you," he said nervously. "Vhy vould I follow you, sir?"

I roughly let go of his arm. "That's what I want to know!"

I'd like to fuckin' know—at Thanksgiving, does Bryce like white meat—or dark meat?

Bryce guardedly stepped forward. "Heinrich," she said. "Why didn't you give Ashley the note I left with you?"

Confused, I turned to Bryce. "You gave him the note?"

Bryce nodded as she turned back to Heinrich. "Why didn't you give it to Ashley? I told you it was very important that he got it."

Seething, I grabbed Heinrich. "You said she didn't leave me a note!"

Heinrich began to stammer incoherently "I—I must have forgot, sir!"

"You're lying, Heinrich!" I yelled.

Let's beat it out of him! Like the fuckin' good old days!

I found my hand inching towards his throat. "I don't want any more lies, Heinrich!" Trying to get my point across, I grabbed his collar. "Answer me!"

Does Bryce spit or swallow?

As I lifted Heinrich off the ground, I immediately felt Bryce's hand pulling on my shoulder. "Ashley! What are you doing?"

I watched Heinrich's horrified expression—with glee. "I want the truth, Heinrich!"

White? Or dark meat?

Heinrich let out a short scream as I held him over the wall. "This is your last chance, Heinrich!"

Heinrich clung to my arm and pleaded. "Sir! Please!"

"Ashley!" screamed Bryce. "He's going to fall! Stop it!"

I slowly lowered him over the wall. "Why are you following me, Heinrich?" I yelled again over the pounding surf.

Bryce started punching my shoulder. "Ashley! Stop it! What the hell are you thinking! If you hurt him, they'll put you away for good!"

"You better tell me, Heinrich!" I screamed. "Why are you following me?"

"Sh—she made me!" I heard Heinrich scream. "I—I didn't vant too. Please! Please believe me!"

I looked back at Bryce and smiled as I yelled down to Heinrich. "Who is—she?"

An uneasy moment of silence passed as Bryce and I waited for his answer.

"Your mother," came his stoic reply.

"Your mother!" Bryce said, in total disbelief.

"She vanted to make sure you stayed out of trouble," Heinrich screamed.

"Why didn't you give Ashley my note?"

"Yeah!" I shouted. "Why didn't you give me the note?"

Another moment of silence passed before Heinrich's explanation. "Your mother—felt the Fraulein vas being a bad influence on you. She felt the less contact the two of you had, the better off you vould be. She instructed me to throw the note away and not say anything."

Somewhat confused, I pulled Heinrich up and sat him down on the wall. "How did my mother know about Bryce's note?"

Heinrich took a moment to allow the little blood he had left, to leave his head before he hesitantly continued. "I—I informed her of it that morning, vhen I called her."

"You called my mother that morning?" I barked. "You tattled on me?"

Goddamn stoolie! I say we shove his head up his ass and gas the fuckin' Nazi.

Heinrich nervously looked over the wall. "I—I vas instructed to make contact vith her every day and inform her of your actions, sir."

"You were spying on us?" Bryce asked indignantly.

I say—we throw him over the fuckin' wall.

I nodded in agreement. "Over he goes!" I shouted.

Heinrich's boney hands once again grabbed me. "No! Vait! She ordered me to do it! I had to obey! I am German! I must follow orders! She even had me follow your—" He suddenly fell silent as his glaze nervously danced between Bryce and I.

I tightened my grip on his collar, pulled him closer to me, and growled, "She even had you follow—who?"

He began to shake his head wildly. "No! I didn't say—"

"Yes, you did," Bryce coldly interjected. "You were about to tell us who else Ashley's mother had you follow."

He continued to shake his head. "No! No one! I made a mistake! I—I followed no one else!"

Splash the Nazi.

I grabbed Heinrich and pretended to push him over the wall. Over Bryce's bloodcurdling scream, I heard him yell; "Your father! She had me follow—your father!"

Verrrrry interestin'!
CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

I stood there flabbergasted as we listened to Heinrich spin his tales of following my father on his nightly rendezvous. And—there were plenty of them too. "Miss Hunter?" I asked Heinrich—somewhat amazed. "Are you sure? Miss Hunter? My fourth grade teacher?"

Heinrich nodded. "I'm afraid so, sir."

I pondered for a moment, the vision of my father and Miss Hunter together. It was a brief moment though. Any longer would've been too painful. Miss Hunter wasn't that attractive.

No wonder she kept pickin' you to be one of the captains for kickball. I knew it couldn't have been for your kickin' ability. You fuckin' sucked.

Bryce stepped forward. "And you reported back to Ashley's mother about everything?"

Heinrich nodded abruptly. "Of course!" He seemed astonished Bryce would even consider asking such a question. "I am—and always vill be her most trusted employee. She took me in vhen I had nothing. She gave me a job. A place to live! She is a saint!"

A fuckin' Saint Bernard.

"Why didn't your mother just divorce him?" Bryce asked me with a slight laugh.

I shrugged. "I don't—"

Heinrich quickly cleared his throat. "She did not vant an ugly scandal. She hated scandals."

Well—hell! When weren't you involved in a fuckin' scandal growin' up?

I mulled over the question. "I wouldn't actually call them scandals really," I mumbled. "They were more like—harmless pranks."

You call diggin' up Eddie Deever's dead grandmother and slidin' her under his bed, a harmless prank? I hear the little asshole is still in fuckin' therapy.

"That wasn't my idea!" I snapped. "Besides—it was Roger's shovel."

You set your high school's Thanksgivin' Day parade float on fire!

"That was an accident."

What about that game against Pilgrim? You were caught boinkin' Coach Vance's wife behind the bleachers durin' half-time.

I shuddered openly. "Well—"

Then there's the Amy Springer incident?

My eyes sprang open. "Hey!" I blurted out. "She said she was—"

I suddenly noticed Bryce—staring at me.

"—eighteen," I finished weakly.

Don't forget Mary Wright!

"All right!" I growled under my breath. "Thank you!"

And the three really hot Casey sisters!

Tired of growling, I silently hung my head in shame. "Okay! I'm a terrible son! I'll admit it; I put my mother through hell—growing up." I walked away from Bryce and Heinrich and looked out over the ocean's black abyss. "No wonder she had Heinrich follow me. I can't even imagine—the humiliation, I put her though."

Are we talkin' about the same woman here? This is The Bitch who gave you life, and then forgot you at the fuckin' hospital! She went home without you!

"She told me—it was postpartum depression."

Bullshit! When the hell are you goin' to wise up? She didn't cover up all those incidents to protect you, you moron! She did it to protect herself! She's a self-centered, manipulatin' bitch whore!

"Well—"

Why do you think she brought you back to Newport after you flipped out—because she enjoys your fuckin' company? She brought you back so she could keep you hidden away! You're a fuckin' embarrassment to her! She doesn't want you to get better. She wants you cuttin' fuckin' lawns for the rest of your life!

"She sure didn't sound like she wanted me to help Bryce, did she?"

Fuck no!

"Plus!" I mumbled. "She told Heinrich not to give me Bryce's letter. I'd be willing to bet she was hoping that would break up the investigation!"

My fuckin' thoughts exactly.

"She's trying to stop the investigation."

I don't know why everyone calls you dumb!

I looked back at Heinrich. "The question is—why?"

"Why—what?" I heard Bryce ask me, totally exasperated. "Are you all right? Why are you mumbling to yourself?"

A thought suddenly hit me as I found myself drawn to the spot where my father fell over the wall. "Heinrich," I yelled. "Did my mother have you follow my father the evening of Mrs. Howell's party?"

Hearing only the ocean's surf, I looked back over my shoulder to see Heinrich attempting to sneak off into the darkness. "Vait a minute!" I yelled as I grabbed him by the arm. "Not so fast! Vee are not done yet!"

Look at him! He's fuckin' scared. He looks like Adolf has just ordered him to—bend over—and pick up a fuckin' strudel.

He was more than scared. He was terrified. But the question was—why?

Heinrich anxiously cleared his throat. "Your mother is probably vaiting—"

"Let her vait," I snapped. "Did you follow my father the night of Mrs. Howell's party?"

Heinrich's body immediately stiffened. "I—I don't remember," he said nervously. "It has been so long—"

Over he goes!

I grabbed Heinrich again and hoisted him back up onto the wall. "Well! Heinrich!" I said coldly. "I'm afraid there's only one way to find out if you're lying or not."

"Yes! Yes—I did!" he blurted out. "I did follow your father that night!"

Works every fuckin' time!

I gently set Heinrich back on the ground and calmly straightened his uniform. "What happened?"

Reluctantly, he began. "I vas following him, vhen I heard a struggle and someone running. Vhen I came around the corner, I found your father lying there on the ground."

I took a few steps back so I could get a better view of the overall area. "Are you sure this is the spot?"

Heinrich nodded.

"Are you sure, Heinrich?" Bryce asked while sounding somewhat skeptical. "You found him lying here?"

As I watched Heinrich nod again, I carefully leaned over the wall and looked down onto the black jagged rocks below. "Well—this is approximately where he was found the next morning."

Bryce still appeared troubled. "Was he dead?"

"I could see he vas still breathing," Heinrich replied.

"Let me get this straight," I said as I carefully positioned myself where I thought Heinrich might've been that night. "As you came around these bushes here, you heard someone running off in that direction." I pointed to help Heinrich visualize my question. "Is that right?"

He nodded.

I swiftly continued. "Did you see who it was?"

"No, sir," he answered, in his typical chauffeur tone. "It vas too dark."

Bryce excitedly stepped forward. "That must've been Page!"

I nodded in agreement. I was thinking the same thing.

Bullshit! You were thinkin' about Bryce's fuckin' nipples again. You're starin' right at them!

Bryce suddenly turned away from me and faced Heinrich again.

Shit.

"I don't understand, Heinrich! Why didn't you call the police?"

"I did not think I needed too, Fraulein," Heinrich said. "Mr. Hard had a habit of falling down."

Bryce turned back to me with a cynical smirk. "Is that true?"

Oh! Look! They're callin' to you? 'Suck me, Ashley! Suck me!'

I wearily nodded in agreement. "Th—that is true."

Bryce appeared rather bothered by it all. "What did you do?" she asked Heinrich. "You didn't just leave him lying there, did you?"

"I picked up—"

Heinrich's sudden silence immediately caught my attention. His expression said it all. It was obvious he had said too much once again. However, Bryce beat me to the punch this time. "What did you pick up, Heinrich?"

He shyly cleared his throat several times.

"It didn't happen to be a bag of jewels—was it?" I asked.

Very good! I was thinkin' along the same line.

"No you weren't," I mumbled.

Hey! Fuck you! I was so!

Bryce hurriedly addressed Heinrich. "Was it the jewels, Heinrich?"

He nodded hesitantly.

Bryce eagerly stepped towards me. "How did you know that?"

She's impressed. I can tell. I sense her—inner juices stirrin'.

"Well—" I began slowly, "If you really thought about it—it's not that big of a stretch. Actually—it's quit logical. Page said throughout his trial, when he got to his car, he didn't have the jewels on him. If you believe him, it only makes sense—either someone took the jewels from him—or he dropped them."

Bryce looked rather perplexed. "So was your father involved in the robbery—or not?"

I chuckled openly. "My father was many things—"

A drunk! A philanderin' husband! A shity father! A cheat! A liar! Low-life scum bucket! A Jackson 5 fan!

"—but, I really don't think he was a thief."

Bryce could hardly contain her excitement. "How do you explain what happened?"

"I think it happened just like Page said it did. He was running away from the house with the jewels. He bumped into my father. They struggled. My father fell. Page dropped the jewels—and he ran off, not realizing he dropped them."

Bryce quickly added her two cents. "Heinrich could've scared him off."

I nodded as it sounded quite feasible. "The question now is—" I turned back to Heinrich. "What did you do with the jewels?"

His face tightened. "I—I buried them, sir."

I jabbed the shovel once again into the ground. "Are you sure this is the spot, Heinrich!" I asked urgently. "Because—if this isn't, I'm going to keep digging until I have a big enough hole to bury your skinny little—"

"Ashley," Bryce said in that calming tone of hers. "You're not helping the situation."

That's code—for keep your fuckin' mouth shut and keep diggin'.

Heinrich confidently pointed his boney finger in the proximity of my shovel. "I am sure this is it, sir."

I'll bet you fifty dollars; Bryce's areolas are bigger than a fifty cent piece.

"Wh—why did you bury the jewels in here, anyway?" I asked Heinrich.

Go ahead! Ask her!

Bryce quietly stepped up alongside of me. "I'd be willing to bet," she said softly, "he buried the jewels to protect your mother."

I chuckled as I tossed the shovel full of dirt to the side.

Hearing my chuckle, Bryce casually stepped in front of me. "What's so funny?"

"That's the dumbest thing I've ever heard," I calmly replied. "Why would Heinrich be—trying to protect my—"

I paused as Bryce leaned into me and whispered in my ear. "I have a sneaky suspicion your chauffeur has a crush on your mother."

This time—instead of chuckling, I let loose with a full-blown laugh.

Heinrich cautiously cleared his throat in my direction. "I'm afraid the Fraulein is correct, sir."

I immediately stopped laughing—and cringed.

"I did not vant your mother to get dragged into another one of your father's—situations." Heinrich respectfully cleared his throat again. "I did not know how the bag of jewels came to be lying next to your father, but knowing him as I did; I did not vant to take any chances." He nervously began to wring his hands together. "Until I found out vhose jewels they vere, I felt the safest thing for everyone, vas to hide them."

"Told you," hissed Bryce softly. "He would do anything for that mother of your's."

I raised a skeptical brow as I once again turned to Heinrich. "So you snuck back here and buried the bag of jewels."

Heinrich nodded. "I vas desperate! I did not vant your father vaking up and finding me holding them. One of the groundskeepers fortunately left a small shovel lying by one of the flower-beds." Squinting, he carefully inspected the area. "I am sure this is the spot, sir."

"Right," I growled, jabbing the shovel into the ground again. "That's what you said about the five previous spots."

"Give him a break, Ashley," said Bryce as she walked over to him. "It's been years since he buried the jewels." She sympathetically patted him on the back. "I'm sure this yard has changed dozens of times since then. New trees and hedges get planted. New gardens are started."

"This is hopeless!" I yelled, throwing down the shovel. "We could be here all night!"

"I am positive it is some vhere around here, sir," Heinrich added. "I remember it being by a tree."

"A tree?" I snapped. "Great! You buried it by a tree! That sure narrows it down!"

"Ashley," Bryce grunted impatiently. "Keep your voice down."

"Keep my voice down?" I snapped, throwing my hands up in defeat. "Look! Just look around you!" I stepped aside so she could see the sprawling grounds in front of her. "There's got to be close to a hundred trees planted on—" I paused—as I remembered something.

"What is it?" asked Bryce.

"Are you sure you planted it by a tree?" I asked Heinrich as I squinted off into the darkness.

"Vell—" he said, really slowly.

"Never mind, Heinrich!" I yelled as I picked up the shovel and took off running. "I don't have all night!"

"Where are you going?" I heard Bryce calling to me.

Where the hell are you goin'?

"The bump!" I wheezed excitedly. "Don't you remember? That raised patch of grass you're always telling me I forgot to mow! Dammit. I really need to stop talking to myself."

I was just about to suggest that.

"Yeah! Right! Dammit. I did it again!"

You're such a fuckin' idiot.

"Shut up."

Fuck you.

Reaching the pine tree, I got down on my knees and began to carefully move my hand over the ground. "It should be right around—"

There it is! Over there! There! Over there! Are you fuckin' blind!

Jumping to my feet, I grabbed the shovel and began to dig.

This is like bein' in a fuckin' Indiana Jones movie.

Bryce ran up alongside of me and leaned over the hole I was digging. "Do you think you found it?"

We could call it, Indiana Jones—and the Golden Sweater Kittens! No! Wait! What about, Indiana Jones—and the Golden Water Balloons!

I wrestled my gaze away from Bryce's—

Warheads.

—and continued to dig.

No! No! Indiana Jones—and the Ski Slopes to Heaven!

Just then—a tiny sparkle caught my eye at the bottom of the hole. I immediately looked up and saw the moon had moved out from behind the clouds, graciously bathing us in another few minutes of moonlight. Directing my attention back into the hole, I bent down and reached into the hole with my hand.

I probably could reach further.

"Shut up!"

Besides, I'm more at home in dark damp holes.

"Ouch!"

Bryce jerked suddenly. "What happened?"

I pulled my hand out of the hole and inspected my finger.

Bryce leaned into me to get a closer look at my finger. "What is it?"

"It appears to be—" I said while extracting a long sliver from my bleeding finger, "a piece of glass."

On second thought, maybe you made the right call not slidin' me in there, first.

"How would a piece of glass get buried that deep into the ground?" I asked as the hole once again attracted my full attention.

Are you askin' me?

I lowered my hand back into the hole and began to carefully sift through the dirt.

"Did you find something?" Bryce asked.

I gently pulled a badly decomposed cloth bag from the hole. "I have a feeling," I said, "that old man Howell has some explaining to do."

"Is it the bag of jewels?" Bryce asked impatiently.

"No," I said, "the bag of glass."

Bryce looked up at me totally befuddled. "What?"

Holding the tattered bag in one hand, I carefully opened it—exposing the contents for Bryce and I to see.

Hey! Aren't you fuckin' forgettin' someone? You insensitive bastard!

As Bryce and I looked over the contents of the old bag, I couldn't help but feel rather good about myself. My hunch was right.

Bryce carefully picked up the last unbroken stone. "You're right! They are fake!" Before she could inspect it closer, it splintered in her hand and fell to the ground.

"There you are, Ashley!"

I recoiled as I immediately put a face to the voice; the emotionless tone, the air of superiority. It was—unmistakable.

At least she's not askin' you if you're masturbatin' again.

"It's your mother," I heard Bryce say in a soft whisper.

I was way ahead of her.

"And she's walking this way," Bryce added.

Hearing that, the realization of my predicament hit me. I was holding a bag full of fake jewels in my hand. How was I going to explain them—without implementing Heinrich?

"What are you doing, Ashley?" I heard my mother ask.

I causally slid the bag back into the hole and nonchalantly pushed a handful of dirt over it. Then—wiping my hands on my pants, I got to my feet and turned around. "Mother? What a pleasant surprise!"

No it's not.

She glanced over at the shovel lying on the ground. "It's not nice to lie to your mother," she said coldly. "Did you find what you were looking for?"

I froze momentarily as I thought her question through. She knew. She knew exactly what we were looking for. But how? Who could've told her? "How did you know—Bryce and I were out here?"

My mother—just smiled.

If you ask me, I would characterize it as a—fuckin' evil smile.

Continuing to smile, she coolly strolled up to me and gently patted my cheek. "Your mother has eyes everywhere, dear."

My hands instinctively curled up into fists. "Heinrich!" I mumbled under my breath. I eagerly scowled the grounds for him.

The fuckin' Nazi squealed on us again!

It had to be him! But why would he tell my mother about the jewels—now? After all these years! It didn't make sense. "Although—" I muttered as another thought slapped me across the face. "He could've been—lying to us."

You think! Did you catch my fuckin' sarcasm—that time?

"Heinrich!" I screamed.

Bryce leaned into me and lowered her voice. "He's not here. He must have slipped away when we—"

My mother rudely grabbed my arm and directed my attention away from Bryce. "Never mind Heinrich," she said with a smile.

A fuckin' evil smile.

"We need to get back to the house," she added. "They've started the tour."

"Yeah," I said weakly. "But first, Bryce and I need to—" My mind seemed to go to mush as my mother glared up at me with one of her patented arched eyebrows.

Uh! Oh! The eyebrow! You're fucked!

My mother smiled again.

Fuckin' evilly.

"Ashley! We need to get you back to the house—now!"

I tried to press my point. "But—"

"We'll talk!" she added in a low growl. "Later!"

Holy shit! Remember what happened last time she said, 'We'll talk!' to you?

I struggled to piece together the incident in my head.

You were in the second grade.

My left eye suddenly twitched. "I remember—getting hit."

You're gettin' fuckin' warmer.
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

As Bryce and I followed my mother back towards Treasure Hall, I couldn't help but give my head a little shake. "No!" I mumbled for the umpteenth time. "I don't remember."

Of course you do! You're just not tryin' hard enough.

I foolishly replied with another shake of my head. Unfortunately, it wasn't as well concealed as the others.

"Are you developing some sort of twitch, dear?" I heard my mother ask in that cold uncaring tone of hers.

You don't remember gettin' kicked out of the Country Club's pool for flashin' me to Cindy Parker?

Refocusing, I found my mother up ahead—staring back at me. "Did—you say something, Mother?"

"You're shaking your head, dear," she replied coldly. "Have you come down with some nervous disorder?"

No doubt trying to spare me the little pride I had left, I watched Bryce turn her head so I wouldn't see her laughing.

Rising up to my full height, I gallantly faced my mother. "No," I said. "I'm fine. Thank you."

My mother immediately threw me another raised eyebrow. "Maybe that fall down the stairs the other night was more serious than we thought. Maybe I should have Dr. Miles take another look at you?"

"I'm fine!" I blurted out. "I'm fine! Watch!" With my head held high, I glided over to my mother with all the agility and grace of a gazelle. "See! No shaking! No trembling!"

If you were really fine, you'd be able to remember what The Bitch did to you for tauntin' Cindy Parker with me.

I felt my face go thought multiple contortions as I desperately tried to remember.

Let me give you a hint. She pulled me out of your pants and wacked me with a fuckin' ruler.

"Ooow!" I bellowed as the memory spewed from the bowels of my unconscious—in a series of vivid and horrific images! Clutching my groin, I doubled over, staggered forward, and dropped to my knees.

Stop bein' such a baby. It didn't hurt. Don't you remember? I snapped her fuckin' ruler right in half.

Out of nowhere, I felt Bryce take a hold of my arm. "Ashley! What's wrong?"

"Nothing," I whimpered as I attempted to get back on my feet. "I'm—all right, I think!"

Have you noticed, The Bitch isn't askin' you if you're okay?

"What happened?" Bryce asked.

You better say somethin' before she calls 911. But—I wouldn't bring up the ruler incident. Too fuckin' weird!

I'll say! What mother goes around slapping her kid's—

Devirginator.

Whatever happened to a good old fashioned spanking?

Speakin' of a spankin', Bryce is still waitin' for an answer. You better tell her somethin'!

I was stymied. Nothing was coming to me. "My—"

Tell her your cock-ring had a malfunction.

"—my cock-ring malfunctioned."

A disgusted grimace swiftly skipped across Bryce's face. "Whaaaat?"

How many fuckin' times are you goin' to fall for that one?

Bryce quickly let go of me—and backed away. Without her steady hand and with my hands still clutching my—

Pussy plunger.

I immediately lost my balance and fell over like some duck in a shooting gallery.

"Come along my dear," I heard my mother tell Bryce in her coldest of tones. "He's not well. He needs help."

I fumbled in the dark to get to my feet. "I'm fine!" I yelled. "I was just kidding about the cock-ring—thing!" Not watching where I was going, I tripped over a tree root and fell over again. "Dammit."

Say somethin'! She's leavin'!

"I—I have jock-itch!"

Oh! Brilliant! Fuckin' brilliant! I guess we know who won't be gettin' licked tonight.

"Shut up!"

Fuckin' jock-itch! That's the best you could come up with?

Reluctantly, I started up Treasure Hall's front steps. "Just shut up!"

"Talking to yourself again, Hard?"

Looking up, a shadowy figure at the far end of the porch caught my attention. It was times like these; I wished I'd listen to Abba Dabba. He told me weeks ago to change that blown out porch light. "Good evening," I said while building up enough courage to step up onto the dark porch.

A match's flame suddenly flickered in the dark as it lit a large cigar. Before it went out, I noticed—a rather bushy mustache too.

Shit! It's Carp.

"Sergeant," I growled in disgust. "Who invited you?"

He nodded suspiciously as he reached into his coat pocket. "No one invited me," he said quite bluntly. "I was talking to your buddy Marsh. He told me you're planning on unmasking Cottman's and that transsexual's killer during your ex-wife's little shindig tonight."

Forcing out a smile, I tried my best to cover my annoyance with Roger for spilling my plans. "Did he really?"

He finally pulled a rolled up piece of paper from his pocket. "I couldn't miss that, could I?"

Need I point out, he's fuckin' mockin' you.

I forced another smile before replying. "I'm assuming you're here then—to see how it's done?"

Carp's growl was clearly audible as he walked out into the moonlight.

I think you hit a fuckin' nerve with that one.

"Don't worry, Sergeant," I added. "I'll talk really slow so you'll be able to keep up."

Good one.

"And—by all means, take as many notes as you need too."

You can almost smell his blood startin' to boil.

With his hand trembling with rage, Carp reached out with the rolled up piece of paper and jabbed it into my chest. "To be honest, I'm hoping you don't come up with the killer."

He's about to blow. Finish the fucker off.

Curious by his reply, I continued cautiously. "Really?"

Really? What the fuck was that? That's the best you could come up with? Really?

Carp slowly backed away from me and forced out a smile of his own. "Yep!"

Somewhat confused, I hesitated a moment before asking, "And—why is that?"

He teasingly shook the rolled up piece of paper at me. "Because—the moment you fail to reveal who the killer is, I'm putting the cuffs on you and dragging your sorry ass off to jail. And like I said before, not even mommy will be able to help you this time."

He's not talkin' those fur-lined handcuffs, is he?

Intrigued, I wanted to hear more. "You're going to arrest me—for not solving the murders?"

Carp rudely threw the rolled up paper at me. "I have you at Cottman's place at the exact time of his death."

Oooh! Shit!

Who squealed?

My money's on the fuckin' Nazi.

Trying to show no fear, I coolly unrolled the paper and found myself eyeing the front page of the style section of the Newport Daily News. I was confused to say the least. I gave Carp a momentary glance as I pondered why he would want me to look at the fashion section of the local newspaper?

Maybe he doesn't like the way you fuckin' dress?

Carp said nothing as he continued to—stare at me. Thinking I must be missing something, I again looked down at the paper. But—what was there to miss? It was a photograph of a woman on a beach. In a swimsuit—

A fuckin' skimpy swimsuit.

Forcing myself to focus, I took a closer look at the boulder she was leaning against. "Where—have I seen that boulder before?"

Forget the damn boulder. Look at that fuckin' ass on her!

Struggling with the porch's poor lighting, I brought the paper closer to my face while tightening my squint.

Closer! A little closer! That's good! Now—lick her.

I swiftly moved the paper away from my face and—I'm ashamed to say, retracted my tongue.

Wait! That's Gisele!

"It's not Gisele!" I snapped as I again focused on the photograph. Well—I tried anyway. "Dammit. Why didn't I change that light bulb?" Totally frustrated at the lack of available light, I walked over to the edge of the porch to get as much moonlight on the picture as I could.

Notice the way she's lookin' at me? She wants me.

I'd seen this picture before; the beach! The boulder! The house in the background! Why couldn't I remember? I felt like—I was reliving some strange dream—

Do you remember that really cool Led Zeppelin song, 'Whole Lotta Love'?

Suddenly, I heard Carp snicker. I looked up and found him pointing at the picture. "Check out the lower right hand corner."

Feeling somewhat compelled to obey; I casually looked down at the corner of the picture.

"Do you recognize him?" he asked, with a little chuckle.

Unfortunately—I did. It was me—standing on the beach in back of Cottman's house.

Wanna whole lotta love! Bam! Bam! Wanna whole lotta love!

"Do you see him?" Carp asked. "That's you, Hard!"

Shake for me, girl! I wanna be your backdoor man!

Trying to pull myself together, I looked over at Carp. He had this huge cocky grin on his face, like he'd just pissed on someone's leg without them knowing it. Still grinning, he took the cigar out of his mouth and proudly pointed it at the picture. "We got a hold of the original print and blew it up," he said gleefully. "It's you!"

I'm gonna give you every inch of my love!

"Face it, Hard," he said, putting the cigar back in his mouth. "I got you! I got your goddamn finger prints inside the house! And I got you coming out of the house—minutes after Cottman's death!"

Waaaaay—down—innnnnside! Bam! Bam! Wanna whole lotta—

"Will you stop that goddamn humming?" Carp yelled.

"Wh—what?"

Shaking his head, he turned and walked towards the front door. "You can keep that copy. I've got plenty." As he reached for the door handle, he stopped. "Just in case you try anything stupid, I got the entire place surrounded with my men."

I calmly scanned the sprawling moonlit lawn. "Really?"

"Oh! Yeah! One more thing," he added. "I told them—shoot to kill."

What a fuckin' asshole.

Under different circumstances, I probably would've questioned his motives for giving his men such an order, but at that moment—my attention was focused on something a bit more troubling.

What is it? Do you see one of his fuckin' goons about to shoot me?

I turned back to Carp, only to see the huge wooden door close behind him. Realizing I was alone, I again checked out the driveway.

What the hell is it?

I nervously bit my lip. "That parked car over there."

Which parked car?

I pointed. "That parked car!"

There's probably two dozen fuckin' parked cars out there! Give me a fuckin' hint! Do I look like the Amazin' Keskin? I'm not a goddamn mind reader?

"The red BMW!"

Ooooh!

As I stepped though Treasure Hall's front door—my concerns about the red BMW took an immediate backseat to the question that popped into my head as I looked around the massive entranceway.

Hey! My question first! Suppose—you're gettin' a blow job from some really hot chick. But—she has this terrible cold. Her nose is totally stopped up. She can't breathe through it!

I looked towards the heavens. "Why me?"

Will you let me fuckin' finish?

I carefully closed the door behind me. "All right."

Thank you! Suddenly—POW! I shoot my entire load down her throat. I'm talkin'—I empty both barrels.

I again looked towards the heavens and wondered—why?

Is there any possibility, if she's really determined to get every last drop, could she—accidentally drown?

Closing my eyes, I began to gently rub my throbbing temples.

What was your question?

"I—I was just wondering what happened to all the lights?"

Wow! You're right! It is fuckin' dark in here, isn't it?

It was darker in here than it was outside. The only illumination I saw was from a handful of small candles, strategically placed around the entranceway. I had to hand it to Trish, the atmosphere just screamed ghosts. The place was downright creepy. In fact—I sort of regret not bringing a flashlight.

You know, if this was the wizardin' world, you wouldn't need a fuckin' flashlight. You could ask Emma Watson to grab me like a wand—and have her yell, ejaculatetum!

My hands immediately shot to my head—again.

My purplish glow could easily light this entire—

I winced openly as my fingernails inadvertently dug into my scalp. "Will you please—shut up!" I screamed.

"Now, you're screaming to yourself?"

Startled—I turned to find Carp standing next to me, grinning from ear to ear.

Good goin'.

"Ashley?"

Startled—again, I spun around only to be—startled again! Standing in the darken archway was—my mother. Her icy glare appeared to have reached absolute zero. And—to make matters worse, Dr. Benjamin and Dr. Gibson, the director of the Cleardale Hills Hospital, were flanking her like some oddly shaped pair of bookends.

What did I tell you! She's tryin' to get you fuckin' committed.

"Mother," I said with a forced calm.

"Were you the idiot screaming out here?" she asked.

"Wh—what?"

"Do you see what I mean, Jules," my mother quickly pointed out. "He's gone completely over the edge."

"Who's gone over—what edge?" I asked nervously while scanning all three of their faces. "There's—no edge!"

"What your mother—I think is trying to say, Ashley," replied Dr. Benjamin, "is that she's afraid this added responsibility of helping this reporter with her story has been—let's say too much, too soon. I might've pushed you into this before you were ready."

That's fuckin' code—for your padded room is ready.

"Wait a minute!" I snapped. "I'm fine. I'm super! Super dooper! Super doper—pooper!" I knew I went too far as a concerned scowl registered on Dr. Gibson's face. Dammit. Why do I keep doing that?

Cause you're a fuckin' lunatic. Will you please calm down! And focus!

I did focus. On my mother—and to be perfectly honest, I didn't like what I saw. She seemed to be enjoying herself. She was actually smiling. I hadn't seen her smile like that since—

Your father's funeral.

Suddenly—I felt someone grab me. Turning, I saw Dr. Gibson standing next to me, holding my arm. "Maybe you need a little rest?"

Diversion alert! I repeat! Diversion alert!

"Nooooo! No!" I quickly pulled away from his grip. "I'm fine! I don't need a little rest, thank you!" This was not going well. I felt my eyes rapidly searching for the nearest exit as I wracked my brain for a possible diversion.

What about—you whip me out and begin twirlin' me around like a lasso while hummin' the theme song to—Rawhide? That might give them somethin' else to fuckin' think about.

"Wh—what!"

My mother took an ominous step towards me. "Ashley! I think you should go with Dr. Gibson."

Just then—my prayers were answered.

What the hell are you talkin' about? I don't see Bryce kneelin' down in front of you, unbucklin' your pants?

I cringed mentally as I growled, "I was referring to the commotion going on over there!"

Oooh!

It was the tour. They walked out of the west wing and appeared to be regrouping in front of the marble staircase. It's hard to ignore a mob of people in a dimly lit room, carrying old fashion lanterns. From this distance, they looked like extras in one of those old Universal monster movies from the 1940's, where the villagers would go out and search for the monster, then kill it in the climactic scene.

Hey! Hey! Over here! She's over here!

As the group mingled about at the bottom of the staircase, one of them broke away from the pack and began walking towards us. I couldn't make out a face, but I knew it was a woman. The lantern she was carrying at her side illuminated an extremely short skirt, along with a very shapely pair of legs.

You fuckin' idiot! It's your ex-wife.

My squint tightened. "No! No—it's not!"

Need I remind you how many fuckin' times I was between those legs?

"There you all are!"

"Dammit," I mumbled. It was Trish.

Told you.

"I was afraid you weren't coming," Trish said, rather relieved.

She looked absolutely fabulous. She'd done something different with her hair. I liked it. It was sort of—pulled up in the back and twisted—

Don't start unzippin' your pants just yet. She obviously did it for Dickless.

"Oh! Yeah!" I mumbled. "On second thought—I hate it."

"I'm sorry we're so late, Trish," I heard my mother say, in that sickening sweet tone of hers. "But—I'm afraid we won't be able to take the tour tonight."

Appearing somewhat confused, Trish looked around at the five of us. "Is something wrong?"

I watched as my mother reached out and gently took Trish's hand. "Something has come up, dear, that Dr. Benjamin and Dr. Gibson feel we need to deal with tonight. I'm afraid it won't be pleasant. I'll call you tomorrow."

Trish immediately glared at me. "What the hell have you done, now?"

All I could do was shrug my shoulders as the cold fact hit me—my mother was about to have me committed.

Say somethin'! Don't let her do this to you! You have to take this fuckin' tour! You need to draw out the killer! Don't forget, he's probably in this house right now. In fact, you could be standin' right next to him! Or her!

I anxiously eyed each one of them.

Need I remind you, what's goin' to happen if you don't come up with the fuckin' killer tonight? If Old Walrus-Breath over there doesn't arrest you, The Bitch is surely goin' to have you committed! You'll never get Trish back! And—she'll probably go off and marry Dickless! You want that low-life, scum-bucket touchin' those legs of hers?

"Ashley," I heard Trish say. "Why are you staring at my legs? And—are you drooling?"

Of course you don't want that! And—you are droolin'! Stop it! And—don't forget Bryce! She's dependin' on you! And—I still need to prove to you that she's completely shaved. We still have that bet!

"Ashley?" I heard Dr. Benjamin say. "Why are you grinning like that? What are you thinking—right now?"

Forget Fat-boy! He can't fuckin' help you. He's a quack! A fuckin' fat quack! But I can! I can help you. We can do this together. Like the old days. Just the two us! But first—you need to get us on that fuckin' tour!

"Ashley?" Doctor Gibson asked while eyeing me suspiciously. "Are you all right?"

Refocused, I swiftly addressed all of them. "I'm fine!"

My mother suddenly reached out for my arm. "I think we should be going, Ashley."

I fleetly maneuvered around her outstretched hand and hustled over to Trish. "In a minute, Mother," I said, with a really fake smile. "I believe Trish and—"

Dickless.

"—Richard! Has gone to a lot a trouble to put this—ghost tour together tonight! It would be rude of us to miss it. Besides—who knows! Maybe we'll see—a real ghost tonight! Wouldn't that be fun?"

I could sense my mother's hostility rising. "Dr. Gibson and Dr. Benjamin feel you need rest, dear."

I slipped my smile into—Super-Bright mode. "I'm sure I'll get plenty of rest—after the tour."

Trying to prod Dr. Benjamin and Dr. Gibson into some kind of action, my mother shot the two doctors one of her more heated stares.

To be honest, I was pretty sure I had the upper hand. They obviously didn't bring their nets with them, so I figured they weren't in any real position to try anything—overtly anyway. Plus—I was a lot bigger than they were.

In more ways than one.

The two medical men sheepishly looked at one another and shrugged their shoulders. Dr. Benjamin was the first to address my irate mother. "I don't think it would hurt anything to allow Ashley to finish the tour."

"I would have to agree, Marjorie," Dr. Gibson added. "As long as he promises—"

"I promise!" I blurted out as I got behind them and began to herd them towards the marble staircase—and the waiting tour. "We better hurry up! We don't want to miss anything!"

This might be the perfect time for you to whip me out and start hummin' the theme song to Rawhide.

"Some help—you're going to be," I mumbled softly.

Move'em on, head them up! Head'em up, move'em on! Move'em on, head'em up! Rawhide!
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

Rollin'! Rollin'! Rollin'! Keep those doggies rollin'! Rawhide!

My mother angrily pulled away from the hold I had on her arm and sneered up at me. "What the hell are you humming?"

"Humming?" I replied, somewhat baffled. "I'm not—humming."

With a frustrated grunt, she walked off towards the waiting villagers. "Good evening everyone," she yelled, with welcoming arms, "please forgive us for being so late. I hope we didn't hold you up? I hope you all ..."

Allowing my mother to do her usual boring introductions and insufferable pleasantries, gave me the perfect opportunity I needed to casually enter into what I hoped would be an unobserved orbit around the lantern toting mob. I needed time to observe each one of them; their mannerisms, their facial expressions, their body language. One of these Cretans—was a cold-blooded killer, and I had to figure it out before this evening was over. And—the best way to learn something about a person—was by observing them. And—the best way to observe them was to observe them without them—observing you.

That's true. Remember back in college? You'd never have known a woman could sniff her own slot if you hadn't aimed your telescope towards the girl's dorm and observed that really hot freshman on the third floor doin' yoga in the nude.

"Focus!" I mumbled as I caught sight of my first possible suspect on the list I was mentally complying. "Admiral Gangiss!"

Yep! He gets my vote. He's the killer!

I took a moment to think it over. "I don't know."

What's there to know? Look at that crazed look in his eyes.

Upon closer scrutiny—it appeared to me, he was just trying to peek down the front of Bryce's dress again.

Fuckin' pervert.

Suddenly, my attention locked on to Carp, who was standing on the other side of Bryce.

He is tryin' to look down the front of her dress too? The fat fucker.

I shook my head as I continued to watch him—with interest.

How much you want to bet, he's the fuckin' killer?

"Nooo," I moaned softly. "I don't think so, but—I sure would like to know what he's talking to Bryce about. Its times like these that I wished I'd learned to read lips."

I can read lips. It's easy.

I casually shook my head. "No! No—you can't," I said as I fought the urge to storm over there and see what Old Walrus Breath was trying to get out of her.

Or in to her.

I could see the determination on his face as he continued to grill Bryce. He was definitely pressing his point—whatever it was. I could tell by the way he was waving his cigar around.

I'm tellin' you, I can read fuckin' lips.

I closed my eyes. "Will you, please—leave me alone?"

I'll show you. He's sayin'—I'll be Bill Clinton! You can be my intern!

It didn't take a genius to figure out what he was after. He was obviously trying to tie me to one of the murders. If I didn't come up with the real murderer before tonight was over, I was going to have to do—some fast talking.

Oh! Haven't I told you? I know who the murderer is.

"Don't start that again," I snarled as I unfortunately found myself staring directly at Spike. She was just standing there—staring at me, like I was some kind of raving lunatic.

Well you are, aren't you?

That was beside the point.

Jeez! Look at her! If she was any more masculine, she'd be Jean-Claude Van Damme.

Hoping it might satisfy her curiosity; I gave her a small nod and mouthed, "Dyke!"

She mouthed back, "Ash-hole!"

"... once again, I'd like to thank you all for coming!" shouted my mother while pulling my attention away from Spike's bloated triceps. "And with that, let me direct everyone's attention once again to our guide for this evening, Newport's favorite resident historian, Vivian Spikely."

I cringed openly at hearing the name.

Spike immediately started a brisk round of applause for her mother, along with several drunken sailor-like hoots for good measure.

What a fuckin' suck-up.

Suddenly—from out of the crowd, came the annoyingly shrill sound of Mrs. Spikely's voice. "Thank you, Marjorie!"

I couldn't help but cringe again. I knew that voice—all too well.

You should. She yelled at you enough in high school.

Out of the corner of my eye, a small hooded figure began to ascend the marble staircase.

Remember how she would point that stubby little finger of hers at you and scream, 'Mr. Hard! There will be no runnin' in the halls! Mr. Hard! What are you doin' in the girls' locker room? Mr. Hard! I will see you in detention!'

"Thank you," she said as she turned around and flipped her hood off of her head.

My favorite one was, 'Mr. Hard! Put that back in your pants.'

Seeing her face, I automatically cringed—yet again. It was Vivian Spikely, all right. The meanest, littlest, pain-in-the-ass history teacher, Rogers High School ever had.

She wanted me.

"We'll be heading up to the upper floors now," she said, raising her lantern above her head. "But, before we do, does anyone have any questions on what we've covered so far?"

For some reason—my hand instinctively shot up into the air.

What the fuck are you doin'?

I could feel my arm pit begin to moisten as every eye in the place—latched on to me.

Please tell me you're not goin' to ask to go to the fuckin' bathroom. You're not in her class anymore.

I watched in horror as Mrs. Spikely's face contorted at the sight of me—and my raised hand. Reluctantly, she pointed her stubby little finger in my direction. "Yes? Mr. Hard! You have a question?"

"Wh—what?"

You forgot your fuckin' question, didn't you?

"Shut up," I mumbled as I rapidly searched my memory for it.

Ask her why she didn't consider havin' an abortion with Spike.

"Ahhh—" I gurgled uncomfortably.

"You don't have a lantern, Mr. Hard!" Mrs. Spikely snapped as she continued to point her little finger at me. "Everyone should have a lantern! It will be very dark in some of the hallways upstairs. We don't want any accidents!"

I glanced down at my empty hands and then up at—what seemed like thousands of eyes—staring at me. "No!" I blurted out. "I—I really don't need a lantern."

Yes we do! Everyone else has one. I want one.

"Are you sure, Mr. Hard?" Mrs. Spikely said. "I'm sure we can come up with—"

"No! Please! Mrs. Spikely!" I pleaded. "I really don't need one. Honestly!"

Fuckin' pansy! What? The little lantern too fuckin' heavy for you to carry?

"Shut up," I growled softly.

I'll carry it. Just sling that baby over me—

"Oh!" I yelled, finally remembering my question, "I—I just wanted to point out that whoever's red BMW that is outside—"

I bet I'd cast a really cool shadow on the wall.

I quickly scanned the room. "You—you left your lights on."

A hush fell over the dark entranceway as everyone immediately glanced around at each other.

What the hell are you talkin' about? The BMW's lights weren't—wait! You're tryin' to trick him, aren't you? That's fuckin' brilliant! Whoever makes a move towards the door to shut off the BMW's lights—is the killer! Shit! Why didn't I fuckin' think of that?

"It will only be brilliant," I whispered, "if the killer falls for it." I held my breath as I watched everyone's reaction.

No one's movin' towards the fuckin' door. This isn't good.

I had to agree. No one made even the slightest move towards the door. Obviously, he didn't fall for my little trick.

Now I know why I didn't think of it. It fuckin' stinks!

Not only didn't the killer fall for it, I've now given him the upper hand. He knows—that I know—he's here somewhere among the guests. Plus—he can observe me—but I can't observe him.

Not only that, but by not fallin' for your stupid trick, he's also made you look like a fuckin' idiot in front of all these dumb fuckers.

"Well, Mr. Hard," Mrs. Spikely said in a rather mocking tone, "it appears, the car doesn't belong to anyone here. We'll look into it after the tour, if that's all right by you?"

I nodded weakly.

Spike's mother raised her lantern towards the dark staircase up ahead. "If you all will follow me, we'll head up to the upper floors. Please watch your step."

As the group followed Spike's mother up the staircase—it hit me. "That's it!"

What's it?

Not saying a word, I let my focus slowly climb to the darkened floors above me. "He's not on the tour," I mumbled. "He's up there somewhere—waiting to make his move."

"This beautiful staircase is made entirely out of Italian marble," I heard Spike's mother say. "It was shipped to Newport at a cost of ..."

At that moment, I felt a strange presence behind me. I could feel the warmth of its breath—

It could be the killer. Whatever you do, don't—bend over. He could be gay.

Holding my breath, I whirled around—

AAAAGH!

—to find Trish standing behind me.

Sorry.

"I don't know what's going on in that head of yours, or what's up between you and your mother," she said in a scathing low snarl, "but—if you do anything to wreck this evening for Richard and I, I will personally rip off your left nut!"

I winced.

"Fillet it!"

I winced again.

"Sauté it in its own juices!"

Kinky!

"And feed it to the first goddamn stray dog I see!"

Remember that list of possible suspects you were mentally compilin'? You might want to think about puttin' Trish's name on it. Somewhere near the fuckin' top.

I stood there in silence, pondering what she said as she stormed up the staircase towards—

"Ash?"

Startled—I whirled around again—

AAAAGH!

—to find Roger standing behind me.

Sorry.

He swiftly rammed a folder into my hands and nervously glanced up the staircase. "I can't let Carp see me talking to you. He'll kill me."

I opened the folder and eagerly began to read through it. "Were you able to check into everything I asked you too?"

"Yeah," he replied, continuing to look up the staircase. "But listen—Carp is planning on arresting you as soon as the tour is over, if you don't come up with the murderer."

Unable to see much of what was in the folder due to the lack of lighting, I grabbed Roger's lantern from him and raised it over the folder so I could read it better.

"Ash!" Roger snapped. "Did you hear me?"

I gave him a quick nod. "Let me worry about Carp, okay?" I looked up into Roger's terrified face. "Did you have any trouble getting our—mystery guest inside the house? No one saw you bring him in—did they?"

Once again, Roger nervously scanned the dark staircase before answering. "Are you sure this is legal?"

Grow a fuckin' pair, would you please!

I gave him another nod. "Relax! I did it thousands of times in New York."

A frightened grimace gripped his face. "If I remember correctly, everything you did in New York was illegal!"

I handed Roger his lantern back. "Not everything," I snapped indignantly. "Everything's going to be fine! Stop worrying! Where is he?"

Roger hesitated a moment before answering. "Third floor! Main bedroom!"

"Good." Suddenly, out of the corner of my eye, I noticed Carp—staring down at us from the second floor landing. I looked down at the folder again, pretending to be reading it. "Go! Carp's watching us."

To my amazement, Roger caught on immediately and hurried off up the staircase.

He's an idiot. He's going to screw everythin' up. You wait and see!

"Yeah! Right!" I growled. "He's the one gong to screw things up for me."

Do I sense a hint of sarcasm?

Not wanting to call too much attention to myself while I looked over the folder; I tried to keep a safe distance between me and the tour as I followed it up the staircase. Stopping momentarily to rest my eyes, I took the opportunity to listen to Mrs. Spikely's—

Bullshit.

"... Let me reiterate for those of you who have just joined us, because it's very important to understand the curse that's supposedly on Treasure Hall. Captain Thomas Feathers, or Toothless Tommy, as the Newport townspeople came to know him, retired here to Newport in 1697 after a long and very profitable career as a pirate in the East Indies and the Caribbean. Since Rhode Island at this time was a refuge for pirates, Captain Feathers, along with many other well-known scoundrels of that time, were welcomed here with open arms. Unfortunately, not everyone had, shall we say, warm feelings towards the Captain. He was found a month later behind one of the local bars—dead. His throat was slit from ear to ear."

Speakin' of slits, I don't see Bryce.

"Although, no one was ever arrested for his murder," continued Mrs. Spikely, "many locals were quick to point the accusing finger at his former shipmates, who he supposedly cheated out of their shares of gold and jewels."

Suddenly, a young woman, who I've seen volunteering at some of the mansions, held up her hand.

Nice rack.

"Shut up."

Spike's mother graciously pointed her finger at her. "Yes, my dear?"

The woman lowered her hand. "How much treasure actually was there?"

"No one really knows," Vivian replied. "It's never been found."

Do you think she's ovulatin'?

I was rather confused—to say the least. "Mrs. Spikely?"

You fuckin' ass! The babe with the nice rack!

I closed my eyes and shook my head. "Why—do you need to know that?"

She has a weddin' ring on.

I was still confused. "Soooo?"

I read somewhere a woman is more likely to commit adultery when she's ovulatin'.

I gazed helplessly towards the heavens as Vivian continued. "That is until 1870! A poor lighthouse keeper named John Carsdale, suddenly quit his job at the Rose Island lighthouse and began to spend money around Newport like there was no tomorrow. However, he never divulged to anyone where or how he got the money."

Do you think anyone would notice if I started to yawn?

"Many locals believed that Mr. Carsdale actually found Toothless Tommy's treasure somewhere on Rose Island. It was about three years later, in the spring of 1873; when Mr. Carsdale began construction on Treasure Hall."

Have you ever noticed how The Bitch and that pervert, Dr. Miles are never too far from one another when they're out in public together?

I took a minute and thought it over. "They were—weren't they?"

Remember the time at that huge art gala, you caught the sick bastard lickin' The Blue Boy.

"Yesss," I hissed. He's always around her. Always hovering! Like some—deranged guardian angel. "Although—" As much as I hated the sight of seeing the two of them together; there was nothing really out of the ordinary there.

What the hell do you mean there's nothin' out of the ordinary there! His fuckin' index finger isn't up some little boy's ass.

I went back to scanning the group.

What about the Nazi?

"Heinrich?" I mumbled out loud. There was nothing out of the ordinary there, either. He was in his usual spot—right behind my mother, holding her lantern for her.

"Let's continue up the staircase, shall we?" yelled Vivian. "And I'll point out the exact spot where Mr. Carsdale's life ended tragically—and the curse of Treasure Hall began."

Big fuckin' whoop.

"Dammit," I mumbled again. "Dr. Benjamin and Dr. Gibson are still watching me. That can't be good."

You know what's even worse? Old Raghead's over there, watchin' you too.

Instinctively, I locked eyes with Abba Dabba. He was smiling at me and matching my every step up the staircase.

He gets my vote as the murderer.

Why?

He hates you! Plus—I believe I've pointed this out once before. He's a Iraqi! He blows fuckin' thin's up!

"Shut up!" I snapped as I came to the painful realization that my list of possible suspects—included almost every person here tonight. I didn't trust any of them. Each one of them would gladly stick a knife in my back—if they had the opportunity.

"Ashley!"

AAAAGH!

Startled—I jumped back, inadvertently hitting my head against the wall. I immediately stopped rubbing my head as I noticed Abba Dabba chuckling at my—momentary lapse of coolness.

"I'm sorry," Bryce whispered. "Are you okay?"

She seems very apologetic. This might be the perfect time to ask her if she'd mind—

"I'm fine!" I blurted out.

Bryce hurriedly leaned into me and lowered her voice. "Carp's planning on arresting you after the tour—"

"—if I don't come up with the killer." I added while nodding appreciatively. "I know."

"What are you going to do?"

Obviously, not get a blowjob.

I hesitated a moment as something Spike's mother was saying caught my attention.

"... unfortunately, Mr. Carsdale didn't live to enjoy Treasure Hall. The day the last workman left, Mr. Carsdale was walking down this very staircase, when for some unknown reason, he tripped and fell." She pointed towards her tiny feet. "They found him dead—right here! His neck was broken."

A spattering of grasps resonated over the group.

"Some locals to this day believe he was pushed by—" Vivian paused momentarily, I'm sure to build the suspense. "The ghost of Toothless Tommy!"

A few more gasps were heard echoing over the dark staircase.

"Ashley!"

I flinched again—before turning back to Bryce. "Wh—what?"

She touched my arm. "Are you all right? You look really stressed."

I read somewhere a blowjob can relieve stress.

Not really wanting to explain the state of my psyche at the moment, I took Bryce by the arm and moved her away from the tour. "What else did Carp say to you?"

"He wanted to know what happened when we went to Cottman's house," she whispered. "I told him everything, but I don't think he believed me. I'm pretty sure he thinks I'm covering up for you."

I nodded as I noticed the tour was again on the move.

Bryce carefully leaned into me so she won't be over heard. "He said he had proof you were the only one who came out of Cottman's house. What proof does he have?"

I shook my head. "It's nothing."

Hey! Bryce! I'm stressed too.

I again turned my attention back to Spike's mother.

"Treasure Hall was empty until 1885 when Frank Webster, a very wealthy New York City banker, began using it as a summer cottage for his family."

I'm really—really stressed!

"That was until—" Mrs. Spikely paused again, "that terrible incident on that dark and stormy night!"

Hey! Did you hear me? I'm fuckin' stressed too!

"What the Webster's eldest son was doing on the roof at that time of the night is still a mystery to this day? And why he jumped—or was pushed, is even a bigger mystery."

What the hell is wrong with Bryce? Is she fuckin' deaf or somethin'?

"The Treasure Hall curse has struck a total of five times since Mr. Carsdale's tragic fall down these steps. Along with the Mr. and Mrs. Webster's son, there was Oliver and Lucille Peterson's maid in 1910. She mysterious fell out of the third story window. I'll show you all, that window momentarily. In 1945 ..."

She's fuckin' ignorin' me! Hey! Bryce!

I kept my eyes glued to Spike's mother.

HEY! BLOW MEEEEEE!

"... and finally, Newport's legendary, Mary Howell, the hostess of the infamous Christmas In July parties, was found dead—right here on the staircase, just feet from where Mr. Carsdale was found."

A few more groans were heard as someone called out, "What happened to her?"

"No one knows!" came Mrs. Spikely's swift retort. She glanced up towards the pitch-black third floor. "The only thing the police came up with—was she somehow fell over the third floor balcony." She eyed the group with a dubious smile. "Were all of these tragic deaths accidents? Or were they the handy work of—Toothless Tommy?"

A chorus of chuckles emanated from the group.

On a roll, Mrs. Spikely continued. "Many locals believe the so-called curse that has gripped this house for all these years is actually Captain Feathers trying to get back the treasure Mr. Carsdale supposedly took from Rose Island."

Suddenly, Bryce's hand shot up into the air—catching me off guard.

Do you think she's goin' to ask if anyone would mind if she'd whip me out—

"Shut up!"

Noticing Bryce's hand up, Mrs. Spikely pointed in her direction. "Do you have a question, my dear?"

"Yes," Bryce said, taking several steps up the staircase towards the group. "You mentioned the five people that died mysteriously here at Treasure Hall."

Vivian nodded. "Yes?"

"Are their deaths the only ones that are attributed to the curse?"

"Yes. I believe they are—Miss?"

"Williams. Bryce Williams."

Mrs. Spikely smiled and nodded. "Yes. There was Mr. Carsdale, the Webster boy—"

"I'm curious," Bryce hastily interjected, "whether Nicholas Hard's death was ever mentioned as being attributed to the Treasure Hall curse?"

Spike's mother cupped her hand to her ear. "Who's?"

From the expression on my mother's face, I could tell she had a lot keener hearing than Spike's mother.

"Nicholas Hard's," Bryce repeated as she weakly pointed at me. "Ashley's father!"

"If I'm not mistaken," said Vivian, "there was nothing really that mysterious about Mr. Hard's tragic death. The poor man was walking along Cliff Walk—alone! It was late! Portions of Cliff Walk are quit dangerous even in the daytime."

Knowing my mother was just feet away from her, I sensed Vivian's hesitation to go much further. "I believe it came out later he was rather—inebriated at the time. He obviously tripped and fell over the wall. Tragic! But hardly mysterious."

Bryce continued to push her point. "Did the police ever investigate if there was any connection between his death and the jewel robbery at Treasure Hall?"

Mrs. Spikely nervously looked at my mother before answering the question. "You're not implying Ashely's father was—murdered, are you?"

"Have the police ever looked into the possibility?"

Spike's mother carefully mulled over Bryce's question. "That would be a question for Sergeant Carp." She politely gestured towards Old Walrus Breath, before turning back to Bryce. "But—I think I can safely say, Miss Williams; Ashely's father was not murdered."

My head instinctively cocked to the side, in an inquisitive tilt, as I replayed Mrs. Spikely's last statement over and over in my head. My head then—tilted to the other side—when it hit me!

What hit you? Is someone throwin' somethin' at me?

I couldn't help but smile as everything started to fall into place. "Why didn't I think of this before?"

Probably, because you're a fuckin' idiot.

Nodding in agreement, I slapped myself on the forehead and said, "You idiot!"

I believe I said, fuckin' idiot! But—I digress. What the fuck did you figure out that's makin' you so damn happy?

"My father—was murdered!"
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

Are you on fuckin' drugs?

I gazed off into the darkness. "It's the only thing that makes sense. He must've been murdered."

How do you figure that, Mr. Moto?

"The police interviewed several witnesses at the party who claimed to have seen Page running out the back door right at ten o'clock. That would've put him at Cliff Walk at what? 10:02? 10:03?"

What if he was a slow runner?

I conceded reluctantly. "Okay! 10:05!"

I still don't fuckin' get it?

"After Heinrich saw Page run off, he said he picked up the jewels and left my father sprawled out on the ground unconscious. It couldn't have been more than ten—maybe fifteen minutes past ten."

Soooo?

"The medical examiner had my father falling over the wall at 11:30."

Big fuckin' whoop! He woke up, staggered around, and fell over the fuckin' wall.

"He had a blood alcohol level of nearly 3.0," I sneered through tight lips, "he wouldn't have woken up until the next day—if he was going to wake up at all."

Speakin' of Bryce's tight lips—

"I need to figure out what happened between the time Heinrich left my father unconscious on Cliff Walk—and when he went over the wall an hour and fifteen minutes later."

Do you believe in the theory that guys think about sex every eight seconds?

"Someone must've come along—picked him up and threw him over the wall."

You're not listenin' to me, are you?

"How else could he have fallen over that wall?" Suddenly, another thought dawned on me. "But—I still don't know why he was on Cliff Walk? I think—that's the key!"

Well, I don't believe it! And I'll prove it to you! One fuckin' Mississippi.

I wracked my brain for a plausible answer. "It was late! He was all by himself. If he was going to the Howell's party—why didn't he have Heinrich drive him?"

Two fuckin' Mississippi.

"Maybe—he wasn't planning on going to the party?"

Three fuckin' Mississippi.

"Maybe—that rumor about him and Mrs. Howell was true?" I swiftly double checked my thought process. "That must be it!"

Four fuckin' Mississippi.

"Ashley?"

Startled—I whirled around to see Bryce walking down the staircase—and mesmerized by the sight. The lantern she was carrying bathed her lower torso in a rather soft, almost—hypnotic glow.

Five fuckin' Missy—pussies.

"Wh—what!"

See! I told you! It's every fuckin' five seconds!

"Ashley?" Bryce asked again. "Are you all right?"

Do you see what I see? Look! The inside of her thighs! They're fuckin' glistenin'. She's soakin' wet. She wants me.

"Fine," I groaned as Bryce politely directed my attention up the staircase.

"The tour is moving," she said. "Don't you think we should try to keep up with it?"

She might've heard me say pussies. Whatever you do—don't leer at hers.

"Dammit. I was!" Taking three steps at a time, I shot passed her and raced up the staircase. As I caught up to the tour, Spike's mother was on another one of her trivial ramblings. "... it was during one of Mrs. Howell's Christmas in July parties, that one of the most infamous robberies ..."

Out of nowhere, Bryce suddenly appeared at my side, totally out of breath. "What are you doing?"

"Ask—asking a question," I replied as my gawk casually drifted down to her heaving—

Tankers.

"Yes! Mr. Hard? Do you have a question?"

Hey! Moron! Spike's mommy is talkin' to you!

"Wh—what?"

"Do you have another question, Mr. Hard?" yelled Vivian, rather irritably.

Wrestling my gawk away from Bryce's—

Space aliens.

—I found myself suddenly leering at Spike's mother. "Do you have a question?" she snarled. "Your hand is raised."

I checked. My hand was raised. "Ah! Yes!" I said, stepping forward. "Yes—I do!"

"Well?" growled Spike after several moments of awkward silence. "We don't have all night!"

I casually started up the staircase. "You mentioned—my father's accident," I said as I pushed Spike out of my way.

My mother stepped forward, clearly making her presence known. "I don't think we need to be discussing your father's death, Ashley. It was a tragic accident, just as Vivian said. It has nothing to do with tonight's tour." She signaled to Vivian. "You may continue Vivian."

"Excuse me, Mother," I shot back before Vivian could open her mouth. "Perhaps we should."

Good! Now pause a moment. Build the suspense.

"The police report stated that they believed he was probably walking to the Howell's party. If that's so—why didn't he have Heinrich drive him over? Why would he walk?" I could see my mother's contempt for me. I rather enjoyed it.

Heinrich isn't lookin' too good either.

"Could it be—he had no intention of going to the party that night? Maybe—he was walking along Cliff Walk because he didn't want to be seen?"

"I think you've said enough for one evening, Ashley," my mother stated, with her customary bravado. "Vivian is leading tonight's tour!"

I calmly directed everyone's attention to the Admiral.

Why don't you whip me out and I'll just point at the people you want to confront. It would add a certain amount of fuckin' drama to the situation, don't you think?

"Th—the Admiral here, told us that during the party, he felt Mrs. Howell seemed distracted." I walked towards him, carefully eyeing his reaction. "You mentioned, Admiral, you saw Mrs. Howell repeatedly glancing out the window towards Cliff Walk. Is that correct?"

His nod was rather feeble. "Yes."

Trish coolly stepped forward. "What does this have to do with anything?"

"Everything!" I shot back. "Let's face it; everyone knows my father was a horny hound dog."

"That's it, young man," my mother barked. "I've had enough of this!" She immediately turned to Dr. Benjamin. "Will you please, do something—"

"I think my father was on Cliff Walk that night—" I shouted, stopping my mother in her tracks, "not because he was going to the Howell's party, but because he was secretly going to meet with Mrs. Howell!"

The look my mother shot me sent chills up my spine.

You can almost see The Bitch mentally erasin' your name from her fuckin' will.

Collecting my courage, I continued. "But—as he reached Treasure Hall, he accidently bumped into Mr. Page!"

"Who was running away from Treasure Hall with the stolen jewels," Bryce quickly added. "Which—I might add, were fake!"

I hastily pointed at Bryce. "Exactly! Thank you!"

Pulling my thoughts together, I again started to walk among the villagers. "My father—being totally plastered, was obviously no match for Page. Fearing my father might draw attention to him; Page probably pushed him aside and took off running down Cliff Walk." I deliberately stopped in front of Heinrich. "My father undoubtedly tripped and fell, hit his head and was knocked unconscious."

"This is nothing but speculation, Hard," snarled Carp.

"No! Sergeant Salmon," I shot back. "No! No—it's not! Because someone was there that night! Someone saw what happened!"

If I'm not mistaken, I think Heinrich just took a fuckin' dump in his pants.

I slowly turned and faced Heinrich. "Isn't that right, Heinrich?"

He said nothing as he stood there—staring at me.

"You were there! Weren't you, Heinrich?" I took a step towards him. "Following my mother's instructions, you followed my father that night—thinking he was on another one of his little trysts. But—when you came around the corner, you didn't find him with any woman, you found him lying on the ground unconscious—and Page running away."

You can almost hear his fuckin' balls sweatin'.

"However, when you went over to him to see what you could do for him—you saw a bag lying next to him. You naturally picked it up and found it to be—a bag of jewels!" As I inched closer to him, I could see the terror in his eyes. "Not knowing whose jewels they were—and wanting to protect my mother from another one of my father's hideous scandals, you took the jewels and buried them inside Treasure Hall's grounds. That's what—you told us anyway! Isn't that right, Heinrich?"

Heinrich still said nothing.

"Unfortunately, Heinrich," I snapped, "it doesn't add up! According to your story, you left my father to go bury the jewels around 10:15. The police report has my father falling over the wall at 11:30." I raised a suspicious eyebrow. "Tell us, Heinrich—what happened during that hour and fifteen minutes?"

Heinrich began to shake his head.

"Let me tell you—what happened," I snarled. "While you were burying the jewels, it suddenly dawned on you—this would be a perfect time to get rid of my father, once and for all! Didn't it?"

Heinrich's head shaking quickly turned rather vigorous.

"Oh! Yes!" I pushed on. "You would finally be rid of him! My mother wouldn't have to worry about him anymore! He wouldn't be around to hurt—or humiliate her anymore. It was perfect.

Who would've guessed, the fuckin' butler did it.

"Nein!" he shouted.

"Ya!" I shouted right back.

That one year of German in high school finally paid off.

Undaunted, I continued my assault on Heinrich's piss-poor story. "After you buried the jewels, you didn't go back to the house, like you said. You went back to Cliff Walk! You picked up my father—and threw him over the wall!"

Heinrich continued to shake his head.

Damn! I can almost see myself slidin' into Bryce.

"Vhy vould I do that?" Heinrich asked.

Why don't you have Bryce—bend over—the bannister over there. It won't be long now.

"Because, Heinrich!" I snapped. "You were secretly in love with my mother!" I paused a moment to listen to the gasps behind me. "And—you loathed my father! You despised him!"

You better finish him off, before The Bitch orders you to stop pickin' on him.

I could smell his fear. "So you picked him up! Carried him to the wall! And threw—"

His no good ass over the fuckin' wall!

I suddenly stepped away from Heinrich—to collect my thoughts. "My mother wasn't stopping me—was she?" I mumbled. She wasn't interfering. She wasn't even trying—to protect Heinrich."

That's good! Rip him a fuckin' new one.

I gazed out over the bannister into the Hall's dark abyss. My mother was actually allowing me—to accuse Heinrich of murder. "Why after all these years?"

Hello! Anyone fuckin' home!

"Unless," I mumbled again, "she's protecting someone else—who means more to her than Heinrich?"

What the hell are you talkin' about? The only person more important to The Bitch, than Heinrich is—The Bitch herself.

"That's it," I growled.

Are you tryin' to tell me, Heinrich isn't the fuckin' killer? Need I remind you that Bryce was just about to—bend over—the fuckin' bannister!

My focus immediately found my mother. She stood there like a mighty oak tree, straight and unyielding. "I'm sorry," I said, to the tour group in my most apologetic tone. "I was wrong! Heinrich didn't throw my father over the wall."

Shit.

I gave Heinrich a little smile. "Did you Heinrich?"

His beady little eyes hesitantly shot my mother a worrisome glance. "You didn't bury the jewels, either! Did you? You went back to the house!" My stare immediately shifted to my mother. "And—I'd be willing to bet, Heinrich told you everything. Didn't he Mother?"

Her lips tightened as her cold eyes grew even colder.

Carp suddenly spoke up. "What the hell are you getting at, Hard?"

"Yes," my mother said, in that icy tone of hers. "I would like to know too."

I tried to be just as icy. "It was you—who threw my father over the wall, wasn't it?"

Loud grasps flew from all directions.

Out of nowhere, Bryce appeared at my side. "Ashley," she whispered, "what are you saying?"

Trish quickly stepped forward. "Yes!" she yelled, coming to my mother's defense. "What the hell are you saying?"

"I'm saying my mother knew my father was up to something that night. That's why she sent Heinrich to follow him." My mother just stood there—staring at me. "And knowing my father, it probably wasn't the first time—was it Mother?"

Joanie stepped forward too. "Why would she kill him after all those years?" she argued faithfully.

I gave her a smile. "I suspect it was because of Mrs. Howell."

"What?" questioned Trish. "They—"

"They hated one another," I swiftly retorted. "They've hated one another for years. It all started in high school, didn't it, Mother?" I began to walk up the staircase towards her as she stood there—staring down at me. "I bumped into one of your old high school classmates the other day—and asked her about it. She remembered Mrs. Howell stealing a boyfriend away from you, senior year."

"That proves nothing!" Joanie snarled.

I shot Joanie a little smirk. "Oddly enough—his name was Jonathon Howell."

More gasps.

Fifty points for Griyffindor!

"You just couldn't let her steal something else away from you—could you Mother?" I watched her carefully as she made no effort to reply. She just stood there—like a pillar of granite. "Having her go after your husband was the last straw, wasn't it? So when Heinrich came home that night and told you what happened—you saw your chance! You walked along Cliff Walk until you found him, lying there unconscious—you then picked him up and threw him over the wall!

More moans.

"And—that explains the hour or so not accounted for," I quickly added.

I knew The Bitch did it.

"When did you bury the jewels, Mother? The next day when you found out they were Mrs. Howells? You couldn't help sticking it to her again. You not only took her new boyfriend away from her; you thought you would keep her precious jewels away from her too."

Bryce stepped forward. "How did you know Heinrich didn't bury the jewels?"

"No one forgets where they buried a couple million dollars' worth of jewels," I snapped.

Carp took the cigar out of his mouth and walked up to my mother. "Well, Marjorie," he said calmly. "Do you have anything to say about the accusations your no-good son here, is accusing you of?"

"My son is seriously deranged, Sergeant," replied my mother, with her usual flare. "I don't need to tell you that. You've known him long enough."

Carp painfully nodded in my direction.

My mother continued her counter-attack. "Did you know, he thinks his penis talks to him?"

Ouch!

Tell The Bitch that's the only way you're certain to have an intelligent conversation.

To be honest, I was somewhat rocked by her unexpected revelation to the group. It was obvious this was going to get—nasty.

"Marjorie!" cautioned Dr. Benjamin as a spattering of giggles erupted from the group.

"You sick bastard," Spike mouthed to me from across the staircase.

Don't mind her. She's just jealous she doesn't have one to talk too.

"Heaven knows, I've tried my best," my mother added. "I don't know what else to do. I've even brought two of the top people in the country here tonight—to evaluate him."

Joanie suddenly stepped forward. "If I remember correctly, your mother had a severe back strain that evening! How could she have lifted your father up? Let alone, throw him over the wall!"

Shit! She did! Remember! She fell over that trip wire you set up for Heinrich.

I immediately turned my back on the group. "Dammit," I mumbled. "She did fall and hurt her back, didn't she?" Why didn't I remember that? "There was no way she could have—" Suddenly, it dawned on me. I spun around and saw standing next to her—a way she could've done it.

Joanie! Of course! I always figured it was her!

"On the other side of her," I growled softly.

Dr. Miles? Now you're sayin' the pervert did it? You better make up your fuckin' mind, your runnin' out of goddamn suspects.

"Shut up."

Just to remind you, I have an air-tight alibi. I was in your pants at the time.

"Yes! Thank you! Thank you, Joanie!" I shouted, with a hint of annoyance. "Thank you for jogging my memory."

Bitch.

"My mother did have a bad back that evening," I said as I again slowly walked up the staircase. "That's why you said you didn't go to the party that night, isn't it Mother?"

"Yes," she snapped. "I believe so."

My eyes swiftly locked on to the doctor. "You would attest to that, wouldn't you Dr. Miles?"

"About—what?" he asked nervously.

"That my mother had a bad back that evening?"

"Well—"

"You were at Hardly Manor that evening. I remember seeing you." I could see the sweat forming on his upper lip. "You came over to see my mother, about her back, didn't you? Or did she ask you over—for some other reason?"

"I think you've said enough young man!" My mother said sternly. "I'm not going to allow your delusions to—"

"Are they delusions, Mother?" I asked as I walked up to Dr. Miles. He continued to lick his drying lips while nervously wringing his hands. "My mother didn't call you over that night to check her back—did she, doctor?"

"Well—"

"She needed someone she could trust! Someone that would keep his mouth shut! Someone she had something over! Didn't she—doctor?"

My mother anxiously waved her hand at Carp. "Sergeant! Are you going to stand there and allow my son to badger this poor man?"

Smelling blood—I went straight for his jugular. "What did she have over you, doctor?"

I think he just took a fuckin' dump in his pants too.

"What did she know about you—that she was able to get you to throw my father over that wall?"

I think the fucker's about to start cryin'.

"What did she have on you, doctor!" I screamed.

My mother charged at me. "Stop it, Ashley!"

I didn't stop. I pressed even harder.

That's because you're a crummy son.

"What was it, doctor!" I yelled. "Was it about all those accusations about the inappropriate touching—of your male patients? She knew those accusations were true! Is that what she had over you? Is that what she threatened to tell—if you didn't help her throw my father over that wall!"

"Yes!" he screamed. "Yes! Yes!"

"Shut up!" my mother screamed as she violently slapped him across the face. "You old fool!"

"She made me do it!" he yelled. "I didn't want to do it!"

An eerie silence fell over the lantern-lit staircase as I stepped back away from Dr. Miles. Glancing over at my mother, I found her—staring at me with a resigned smirk on her face. "I've always thought you would figure it out one day," she said. "You're a smart boy. You got that—from me."

I nodded appreciatively.

Book her, Dano! Murder one!

Carp gently took her by the elbow.

"However—" she snapped, rather indignantly. "It's obvious you're not smart enough to figure it out—totally."

I was curious. "What did I miss, Mother?"

"Dr. Miles didn't toss your father over the wall."

Carp swiftly chimed in. "Who did the good doctor toss over the wall, Marjorie?"

She chuckled. "He tossed Nicky, my husband over the wall."

Carp and I exchanged perplexed scowls.

I don't fuckin' get it.

Neither did I.

My mother walked over to me and gently patted my cheek. "Nicky wasn't your father, dear."

I'm sure my blank stare on my face—said it all.

This can't be fuckin' good.

She smiled—evilly. "Heinrich's your father, dear."

What the fuck!

Stunned, I just stood there speechless—when out of nowhere, came a blood curdling scream, "You bastard!"

Before I knew what was happening, a small hooded figure, swinging a lantern over its head, swished passed me on a direct course—straight towards Heinrich. "So it's true! You were cheating on me!"

Having what could only be described as an out of body experience, I watched in amazement as Mrs. Spikely began to pummel—

Daddy.

—over the head with her lantern.

"Mother?" Spike yelled. "What are you doing?"

Vivian swiftly ramped up her attack on Heinrich. "You bastard! I'll kill you!"

Spike rushed in and tried to corral her out-of-control mother. "Mother! Stop it!"

"Ashley!" barked Bryce. "Do something! Stop her before someone gets hurt!"

I moved in at the same moment—

Dickless.

—did! He grabbed Heinrich and shielded him from Mrs. Spikely's lantern. With Spike getting her mother under control and—

Dickless.

—covering up Heinrich, I was left the more daunting task of snatching the lantern out of Vivian's vice-like grip.

"What the hell is going on here?" Carp snarled as he angrily pulled Vivian's lantern out of my hand. "What is this, some kind of—goddamn lunatic convention?"

Visibly shaken, Vivian pointed at Heinrich. "That bastard lied to me!"

Carp pulled his cigar from his mouth with a sigh of frustration. "About what?"

Vivian's accusing finger immediately switched directions and landed on my mother. "About sleeping with her!"

Am I the only one fuckin' confused?

By everyone's blank stares, it appeared everyone was somewhat lost.

Infuriated, Vivian shook off her daughter's grip. "He said he loved me! Only me!"

Spike appeared totally bewildered by her mother's rant. "What are you saying, Mother?"

Vivian quickly turned to her—man-ish daughter.

Good one.

"He's your father!" screamed Vivian.

"What?" yelled Spike.

"Heinrich's your father," she screamed again as she lunged for his throat.

Finding all of this—rather humorous, I stepped back and openly chuckled.

What the fuck are you chucklin' at! That makes you and the She Devil over there—brother and sister.

My chuckle vanished instantaneously as Spike and I found ourselves—staring at one another. Realizing the magnitude of the situation, I opened my mouth and was about to scream in horror when—someone beat me to it.

"AAARGHH!"

As the blood curdling cry echoed through the house, all eyes shot towards the dark third floor.

"My god!" yelled Trish over the tour's gasps of horror. "What was that?"

Clearly wanting to be seen as being in charge, Carp pulled his gun to another wave of groans. "What the hell is going on here?" Appearing rather confused himself, he swiftly turned to Trish. "Who's up there?"

Trish shrugged her shoulders. "I don't know!"

I looked at Roger—as he looked at me. His pale, sickening grimace said it all as another bone-chilling scream spilled over the third floor railing.

"What the hell is going on up there?" grunted Carp as he reluctantly started up the stairs.

Just then, old man Howell appeared at the top of the staircase in his hospital robe and slippers. "Run for your lives," he yelled. "Run!" He started to hobble down the marble staircase while waving his arms frantically over his head. "Run! It's Captain Tommy!"

Howell's appearance couldn't have come at a worse time. I'd hope to keep him under wraps for the time being—until I was ready. I still felt he somehow had to be the key to the entire mess.

"Mr. Howell?" yelled Dr. Gibson. "What are you doing here? How in the world did you get out of the hospital?"

Out of the corner of my eye, I caught Roger trying to hide behind Heinrich.

"He's after me!" shouted Howell, reaching out to Dr. Gibson. "I saw him! He's upstairs!"
Carp's attention once again focused on the third floor as he tightened his grip on his revolver. "Marsh!"

"Yes—sir," Roger said nervously as he peeked out from behind Heinrich.

With his gaze glued to the third floor, Carp hesitated a moment before speaking. "Take Mrs. Hard, her chauffeur and—the good doctor back to the station." He then slowly began to ascend the staircase. "I'm going to check out the third floor. I could've sworn I just saw something—move up there." As if he just realized something urgent—he stopped and hurriedly addressed the group. "I don't want anyone else to move! Got it?" His heated stare—then fixed on me. "Especially you, Hard! I have a few questions for you!"

I nodded obediently. I knew all too well, I wasn't out of the woods yet. Sure, I got him a murderer; unfortunately, it wasn't the murderer he wanted.

Wave bye-bye to The Bitch.

An eerie chill ran down my spine as I watched Roger escort my mother down the dark staircase. But—to be perfectly honest, I couldn't help but sense a feeling of—

Joy? Euphoria? Fuckin' glee?

—ambivalence. Total ambivalence! I mentally shook my head as I replayed the last few minutes in my mind. "What—is wrong with me?" I thought out loud.

We really don't have that much time.

"I'm standing here, watching my mother dragged off to jail—probably for the rest of her life. How can I feel nothing for her? No guilt! No remorse!" I should feel—something for her. "I should—"

"How did you get out of the hospital?" I overheard Dr. Gibson asking Mr. Howell. "How did you get here? Who brought you?"

I swiftly reshuffled my priorities. "I should—deal with this, first!" I mumbled as I quickly forgot about my mother and hustled over to Dr. Gibson and Mr. Howell. I last thing I needed was for the old man to rat-out—Roger and I.

You're a good son.

"Shut up," I growled as I grabbed Mr. Howell's hand and shook it. "It's nice to see you again, Mr. Howell. Do you remember me?"

He—stared up at me with a blank expression. "My nephew," he said unexpectedly.

I hesitated momentarily as I remembered back to what Evelyn told Bryce and I about Howell not having a nephew. I eyed Dr. Gibson for some guidance.

Dr. Gibson bent down and supported his elderly patient. "Did your nephew bring you?"

"No," he said, suddenly pointing across the staircase. "But, there's my nephew."

Interested to say the least, I followed Howell's arthritic finger—right to Spike!

Spike immediately recoiled as she growled, "What?"

Com' on! It's not like she's never been mistaken for a fuckin' guy before.

"That's your nephew?" asked Dr. Gibson while suspiciously surveying Spike?

"No," said Howell annoyingly. "He's standing—behind the lesbian."

Spike moved aside, allowing all eyes to fall on—

Dickless.

Trish immediately stepped forward and comforted the old man. "This is Richard Gliss from New York City, Mr. Howell. He's a friend of mine."

Dr. Gibson addressed Trish and—her so-called friend from New York City. "I'm sorry! Mr. Howell sometimes gets a bit confused when he gets in stressful situations."

"Wait a minute," I said as I put my arm around Mr. Howell's boney shoulders and pulled him away from his doctor's grip. "Let's not jump to any rash conclusions about Mr. Howell's state of mind—here!"

That's right! He did point out that Spike's a muff-munchin' lesbian.

"That's right!" I swiftly pointed out. "He did correctly point out—my alleged half-sister—is a muff-munching lesbian!"

"Ashley!" growled Dr. Benjamin in a scolding tone.

"That's all right," said Spike. "I'm sure his penis told him to say it."

I waited a moment for the pockets of laughter to subside, before ripping into her with my razor-sharp wit. Unfortunately, the moment dragged on a lot longer than I hoped.

Can't think of nothin', can you?

No.

"What the hell are you getting at?" Trish finally asked me.

"Nothing," I said innocently as I once again turned to Mr. Howell. "Is that man your nephew, Mr. Howell?"

He leaned forward and adjusted his glasses. "Well—"

I bent down and steered Howell's attention directly at—

Dickless.

—then asked my question again. "Is that the man who came to visit you at the hospital, claiming to be your nephew?"

He nodded his head. "I think so."

I shot Dr. Gibson a fast glance. "How about it, Doc? Can you back up Mr. Howell's statement?"

"I don't know," he replied. "I never really met Mr. Howell's nephew up close."

"All right, Ashley," snapped Trish. "What the hell are you whipping up in that crazy head of your's?"

"Mr. Howell doesn't have a nephew," I snapped right back. "Or nieces—for that matter!"

"So?" she asked, obviously missing my point.

Dr. Gibson hurriedly cleared his throat in my direction. "Isn't that young lady over there—his niece?"

Reluctantly, I eyed the doctor's finger pointing at Bryce.

At her—tongue twisters.

"You told me she was his niece," the doctor quickly added.

"I lied," I said sharply, hoping that would shut him up and allow me to get back to the point I was trying to make to Trish. "And if it was—

Dickless.

"—Richard! Passing himself off as Mr. Howell's nephew—one must ask the question, why would he do that? What was he trying to get out of Mr. Howell?"

Trish finally figured it out. I could tell from her little chuckle. "You think Richard is the murderer?"

Speakin' of Bryce, do you think she's Australian?

I paused a moment.

I read somewhere, that Australian babes are more likely to have oral sex on the first date than—

"I think—" I paused another moment to clear my head, "he's a suspect!"

Richard scoffed. "I think you're nuts."

You really can't argue with that.

Trish stepped forward. "Why are you doing this?" she asked. "To get back at me?"

Of course.

"Of course! Not!" I snapped wildly.

"Then why?" she snapped right back. "Why are you so sure Richard's the murderer? Tell me! I want to know!"

She's challengin' you! The way I see it—you have two fuckin' choices. Either whip me out, or you're goin' to have to tell her why you think he's the killer.

I think I'll choose the latter.

Fuckin' sissy.

"On that night you introduced me to—"

Dickless.

"—Richard! He said he grew up thirty miles north of Newport, in Dorchester!"

Trish appeared unimpressed.

She's not the only one.

"So?" snapped Richard. "You have something against Dorchester?"

"Dorchester is only twenty miles from Newport."

"Oh! For God's sakes!" growled Richard.

I certainly hope you have somethin' else.

"And—it's not north of Newport. It's northwest!" I quickly added.

"Is there anything else?" Trish asked, with a rather disturbed chuckle.

"Well—" I said sheepishly, "on the night someone clobbered me over the head and pushed me down the stairs, you said Richard was visiting a friend in Providence. I did some checking!" I swiftly turned to—

Dickless.

—and smiled. "There's no Walter Appkey living in Providence."

Richard openly scoffed. "Walter isn't his real name. It's a nickname!"

I hesitated a moment. "Wh—what?"

Sort of like yours! Moron!

"Really?"

"He resembles, Walter Payton," Richard said. "The late Hall of Fame football player?"

Don't look now, but—I think Dr. Gibson is checkin' his pockets for a fuckin' straightjacket.

"That's it!" asked Trish. "That's all you have? That's what you're basing your theory on, that Richard is some kind of crazed killer?"

"Well—"

CRASH!

Everyone looked up towards the third floor as the crash continued to echo through the house.

"My god!" shouted Joanie.

"What the hell was that?" asked Dr. Benjamin.

If he's askin' me, it sounded like an overweight Sergeant gettin' his head bashed in with some sort of glass fixture of some kind.

Mr. Howell nervously addressed the group. "It's Captain Tommy!" he said. "He wants his jewels back."

"Maybe—someone should turn on some lights," Dr. Gibson nervously suggested.

"Ah! The jewels!" I blurted out as I refocused back to Trish's question. "I believe you asked me why I think your friend—from New York City, is a crazed killer." I paused a second to heighten the drama. "Because—of the jewels!"

Trish looked at me strangely. "What are you talking about? What jewels?"

"The Howell's jewels," I snapped. "That's why he visited Mr. Howell and pretended to be his nephew. He was pumping Howell for information on where the jewels were."

Speakin' of pumpin'! Where's Bryce?

"You truly are crazy, aren't you?" Richard said.

Another three pointer.

I continued unfazed. "You must've found out somehow that Howell faked the robbery and hid the real jewels."

The Admiral unexpectedly piped up. "No! No—he didn't!"

"I'm afraid so, Admiral," I said as I turned again to Mr. Howell. "Didn't you, Mr. Howell?"

The old man gently put his finger to his lips and hissed. "Shhh! He'll hear you."

When the hell—are you goin' to tell me, where the fuckin' jewels are?

I turned back to Trish. "But when—your friend from New York City, heard Bryce and I were going to re-open the investigation on the robbery, he got spooked. He was afraid we might stumble onto the jewels before he did."

I quickly eyed—

Dickless.

—to observe his reaction. He appeared slightly more perturbed than usual. "That's why you began to toss obstacles in our way. You wanted to slow us up. Throw us off the track."

You bastard! You're not goin' to tell me where the jewels are, are you?

"That's why you blew up Bryce's car at the restaurant that next morning! You thought you could scare us off."

Well—fuck you then! I'll find them myself.

Suddenly—a strange voice called out. "I blew up the fucking car!"

I closed my eyes—and froze. "Timmy," I mumbled under my breath. "Please tell me—that was you."

Sorry. No can—fuckin' do!
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

"Oh! God!" said Trish.

Either Dickless is the world's greatest fuckin' ventriloquist—or you have a crazed car bomber behind you.

"Oddly enough," I mumbled—while resisting the urge to turn around. "I had the same thought."

Oh! Did you really?

Even—

Dickless.

—appeared somewhat rattled as he leaned over to Trish and whispered, "Who the hell is he?"

Feeling as if I were missing something, I reluctantly turned around to see a rather large shadowy figure descending the staircase—

And—holdin' a fuckin' gun.

A police revolver—to be more precise.

Poor! Poor Sergeant Carp!

"Glenn?" Bryce asked, in a disbelieving tone. "Is that you?"

Who the fuck is Glenn?

I couldn't care less, who he was! My immediate concern was more in line with—why was he pointing the gun at me?

He rudely motioned to Abba Dabba and Joanie to move down the staircase towards the rest of the group as he then—glared at Bryce and growled, "Surprised?"

Bryce bravely climbed the staircase towards him. "What are you doing here?"

You know, if this was a novel, the reader would be really pissed—havin' the killer turn out to be a new character introduced in the last fuckin' chapter.

I thought it over. "Who said he was the killer?"

He quickly pointed the gun at Bryce—stopping her in her tracks. "I'm here to make sure you don't make another mistake like you made with that fucking English professor."

A look of terror gripped Bryce's face. "Oh! My God! You didn't have something to do with that explosion, did you?"

"He touched you!" he screamed. "Only I get to touch you!"

You were sayin'?

"Okay," I mumbled as I watched his bizarre behavior. "I guess—he is a killer."

His bizarre behavior? Have you looked in a fuckin' mirror lately?

Suddenly, something caught my attention. I knew this guy! "Wait a minute!" I said as I moved up alongside Bryce. "Don't I know you?" I grabbed Bryce's hand that was holding her lantern—

Weren't you listenin' to Mr. Fuckin' Wackjob! Only he touches her!

—and raised it into the air, so I could see her ex-fiancée in a better light. It was him! "You're the guy at the harbor?"

Barney fuckin' Rubble?

I nodded excitedly. "Yeah!"

"Yeah!" he snarled back. "And you're the guy fucking my girlfriend!"

I wish.

"He is not," Bryce snapped.

I nodded while hoping to emphasize the—is not—portion of her statement.

"And what's it to you anyway, who I sleep with," she snapped. "We broke up nearly a year ago!"

What the hell do you think she saw in him?

I mentally shrugged my shoulders.

Wait a minute! This could work in our fuckin' favor! Maybe—she likes crazy guys?

"Please, Glenn!" Bryce said, softening her tone. "Put down the gun. We'll talk!"

"I'm done talking," he yelled back, pointing the gun at me again and tightening his finger around the trigger. "This fucker is dead!"

Sensing my time on this earth was running out, I hurriedly tried to piece together the last several loose ends flying around in my head—when it dawned on me. "You couldn't have killed Bobby," I said, to no one in particular. "You were on the pier when she was being murdered." I let go of Bryce's hand and allowed her to lower her lantern as another thought crossed my mind. "Why would you want to kill Bobby anyway? Or even Cottman for that matter?"

Glenn raised his gun and aimed it right for my head. "Enough of this shit," he yelled. "Let's all say our goodbyes to the big shot detective!"

"Diversion time," I told myself as I wracked my brain for one.

I got one! Just as he squeezes the trigger, whip me out and think of—Brooklyn Decker! I'll spring up and deflect the fuckin' bullet—

I gently closed my twitching left eye. "Could we try for something—a bit more practical?"

Hey! David Carridine used to do that kind of shit every damn week on Kung Fu! Of course—he used his hands, the fuckin' wimp.

"You should've listened to me, Hot Shot," Glenn said as he nervously wiggled the gun. "I warned you!"

Bryce suddenly stepped in front of me. "Glenn! Please!" she pleaded. "Don't do this! You're obviously not well!"

Simon says—bend over!

I quickly stepped around Bryce and positioned myself in front of her, returning the favor.

What the fuck are you doin'?

"What do you mean, you warned me?" I asked Glenn. "How did you warn me?"

You do realize he still has the fuckin' gun, right?

Glenn laughed. "Some detective you are."

"The note!" I blurted out. "You left me the note!"

"Yeah!" he growled. "I knew if you two would get together, you'd be fucking her—"

"That's it!" I yelled, turning away from Glenn and facing the mob of horrified villagers. "The note had nothing to do with the jewels! He was just trying to scare me away from Bryce!"

"Hey!" I heard Glenn scream. "Don't turn your fucking back on me!"

"Ashley?" Trish groaned. "Do something! He's about to shoot you!"

"Ah! Yes!" I mumbled thoughtfully as I pondered the question—how do I get that gun away from him?

You could always just ask him for it?

Obviously, my question was still unanswered.

Hey! Fuck you!

Ever so gently, I turned around and smiled up at Glenn. "Before you shoot me—would you mind if I ask you a question?"

He nodded—rather ditheringly.

"Do you know him?" I asked.

Glenn appeared totally frazzled by my question. "Who?"

I pointed an accusing finger at—

Dickless.

"Him!" I said.

Trish swiftly returned the favor and pointed an accusing finger at Glenn. "He's the one with the goddamn gun!" she screamed. "There's your killer! Will you please try to focus! Goddamit!"

I shook my head excitedly. "Nooo!" I yelled. "It all makes sense now! There are obviously two bad guys!"

Trish gave me—the look—again. "Two bad guys?"

"I thought there was only one bad guy too," I said, "but—I was wrong! That's what was throwing me off. Nothing made sense." I pointed at Glenn. "He's the one who's been chasing Bryce and I around Newport in the BMW." I gave Glenn a little nod of encouragement. "Right?"

Glenn wildly pointed his gun at Bryce. "She's my fiancée!"

"We broke up!" yelled Bryce. "I caught you in bed with my roommate! Remember!"

"Hey!" he screamed back in his defense. "The lights were out! You two look a lot alike."

"See!" I pointed out to Trish while trying to defuse Bryce's growing temper.

"I don't see anything!" Trish said defiantly.

I tried to recap. "Glenn has been chasing Bryce and I around Newport hoping to catch us in a compromising position—"

I was hopin' for the Backwards Wheelbarrow myself.

I calmly covered up my twitching eye with my hand and finished my recap. "—but he's not the killer!"

You want to rethink that last statement?

"Okay," I said, taking a moment to rethink my last statement, "technically—I guess he is a killer. He did kill Bryce's last boyfriend. But, he's not—the killer!" I looked around the villagers. "Is everyone following this?"

Doesn't look like it. All I see is fuckin' blank stares.

I jogged up the staircase and repositioned myself next to Glenn before addressing the mob. "Okay! Let me try this again," I said. "This is Glenn! He was Bryce's boyfriend until she caught him in bed with her—"

Obviously, violating Glenn's personal space wasn't the smartest thing I've ever done as he freaked and jabbed his gun deep into my ribs. "Get the hell down there with the others!"

Grab the gun.

Smiling, I tried to direct Glenn's attention towards Trish. "I'm—I'm just trying to explain to my ex-wife—what's going on."

Quit talkin' and grab the fuckin' gun.

"She's a few clowns short of a circus—if you know what I mean?"

"What?" screamed Trish as she momentarily distracted Glenn.

Will you please grab the fuckin' gun!

I grabbed the gun. Unfortunately, as I did—it—went off.

Don't worry! I'm okay! It missed me.

"Great!" I screamed as Glenn and I crashed into the marble bannister.

Was that fuckin' sarcasm again?

I didn't know what he was on, but—he must've been on something. The guy was like—a crazed animal! He was all over me! It took everything I had just to keep my two hands on the gun.

You do realize he's kickin' your fuckin' ass.

"Shut—up," I croaked as Glenn grabbed me by the throat.

Need I remind you, this isn't goin' to bode well for our chances of gettin' anywhere close to Bryce's moist loins? Hey! Hey! Watch his fuckin' knee! He almost kneed me.

Letting go of my throat, he grabbed a hold of my chin and began to push my head back—

I read somewhere that a person can withstand a lot more pain while sexually stimulated.

"Reeeeally?" I groaned as I heard my neck snap.

I got it! Imagine Bryce and Trish lyin' on top of each other—nibblin' on each other's rock hard nipples!

Getting the upper hand momentarily, I slammed Glenn's hand down on the marble bannister, jarring the gun loose. It bounced several times, bounced over the railing, and disappeared into the first floor's dark void.

You can thank me later.

With both of my hands now free, I dislodged his hand from my chin, grabbed him, spun him around, and was about to hit him with everything I had when I heard a loud—

WHACK!

Before I could let my fist fly, he suddenly went limp—and slumped forward on to my shoulder.

How many fuckin' times have I told you, never say limp!

Having absolutely no idea what just transpired, I instinctively stepped aside and allowed him to fall forward, face first onto the marble staircase.

Ouch! That had to hurt.

As I looked down at Glenn, laying there unconscious, I couldn't help but sense an almost divine-like presence—lurking over my shoulder.

I'm pretty sure you can rule out God. I'd be willin' to bet he hasn't forgiven you yet for arresting Father Edwards for indecent exposure.

I peeked over my shoulder and saw the Admiral standing there—holding his broken cane. Being a detective, it wasn't too difficult to figure out what happened.

A fuckin' new born could figure it out. The Admiral tried to hit you with his cane. He missed and hit Barney Rubble by mistake.

Nonsense! The Admiral, seeing I was having some difficulties, maneuvered himself behind Glenn and busted his cane over his head to help me out.

Yeah! Right! Sure! You keep believin' that one.

I smiled appreciatively, but with a slight sense of trepidation—as I looked closer at the Admiral. He didn't appear very happy. I nodded my thanks anyway. "Thank you, Admiral."

"Don't thank me, you little shit!" he growled. "I was aiming for you! You sank my goddamn boat!"

Told you.

"Ashley!" Bryce called out hysterically.

Grudgingly, I turned my back on the Admiral to see the rest of the tour group—huddled around a large mass sprawled out on the steps. At that second, I remembered the gun shot. "Dammit." Someone must've been hit by the stray bullet. "Oh! God!"

I wouldn't think it was God. He probably could get out of the way of a fuckin' bullet.

"Ash! Get over here!" came Trish's panic-riddled voice.

I raced down the staircase and pushed my way passed Spike and Abba Dabba to see Dr. Benjamin lying on the marble steps.

Holy shit! We're lucky he didn't fuckin' explode.

"Is he all right?" I asked Trish.

Trish stood up and urgently pulled her cell phone from her pocket. "I don't know! I'm no doctor!"

Spike annoyingly tried to elbow me out of the way. "You fool!" she growled. "Of course he's not all right! He's been shot!"

Why couldn't that bullet have hit her? Next time fuckin' aim!

I angrily elbowed her back. "I—I can see that!"

"I think he'll be all right," said Dr. Gibson, who was now kneeling down next to him and applying pressure to his side.

Wanting to see how bad it was for myself, I knelt down besides—

Tubby.

—and inspected his wound myself.

Is that fuckin' gravy oozin' out of him?

"It—it doesn't look too serious, Dr. Benjamin," I said, trying to keep up his spirits. "Trish is calling for the ambulance right now."

He winced and smiled weakly. "Thank you."

Watching him lay there—

Like a fuckin' beached whale.

—I couldn't help but feel a bit responsible.

That's pretty big of you, since you're the one who shot the fat bastard.

If I only waited a little longer—before grabbing the gun, this wouldn't have happened!

Stop worryin'! It's a fuckin' flesh wound. You would've had to shoot a bazooka at him, at point blank range, to penetrate all of that blubber.

Thinking it over—I had to agree. "Hang in there," I said aloofly as I stood up and turned back to Trish.

At that moment, Trish was furiously shaking her cell phone. "Damn phone! I can never get reception in this damn house!"

For some unexplainable reason, seeing Trish's frustration brought a slice of enjoyment to me. Too bad the slice turned out to be rather thin as—

Dickless.

—walked up to her and put his arm around her.

Fuckin' bastard.

"I couldn't agree more," I growled silently.

"What can I do—to help?" he asked Trish sweetly.

Drop dead.

Trish immediately returned a worrisome grin. "I think we better find out what happened to Sergeant Carp. Would you mind going upstairs—and see—what happened to him?"

Richard gave her a small nod. "Not at all," he said as he quickly turned to go upstairs.

Hearing that, I shoved Spike out of my way—and jumped in front of Richard, blocking his path up the stairs. "Hang on a minute!" I said. "You're not going anywhere!"

Hey! You didn't let me say Dickless.

Trish immediately took her cell phone away from her ear. "What are you doing?"

"He knows—I'm onto him," I told Trish while watching Richard's reaction. "All he'd have to do is disappear into one of those secret passages Howell built into this place—and we'll never see him again."

Trish glanced over at Mr. Howell. "What secret passages?"

"The secret passages Howell obviously told him about—when he passed himself off as his nephew." I could sense Richard's façade beginning to crack. "That's how your boyfriend here, was able to get behind me the other night and crack me over the head."

Richard threw his hands up in frustration. "I don't believe this!"

A bit overly dramatic don't you think?

I nodded in agreement.

Trish angrily shut off her cell phone and pointed at Glenn. "There's your damn killer!"

"You're totally insane, you know that don't you?" Richard quickly tossed in.

Yes! He does know it.

"I was willing to give you the benefit of the doubt, for Trish's sake," Richard added, "but this is getting down right ridiculous! What proof do you have that I've killed anyone? I'm talking real proof! I don't want to hear about any more of your delusional suspicions!"

I nonchalantly leaned into him and took a sniff of his cologne.

I think it's called, Evening Shit.

Richard instinctively recoiled away from me as Trish hurried to his side. "What the hell are you doing?" she snarled.

I casually stepped back. "Smelling—his cologne."

If she would like to even the score, I'd probably consent to the indignity of havin' her sniff me.

"It's quite unique," I said, curling up my nose. "I noticed Bobby's hotel room reeked of it."

"Excuse me," said Dr. Gibson as he waved his bloody hand, in hopes of getting Trish's attention. "Have you had any luck yet—calling the ambulance?"

"In a minute," Trish snapped while spearing him with an infuriated snarl.

Hostile isn't she? Obviously—she's not getting' any. Maybe I should say—she's not gettin' enough?

Trish's attention rocketed back to me, along with her hostility. "What are you going to do, Ash?" she asked. "Have him arrested for wearing cologne? Do you realize how many men wear that brand of cologne?"

I bet not that many. It fuckin' stinks.

Unfortunately, she was right! There was no way that would stand up in court. She was a lawyer and she knew it. It was obvious Trish wasn't going to let me lay a glove on him. She was too smart for that. Somehow—I needed to shake her confidence in him. I needed to get her to second guess him—even if it was for just a second.

"Trish told me you guys didn't get to see the show up in Maine—the other night?" I asked Richard directly. "Lost the tickets? The King and I wasn't it?"

He nodded silently.

"That's too bad," I said, keeping direct eye contact with him. "I heard it was pretty good."

Trish hurriedly stepped in between Richard and I, breaking our eye contact. "What are you getting at, Ash?"

I tried to appear shocked by her accusation. "Who—me?"

"Oh! Please!" she snapped. "I was married to you for eighteen years. I can read you like a book. You're digging for something!"

"Who—me?"

"Why don't you just come out and tell us what you're after?" she retorted.

"Yes! Please do!" snarled Dr. Benjamin. "I need her to call me an ambulance."

"All right," I snapped. "King and I closed two days before you two arrived in Maine."

Trish shot me an odd smirk as her entire body seemed to stiffen. "What?"

"My Fair Lady was playing at the theater the night you supposedly had tickets for King and I." I peeked around Trish and smiled at Richard. "You sure were lucky you lost those tickets when you did."

Trish turned to Richard. "What the hell is he talking about?"

"He's mad!" Richard yelled while pointing an accusing finger in my direction. "Isn't it obvious? Why would I do something like that?"

I chuckled openly to get their attention. "Just before you killed Bobby, she must've told you Bryce and I was driving up to Maine to see Evelyn."

Trish appeared confused.

Trying to clarify things, I continued. "He probably thought Evelyn might tell us something that would help us find the jewels before him."

"Are we back to the jewels?" snarled the Admiral.

"Not Toothless Tommy's jewels, Admiral!" I said, without really acknowledging him. "Mrs. Howell's jewels!" I slowly started to move among the villagers once again. "That's why Richard had to lie to Trish about having the tickets to the show. He needed to get to Evelyn before us."

"Are you saying Richard—killed Evelyn too?" Trish asked with a mocking laugh.

"May—maybe."

A few gasps floated over the darkened staircase.

"Sheriff Boone finally took my advice and had an autopsy done on Evelyn," I said. "It appears; someone laced the old girl's salad with poison. Naturally, we'll get the final report in a few weeks, but—"

"Where are the jewels?" asked Spike's mother.

"Where's the ambulance?" yelled Dr. Benjamin.

I figured I'd answer the question I knew the answer to. "The jewels are still right where Mr. Howell hid them." All eyes fell on Mr. Howell. Unfortunately, he was too busy to notice, as his full attention was directed towards—the third floor.

"Didn't one of you say Howell had a false set of jewels made," asked Joanie. "Why did he do that?"

Bryce raised her hand. "So he could have the false jewels stolen and collect the insurance money!"

I pointed at Bryce again. "Exactly! Everybody would be happy. Howell would keep the real jewels for himself, and Mrs. Howell would get the insurance money."

"Are you trying to tell us that Mr. Howell planned the robbery?" asked Trish.

"Absolutely," I shot back. "He hired Page to play Santa Claus at his wife's party so he could steal her jewels. Unfortunately—" I paused a moment to build on the suspense.

Very nice! I'm plannin' to do the same thing to Bryce tonight. Right when I'm about to slide in—I'll pause a second—

"—he failed to tell Page, that the jewels he'd be stealing were fakes!"

"That's why the jewels that your mother buried—turned out to be fakes," Spike announced proudly.

I nodded reluctantly to my so-called half-sister.

Lesbo bitch.

"That's a very nice story, Ash," Trish chimed in. "But it still doesn't point to—"

Quickly re-focusing, I went on. "Richard obviously knew about the robbery. With a little digging, he could've found out the lead insurance investigator always suspected Howell, but never could really prove it." I eyed Richard with a rather large amount of interest as I continued. "I wouldn't be surprised if Richard didn't know about Lieutenant Cottman's black mailing Howell—to keep quiet."

"That's absurd!" yelled the Admiral. "Lieutenant Cottman was a friend of mine. He was a Navy man!"

I spun around and faced the Admiral—just in case he had any more thoughts of bashing my head in. "He was the lead investigator on the Howell robbery! Why would a cop in the middle of the biggest case of his career—suddenly retire?"

"To one of the biggest homes in Newport!" added Bryce.

"On a policeman's pension!" I tossed in. "He was blackmailing Howell all right!"

Trish shook her head. "This makes no sense."

"Of course it does," I argued. "If all this information was available to Richard, it would only be logical that he would suspect Howell of planning the robbery—and hiding the jewels for the insurance money!"

I could see Trish mulling over the possibilities.

Richard stepped up alongside Trish, while resting his hand on the small of her back. "This is total madness."

"That's why you pretended to be Mr. Howell's nephew, so you could pump him for information. Did he tell you where he hid the jewels?"

Richard just stood there—staring at me.

"It doesn't matter, really," I said coolly as I again slowly walked amongst the villagers. "You probably guessed—they were still in Treasure Hall. I know I would! But you had a bigger problem, didn't you? How were you going to get into Treasure Hall to find them—without someone becoming overly suspicious?" I stepped over Dr. Benjamin's outstretched leg before stopping and glaring at Trish. "It was simple! All he had to do was get close to someone with connections to Treasure Hall."

Hearing that, Trish's jaw set tight. "Me?"

"You!" I said. "Your ex-mother-in-law manages Treasure Hall!"

Not anymore. You fuckin' took care of that one, didn't you?

I nodded coyly as I continued to circulate among the group. "You two met, started to date! After what—I'm sure was an appropriate time period; the idea for the ghost tour came up! The plan was perfect! As long as the ghost tours were successful, he'd be able to have free access to search Treasure Hall for the jewels! Except—Bryce and I came along and wrecked it."

I quickly faced Richard. "When you heard we were going to start looking into the robbery, you realized that you were going to have to stay one step ahead of us, just in case we happened to stumble across the jewels first." Hearing no rebuttals, I continued. "The night we met, I remember telling everyone we were going to interview Lieutenant Cottman the next morning. That sealed the old boy's fate—didn't it? You got there before us; got the information out of him you needed—then killed him!"

Trish suddenly slapped Richard's hand away from her. "And what about—what's her name? Bobby?"

"Richard must've seen me in Tits—"

Ritz.

"Ritz—" I swiftly snapped, "that—that afternoon, when the two of you were looking in the window at—the engagement rings!" I turned back to Richard. "Naturally, you had to find out what Bobby told us."

Richard mocked me with one of those mocking laughs. "You're certifiable, you know that?"

Yes! He does.

"You were just coming back from killing Bobby—when you passed us in the Admiral's boat. You probably thought if you could kill us right there—we'd be out of your hair and you'd be in the clear. But, when you failed to kill us, you needed that cock-n-bull story about the tickets—so you could get up to Maine—and get to Evelyn before us."

"All right!" yelled Richard. "So—I made a mistake about which damn play we were going to see. Big deal! Everyone makes a mistake now and then!" He walked up to me and arrogantly pointed his finger in my face.

That finger smells awfully familiar.

It did have—a rather familiar odor to it.

Shit! It's Trish! I knew it! The bastard's been playin' with her pissflaps!

"You have nothing on me, Hard!" he growled softly, attempting to keep his declaration just between he and I. "Everything you've said is nothing but half-cocked theories and your maniacal flights of fantasies."

The little finger fucker is right, you know.

I knew it. I didn't have one damn shred of evidence on him.

Well—then make somethin' up! You used to do it all the fuckin' time!

I thought it over. "I did—didn't I?"

Are you goin' to stand there and let this piece of shit, keep trollin' in your ex-wife's fish tank?

Suddenly, I had an idea. It was a long shot, but it might just work. For some reason, I remembered a tactic Raymond Burr used when he played Perry Mason on T.V. years ago, where he'd fool the murderer into confessing.

Was Perry Mason gay?

"Noooo!" I growled through tight lips.

Are you sure? He sure hung out with that Paul Drake a lot.

"Shut up," I snarled softly as I reached into my pocket and pulled out the copy of the fashion section that Carp gave me earlier. "What would you say—if I could place you at the scene of Lieutenant Cottman's murder—just moments after his death?"

Trish walked up the stairs with her hand extended. "What do you have?"

Whatever you do, don't smell her hand.

Keeping a safe distance from Trish, I began to slowly unfold the paper while eyeing Richard. "If you'll remember back to the morning of the Lieutenant's untimely death—"

"How could I?" snapped Richard. "I wasn't there."

With a coy smile, I continued. "There was a photo shoot taking place on the beach just outside the Lieutenant's back door."

Wait! I think I saw that Perry Mason episode too! Barbara Hale was wearin' this really tight skirt, right?

As I finished unfolding the picture, I casually looked down at it—then up at Richard. "You're very photogenic."

"He's lying," snarled Richard as he hurried over to Trish's side.

Trish angrily reached out and tried to grab the paper from me. "Let me see that!"

With moves of a cat, I pulled the paper out of her reach and circled around them while descending the staircase several steps. "Am I?" I said to Richard. "Then who's this in the background hoping over Cottman's retaining wall—and running onto the beach?"

Hey! I just thought of somethin'.

Still focused on the picture, I silently waited for my—so-called thought.

If you push this clown back into a corner and he sees no fuckin' way out, won't he be forced to do—somethin' fuckin' rash?

I'm not big on premonitions, but when I heard the chorus of horrified gasps, I got the sinking suspicion that—

Dickless.

—did do something rash.

Told you.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

Unfortunately, my hunch was correct. He did do something rash. He grabbed Trish and put a gun to her head.

"All right!" he yelled to everyone. "If anyone moves, even an inch—she's dead!"

Whatever you do, don't think of Bryce's—

"Shut up."

Trish angrily tried to pry his hand off her arm. "What the hell are you doing?" she screamed. "Let me go!"

"Stop it!" he said while forcibly pulling her up several more steps.

"My! God!" Trish said, in total disbelief. "Ash was right! You killed all those poor people!"

As I watched Richard continue to man-handle Trish up the staircase, Bryce silently slid in next to me, and in a nervous whisper asked, "What are you going to do?"

Before replying, I quickly thought over my possibilities while calculating in—how things were going for me this evening. "Probably get shot," I replied.

Trish tried again to break free from Richard. "How could you've killed all of those innocent people?"

Richard angrily pulled her next to him and repositioned his gun up against her face. "If you don't start cooperating, I'll show you firsthand."

It didn't take a genius to see things were rapidly deteriorating. This wasn't the way I'd hoped this would play-out. I should never have allowed Trish to get between Richard and I as I began to tighten the screws. I knew better than that! This whole evening has been one screw up after another. I've jeopardized Trish—along with everyone else.

Then stop fuckin' around and do somethin'!

"I'm thinking."

Nothin' comin' to you, eh?

"Wait! I got one!"

You got what?

"A plan!" I growled softly.

What the fuck is it?

"You'll see," I mumbled as I fleetly started to jog up the staircase towards Richard. "Excuse me!"

Maybe we should discuss this fuckin' plan of yours, first?

As I approached Richard, I could see his senses heighten.

You do realize we're fuckin' in his together, right? If you die, I die, right? You do understand that, right?

Richard pulled Trish towards him and tightened his grip on his gun. "That's close enough, Hard."

Stopping, I carefully held out the front page of the fashion section. "You know," I said, "if it will make you feel better, I was only kidding about you being in the picture."

To tell you the truth, I'm beginning to have second thoughts about this fuckin' plan of your's.

"See!" I added, showing Richard the picture. "It's actually me in the picture." I faked a hearty laugh. "It's an old trick; Raymond Burr used when he played Perry Mason on T.V."

How is tellin' him this shit, goin' to make him fuckin' feel better? Won't it just piss him off even more?

"You bastard!" croaked Richard.

Told you.

Richard took the gun away from Trish's cheek and pointed it—in my general direction.

Shit! Quick! Tell him you're fuckin' sorry!

He pushed Trish aside and took several steps down the staircase. "You're dead, Hard!" he said as he slowly extended his arm and aimed the gun right at me.

Would you mind tellin' him to aim—a bit higher?

I gave Tish a little nod—and mouthed, "The gun!"

Just as Richard pulled the trigger, Trish lunged for the gun. The shot rang out.

Shit! Am I hit?

Out of the corner of my eye—I saw Abba Dabba doubled over and fall to his knees.

That was a fuckin' close one.

Seeing Trish and Richard struggling over the gun, I charged up the staircase.

Ouch! We really need to discuss tighter fittin' underwear.

As I closed in on—

Dickless.

—he broke free from Trish and pushed her into me—sending both of us tumbling down the staircase. As I tried to untangle myself from Trish, I watched Richard retreat up the staircase.

"No! Nephew!" screamed Mr. Howell. "Don't go up there! The Captain is up there!"

"Get the hell off of me!" Trish screamed as she furiously slapped at me.

"Stop hitting me," I yelled as I slapped her back.

Bryce quickly intervened by grabbing my arm. "Stop it! Both of you!"

I know nobody really gives a fuck, but—I'm still down here.

Refocused, I directed Bryce's attention down the staircase. "Quick," I said. "Somehow get everyone out of here. Then go find the master switch—and turn on the lights!" Before Bryce could ask her question, I pulled Trish to her feet. "You!" I growled. "Go outside and find Roger! Tell him to have his men surround the house and look for any hidden passages—or secret doors."

"What are you going to do?" Bryce finally asked me. "You're not going after him, are you? He has a gun!"

"Let him," growled Trish as she violently straightened her dress. "With any luck, they'll kill each other!"

With those words of encouragement, I ran up the staircase.

"Don't you want a lantern?" I heard Bryce yell to me.

"I wouldn't go up there if I were you!" screamed Howell. "The Captain is up there! And he's pissed!"

Stepping on the third floor landing, I immediately crouched down alongside what appeared to be a large antique table of some kind. Peeking out from around the table, I took a cursory look around, while listening for any sign of—

Dickless.

Unfortunately, the only sound I was able to hear were the faint footsteps of the tour group hurrying down the marble staircase.

Why the hell didn't you listen to Bryce and take her damn lantern?

Hugging the wall, I silently moved along the dark corridor. "If I had a lantern," I said softly, "I'd be an easier target."

That's all well and good, but—if he can't see you, the odds are you can't see him! How does that give you an advantage over him?

"It doesn't," I added in an even lower voice. "But it does put us on an even playing field."

You know what? I have an idea that just may give you the fuckin' advantage.

Curious, I stopped—and listened.

Since I've been locked away down here, since right before dinner, I would have to say that my night vision acuity would be a lot sharper than yours right now.

"Wh—what?"

May I suggest, you whip me out and—

"I can see perfectly fine, thank you! I'm sure, I won't need any—" Just then, I tripped over something—and fell over.

See! I could've prevented that.

"Shut up!" I snapped wildly. "Just—shut up!" Unable to make out what I tripped over, I reached back and blindly felt around. I felt what appeared to be a nose and—a bushy mustache.

Uh! Oh!

A feeling of foreboding crept over me as I carefully retrieved my hand and wiped it off on my pants. Just then, the hallway sprang to life—with an array of blinding lights.

I'm afraid the same can't be said for Old' Walrus Breath.

With my eyes still adjusting to the light, I squinted at the unconscious Sergeant lying next to me—and the rather large gash on his forehead.

Is he worm chow?

Reluctantly, I reached over and felt his neck. I'd hoped to find a pulse—unfortunately, the only thing I found—was a gun shoved in my face.

This is not your fuckin' day, is it?

"Okay, Hard! Get on your knees and keep your hands where I can see them."

I glanced up and found—

Dickless.

—holding the gun.

Surprise! Surprise!

I quickly pointed at Carp. "I think his man needs medical attention," I said weakly while trying to think of a way out of my current predicament.

Richard playfully waved his gun in my face. "On your knees! And put your hands on your head!"

I got to my knees and laced my fingers together behind my head. Forcing out a smile, I playfully motioned to the unconscious—

Blubber-fest.

—lying next to me. "To be perfectly honest, I've never really liked the guy. So—there's really no hurry."

Richard tightened his grip on his gun. "Shut up!"

If you whipped me out like I suggested, I would've seen him sneakin' up on you—and we wouldn't be in this fuckin' mess right now.

"Show no fear," I mumbled to myself. "Stall for time! Roger's probably inside the mansion right now. Just—keep him talking."

Me?

After a rather painful cleansing breath, I said, "You do realize—that you're not going to get away with this? There's no way out! The place is swarming with cops. If you want, you could give me the gun and I'll see that you—"

"Who said anything about wanting to get away?"

I would be kidding myself if I said—I wasn't confused by his statement.

"I'm not going anywhere," Richard said coldly. "In one of his rare lucid moments, Howell confided in me he had a secret room built for himself years ago. I've stocked it with plenty of food and water, just in case something like this happened that disrupted my plans."

I had a sneaking suspicion I knew where this was going as he motioned with the gun towards the west wing. "It's down that hallway over there. I'll be able to hold up there for two—maybe three weeks if I have too."

"You're going to hide out in the room until the cops are convinced you slipped passed them, then—walk out of here and fade off into the sunset."

He nodded.

Thinking it over, his plan had merit, but—I did see one major flaw in it. He just told me his entire plan. All I'd have to do is go tell the police what he was planning—

I'll give you a few seconds to think over that last statement of yours. One fuckin' stupid Mississippi! Two fuckin' stupid Mississippi!

It suddenly dawned on me.

Bingo.

I pushed out a rather weak smile. "You're going to kill me—aren't you?"

He laughed. "I have to. I just told you my entire plan."

"What would you say if I told you—I wasn't listening?"

He knelt down in front of me and placed the gun's barrel to my forehead. "Nice try."

Grab the fuckin' gun!

"Shut up."

Richard angrily jabbed my forehead with the gun. "What did you just say to me?"

"Nothing."

All right, if you're too chicken to grab the fuckin' gun, may I suggest we go back to your earlier plan of stallin' for time?

"Would you mind—" I blurted out, "answering a few questions for me, before you pull the trigger?"

He thought it over before answering. "All right, if you answer one for me?"

Nineteen inches.

I forced out a rather crazed chuckle.

"How the hell did you know it was me?" he asked inquisitively. "What tipped you off?"

"Howell."

He appeared confused. "You pieced everything together, just by Howell recognizing me as his nephew?"

"Not totally."

Talk slower.

"Wh—when Bryce and I visited him in the hospital, he showed us a picture of Captain Tommy he was drawing. I knew I'd seen the person somewhere before, but I just couldn't remember. I haven't been at—the top of my game, lately."

Can't you talk any fuckin' slower?

"It didn't dawn on me until tonight when Howell actually picked you out of the group that it was you he was drawing."

Keep talkin'! We're stallin' for fuckin' time, remember.

"I—I figured with Howell's condition, he was obviously combining his reality—you as his nephew, with his make-belief world of—"

Richard nodded. "Toothless Tommy!"

Who the fuck is tellin' this story?

"Correct," I said—slowly.

You know what, I was thinkin' along the same fuckin' line, believe it or not.

"Yeah! Right!" I mumbled.

Bite me.

Richard nodded casually. "Trish did say you were the best."

Ask him if they were in bed when she said that?

"Focus," I mumbled again as I struggled to think of another way I could keep him talking. "How—did you find out Howell was behind the whole thing?"

"My uncle was the insurance agency's lead investigator on the case," he said. "He thought Howell was behind the whole thing from day one, but he never could prove it. He even found one of the missing diamonds—right here in the mansion."

I nodded. "Was that the diamond you showed Bobby?"

Richard laughed openly. "Very good, Hard!"

That's right! Keep the fucker talkin'.

"During your little talks with Howell," I asked timidly. "Did he ever mention to you where—he hid the jewels?"

Richard laughed again. But this time, it was more of a mocking laugh. "Why do you think I haven't killed you yet?"

It was my turn to chuckle. "To be honest, I was hoping you were out of bullets."

Good! He doesn't know where the jewels are. This could work in our favor.

He laughed again. "You're going to tell me where jewels are."

Whatever you do, don't fuckin' tell him. As soon as he knows where they are, he won't need us anymore.

"How stupid do you think I am?" I mumbled.

We don't have that much time. Just don't tell him!

"Sooo—" I said—very slowly. "Why wouldn't Howell tell you where the jewels were?"

"Every damn time I would bring up the subject, he would go off on some wild, incoherent babble about how Captain Tommy would get upset." His annoyed expression turned to one of determination as he again knelt down in front of me. "Where are they, Hard? You know where they are! Trish told me you figured it out."

Bitch.

"Where are they?" he growled.

You better tell him.

"Wh—what?" I blurted out, totally confused. "You just told me—not to tell him!"

Richard—stared at me strangely as he got up and stepped away from me. "What the hell are you talking about? I didn't say that?"

Realizing, Richard assumed I was talking to him—didn't help me any. "Wh—what?"

I could see Richard's trigger finger start to twitch. "Where are the jewels?" he asked again—in a rather chilling tone.

Yes! I know I did, but—I just realized somethin'! Technically, he doesn't really need you to tell him where the jewels are.

I was still confused.

"I don't have time to play around, Hard!" Richard again knelt down in front of me and pressed the gun into my forehead. "I'll give you to the count of five."

He'll be able to hold up in Howell's secret room as long as he wants too. He'll be able to search the damn mansion every night for the fuckin' jewels. If they do exist, he'll eventually find them. He doesn't need you!

Richard suddenly cleared his throat. "One!"

"I didn't think of that," I mumbled.

"Two!"

Tell him! He's goin' to kill you.

"Three!"

You better tell him! I don't think Bryce is the type of girl who's into necrophilia.

"Four!"

Tell him! I'm—too big to die!

"Five!"

"The chandelier!" I blurted out. "They're on the chandelier!"

I knew it.

Richard stood up and looked out over the railing towards the enormous crystal chandelier hanging just out of reach—over the spiraling staircase. "This one?"

I nodded.

That's it? You're just going to fuckin' nod? Couldn't you expand on that nod a little? Tell him—how Howell got them out there!

Richard made sure his gun was pointed at me as he gave me a dubious look. "I don't have time for jokes, Hard!"

"Everything fits," I said. "That chandelier was one of three identical chandeliers hanging in the ballroom. I know, I saw an old photograph of the ballroom—taken in the early seventies. All three of the chandeliers were still hanging in the ballroom when the photograph was taken."

That's it! Keep talkin'!

"I suspect the stories about Carsdale actually finding Captain Tommy's loot, were true. There's no other way he would've been able to afford to build this place." Pleased to see Richard still listening, I continued. "After Treasure Hall was completed, I'm guessing Carsdale converted what was left of loot into precious stones and placed them on the chandelier for safe keeping. No one looking up at the chandeliers would be able to tell if they were real or not. It was perfect. Unfortunately—I'm sure he didn't plan on falling down the stairs and breaking his neck."

I could sense Richard's next question.

Well—I did hit nineteen and a half inches that one time at that high school dance with Diane Pollin.

"You're telling me—Captain Tommy's jewels are on there too?"

I nodded. "I suspect Howell came across the stones while he was having the ballroom renovated. It was a few months before Mrs. Howell party. I'm positive that's what gave him the idea for the robbery. I'm sure he figured—since Carsdale's jewels were safely hidden away for years up in the chandelier—why couldn't he hide his in the same place? He then had the fake replicas made, had Page steal them—and he placed the real ones in the chandelier and pocketed the insurance money. His wife was happy! He was happy!"

"But why did he bring the chandelier out here?"

"Easier access," I said. "I'm sure he had to grab one or two over the years, to help pay for his wife's excessive spending habits."

I could see Richard frantically wondering how to get to the chandelier. "How—" he said excitedly as he waved the gun at me once again. "How did he get to them?"

Where the hell is that asshole, Roger?

I was wondering that myself.

I told you he was goin' to get us fuckin' killed.

"Well?" Richard yelled, grabbing back my attention.

I took my hand off my head and pointed down the hallway. "There's a long pole with a hook on the end, lying along—"

Richard eagerly began to back pedal down the hallway while keeping a watchful eye on me.

If you ask me, he's sure in a hurry to put a fuckin' bullet in your head.

As Richard eagerly picked up the pole, I came to the same painful conclusion. He obviously knew Carp's men would to be storming in here any minute. That gave him just seconds to figure out if I was telling him the truth—and me just seconds to make my move. I only wished I knew—what that move was?

One fuckin' Mississippi.

"Shut up," I mumbled.

Two fuckin' Mississippi.

"I'm warning you!"

There's your two fuckin' seconds! What the hell are you goin' to do?

I cautiously held my breath as Richard—still pointing the gun at me, snagged the chandelier with the pole.

Here's your chance! He's not lookin'. Rush him!

I'd just about decided to rush Richard, when he suddenly looked back at me. "Don't move!" he said as he readjusted his gun's trajectory to one that appeared to be a lot closer to my head.

What the hell were you waitin' for? If you were any slower, you would be a fuckin' turtle—with no fuckin' legs!

Richard slowly began to ease the chandelier towards the railing, when suddenly—the hundreds of crystals hanging on the chandelier began to collide into one another, forcing him to momentarily stop pulling on the chandelier—so the crystals would quiet down.

I have an idea! This will get you movin'! Visualize—let's say Veronica Zemanova is standing by the railin' instead of Dickless. And she's totally naked! Well—except for high heels, of course.

"Wh—what?"

Veronica Zemanova! That really hot Czech porn star! You know the one I'm talkin' about! You're always on her fuckin' web site!

"Wait—a minute!" I mumbled. "Look! He's distracted! He's not looking at me. I just might be able to get to him—before he can get a shot off."

Hang on! Let me finish! Slowly—she raises her leg and places it on the top of the railin'. Moanin' in ecstasy, she throws her head back as she plunges her middle finger deep into her—

"Ash!"

Hearing my name, I automatically refocused my attention.

Shit!

"Ash? Where the hell are you?"

It was Roger. The nasal twang was a dead give-a-way. Richard swiftly turned to me and silently motioned for me not to say a word. I reluctantly obeyed, seeing that he had the gun—and I didn't.

That fucker can't keep holdin' on to that chandelier forever. The little wimp's arm must be getting tired.

I had to agree. I could see the strain on his face. The way I saw it—he had two choices. Either let go of the chandelier or put down the gun so he could grab the pole with both hands. I was fine with either one. If he let the chandelier go—the movement of the crystals hitting each other would surely alert Roger to our location. And—if he chose to put the gun down—

He could just shoot Roger.

"Wh—what?" I looked up to see Richard pointing the gun over the railing

Go! Goooo!

I sprang to my feet just as he pulled the trigger. Unfortunately, I again tripped—and fell over something.

What the fuck are you doin'!

I'd forgotten about—Carp! As I struggled to untangle myself from the unconscious oaf, I suddenly heard a loud clatter of crystals. I looked up again—just in time to see Richard's feet falling over the railing. His ear piercing scream was soon stifled by what could only be described as a painful—

SPLAT!

Ouch!

Having a hard time believing what I just witnessed, I rocked back onto my heels to catch my breath, and watch the chandelier sway aimlessly over the staircase.

Like I always say, every dark cloud has a fuckin' silver linin'.

I waited patiently for the silver lining part.

Trish is obviously available again.

"Shut up."

I solved the goddamn case for you—and this is the fuckin' thanks I get?

"You? You solved the—" I fell silent as someone suddenly caught my attention. He was standing right about where Richard had fallen over the railing, with his back to me. He appeared to be looking over the railing—chuckling.

I slowly got to my feet, stepped over Carp, and took several carefully planned steps towards him. "Excuse me?"

Acting as if he didn't hear me, he continued—to chuckle. He was rather tall, with stringy grayish hair pulled back into a sloppy ponytail. He wore a long tattered leather coat, and on top of his head he appeared to be wearing—a pirate's hat. "Excuse me?" I repeated weakly.

Have you noticed—he doesn't have any fuckin' legs?

I nodded.

He's fuckin' floatin'—in mid-air.

I nodded again.

Have you also noticed that you can see right through—the fucker?

My mysterious friend suddenly whirled around. I quickly began to backpedal as he started to—float towards me. "Nev—never show fear," I said forcibly as I readied my blood-curdling scream. His face was old, wore and horribly scarred, while his crazed, pale-white eyes wildly swirled aimlessly in their sockets.

He sort of reminds me of your mother.

I just stood there motionless, desperately trying to come up with some rational explanation for my present delusional state. There had to be one!

Well—you are fuckin' nuts.

"Shut up."

You don't suppose, he's really Toothless Tommy's fuckin' ghost?

"The jewels!" I blurted out. "He's protecting—his jewels."

As every guy should.

Another thought suddenly hit me. "Maybe—old man Howell isn't as nuts as everyone thinks."

Are you sure this isn't all in your head? You are—Fucked in the Head, remember!

"Wh—What?"

Just then, the Captain flashed me a toothless grin—and slowly started to fade away.

"No! No! Wait—" I stammered as I reached out to him. "Are you really Toothless Tommy's—"

POOF!

He was gone.

"Hey! Ash!"

Startled—I turned and saw Roger running down the hallway towards me with his gun drawn. "Are you okay?"

Not really sure myself, I elected to give him one of my questionable nods.

As Roger placed his police revolver back into its holster, he hesitantly peeked over the railing at—

Dead Dickless.

"What happened?" he asked painfully.

Since it's been thoroughly documented that you have conversations with your penis, I don't think it'd be wise to tell anyone that you just saw Toothless Tommy's ghost toss Dickless over the fuckin' railin'. It could make for a rather long night—in a fuckin' straight jacket, if you get my drift?

I did! And I agreed. "He slipped."
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

I've forgotten how dark and foreboding Cliff Walk can be at this time of the night. Just the vast blackness of it all, is enough to make—

Hello!

Having the mood spoiled, I looked up at the blanket of stars above me and sighed. "What do you want?" I asked as a spectacular shooting star suddenly streaked across the sky.

What the hell is wrong with you? How could you let Bryce go back to New York? And more importantly—I didn't get any pussy! I didn't even get a goddamn blowjob! I thought we had a fuckin' deal!

"Wait—a minute," I said, pushing myself up and away from the stone wall. "I just saw a shooting star!"

Who gives a flyin' fuck!

"I get to make a wish."

I'm fuckin' big enough.

I closed my eyes and concentrated. "I wish—I was well again!" Waiting a moment, I opened my eyes—and listened. I didn't hear anything. There were no wisecracks. No insults. No obscenities. No rants of world dominations! "Could I really be rid of him?" I said softly. "Is that all it took?"

Can we stop fuckin' around and get back to the matter of Bryce.

"I knew it was too good to be true."

What the hell are you goin' to do about Bryce?

"There you are!"

Startled—I turned to find Roger walking towards me with a flashlight.

"What are you doing back here?" he asked. "All the excitement is out front. The news stations are starting to arrive. They're all looking for you."

I leaned back against the wall. "I know. That's why I'm back here."

Roger chuckled, shut off his flashlight, and took a spot next to me along the wall.

"How's Dr. Benjamin doing?" I asked.

Roger nodded. "He's okay."

I nodded too. "Good! What about Abba Dabba?"

"They think he'll make it too."

Dammit.

"That's good," I said while trying to disguise my disappointment. "Sergeant Piranha?"

"Nothing a few dozen stitches won't cure." Roger turned around and looked out over the pitch-black horizon. "He told me to remind you, he will get you, one of these days!"

I smiled and gave him a knowing nod.

"Oooh!" Roger cooed painfully. "I bumped into Trish as I was coming back here. She asked me to tell you something too."

I glanced over at him and eagerly waited for the message. "Well?" I asked nervously. "What did she say?"

He slowly pushed out a false smile. "Thanks for—ruining my life."

Ouch!

"Well—" I replied coldly. "How did I know things were going to turn out like they did? It wasn't my fault!" I took a cleansing breath before resuming the conversation. "Is that all—she told you to tell me?"

He anxiously cleared his throat. "There was something else about—dropping dead."

And to think, I was considerin' allowin' her to suck on me tonight.

Still looking off into the distance, Roger carefully cleared his throat again. "Oh! And the Admiral says his lawyers will be contacting you tomorrow about his boat."

I nodded again as I looked out into the darkness. "Great."

"What happened with Bryce?" Roger asked. "I saw her leaving in a taxi. She seemed to be in a hurry."

I'll tell you what the fuck happened!

"Nothing happened," I blurted out. "She had to leave. She had a deadline to meet."

He let her leave all right, without holdin' up her end of the fuckin' bargain!

"There was no bargain," I mumbled under my breath as I directed my attention back to Roger. "She called her editor about the story. He told her she could get the front page if she could get the story to him in time."

"Front page?" Roger said. "Not bad!"

She gets the front page! I get fuckin' zip!

"Will you be going back to New York?"

I thought over Roger's question before shaking my head. "I—I don't think so."

Don't I have a fuckin' say in the matter?

"I'm not ready yet."

Roger gave me an understanding nod. "Well—" he said, "I better get going. Old man Howell is missing. I told Dr. Gibson I'd help him find the old wack-a-doodle." He let out a little sarcastic laugh. "I'd sure feel guilty if he had another run in with the Captain."

I forced out an uneasy chuckle as I took a quick glance around. "Yeah! Right!"

Giving me a supportive pat on the back, Roger turned on his flashlight and hurried off down the Walk.

I do all the fuckin' work. I take all the goddamn chances! And what happens?

"Are we still on this?"

This really blows and not in a good way.

"Bryce did say—thank you!"

Whoop—dee—fuckin'—do! She said—thank you!

"A thank you—was all I needed! I wasn't after anything else."

Oh! Yeah! At least you got a fuckin' kiss on the cheek.

I gently touched my cheek. "She did kiss me on the cheek, didn't she?"

It was the other cheek, you fuckin' moron!

"It didn't mean anything," I said as I quickly switched my hand to my other cheek.

I didn't get a fuckin' kiss!

"I'm sure it was meant for both of us."

If that kiss was meant for me, the poor woman must have some kind of fuckin' depth perception disorder, because she missed me by a fuckin' mile.

"She did tell me to give her a call—if I ever got back to New York."

You poor, pathetic loser! She knows damn well you're never goin' to get back to New York again. She thinks you're a fuckin' loon!

"Oh! Yeah!" I snapped indignantly. "Well—I'm going to prove both of you wrong! The only reason I agreed to help her—was not so much for her—but for me! I wanted to see for myself if I'm—getting better!"

Did you really?

"Yes! I did! And—except for one or two minor glitches, I think—I handled myself relatively well."

Do you really?

"Yes! Yes—I do!"

Would one of these minor glitches be—that you're standin' on Cliff Walk at three o'clock in the mornin' talkin' to your fuckin' penis?

I thought it over. "May—maybe."

You are such a fuckin' ass.

"Hey! I caught the murderers, didn't I?"

Well—technically, we caught the murderers! But—I digress. We still didn't get fuckin' squat for our troubles.

I glanced over my shoulder as I heard a loud rustling sound coming from behind a large bush.

How many more fuckin' murders do we need to solve—before I get some pussy?

"Obviously—" I said absent-mindedly as old man Howell came tumbling out of the bush. "—at least one more."

This fuckin' bites!

Hurrying over to the old man, I grabbed his arm and helped him to his feet. "Are you all right?"

His terrified stare locked onto me. "Hide me! Please!"

"What's wrong?"

He nervously glanced over his shoulder. "He's after me!"

I nervously glanced over my shoulder too. "Who's—after you?"

The old man's grip on my forearm tightened. "The Captain!"

Oh! Shit!

Just in case, I needed to make a speedy exit, I slapped Howell's hand away from me. "You mean—Toothless Tommy?"

Howell looked up at me with a surprised grimace. "You saw him, didn't you?"

"Wh—what?"

I suddenly found Howell's accusing finger in my face. "You saw him! I can see it in your eyes!"

I fleetly evaluated my options. It was a tough call. I had no idea how Howell would react if I told him the truth in his present mental state—so I decided to play it safe. "May—maybe."

Real fuckin' smooth.

The old man grabbed my arm again. "My nephew?" he asked, with a crazed gleam in his eyes. "The Captain got my nephew, didn't he?"

I nodded hesitantly. "May—maybe."

Howell looked off into the night. "He's one mean son-of-a-bitch," he said, somewhat introspectively. "He's been after me for years."

"Why?" I asked. "Is it because you found his jewels?"

He nodded.

"Is that what happened to your wife?"

The old man looked up at me strangely. "Who?"

"Your wife," I repeated with a bit more volume. "Did the Captain kill your—"

Howell immediately began shaking his head. "I killed her."

I stood there—totally dumbfounded. "Wh—what?"

Howell gave me a stern nod. "I pushed her over the railing."

I couldn't believe my ears. "Why?"

"She wanted to throw another one of those damn Christmas in July parties!" he snarled. "And this time, she wanted me to get real snow trucked in from Colorado! Do you know how much that would have cost me?"

Do you realize what this fuckin' means?

"Yeah," I said urgently. "I need to talk to Dr. Gibson!"

No! No! I just solved another fuckin' murder! Bryce will have to—bend over—now!

I grabbed Howell and began to pull him back towards Treasure Hall. "I think—I better get you back to Dr. Gibson! I'm sure—he's worried about you."

The old man pulled away from me. "No!" he yelled. "I can't go back in there! The Captain will get me!"

Sensing his agitation level rising, I gently backed off. "Okay! I'll go get Dr. Gibson and bring him here, all right?"

Howell nodded.

"But you have to promise me—you won't go anywhere. Okay? Will you stay right here?"

Howell nodded again as his beady little eyes continued to scan the darkness.

I slowly backpedaled away from him. "Don't you move, now?" I warned him. "Stay right there!"

Howell seemed to relax as he leaned up against the wall. "Okay."

Having the strange feeling that time was of the essence, I hurried off towards Treasure Hall's back gate.

You're goin' to have to go a lot faster than this, if you intend to catch Bryce before she checks out of her hotel.

"I'm not—looking for Bryce! I'm looking for Dr. Gibson."

Dr. Gibson? You just didn't go fuckin' homo on me, did you?

"Shut up!"

You just told me, not more than two fuckin' minutes ago, that if we could solve another goddamn murder, that Bryce would have to—spread'em! We just fuckin' solved old lady Howell's murder!

"Shhhh!" I paused—and listened. "What was that?"

What was what?

"I heard something." I forced myself to stay absolutely motionless as I listened again. "It sounded like—

Someone gettin' tossed over the fuckin' wall.

I spun around just in time to see old man Howell's slipper clad feet disappear over the wall.

One fuckin' Mississippi!

I openly cringed as I listened to Howell's bloodcurdling scream.

Two fuckin' Miss—

SPLAT!

Totally mystified, I just stood there in disbelief.

I'd be willin' to bet, Bryce would want to hear about this! She might be able to use it in her story.

"Why don't you shut the hell—" I suddenly froze! Once again I watched in horror as Toothless Tommy's ghost—materialized right before my eyes.

Oooh! Shit!

He slowly leaned over the wall and started to chuckle.

Here we go again.

I warily looked up towards the star-filled heavens. "Why me?"

I'd hate to be you, when you try to fuckin' explain this one.

The End

