index


Message-ID: <30995asstr$993078602@assm.asstr-mirror.org>
From: writerzblocked@aol.com (Writerzblocked)
Subject: {ASSM} Harry Long, Psychic Detective 8 (mc)
Date: Wed, 20 Jun 2001 19:10:02 -0400
Path: assm.asstr-mirror.org!not-for-mail
Approved: <assm@asstr-mirror.org>
Newsgroups: alt.sex.stories.moderated,alt.sex.stories
Followup-To: alt.sex.stories.d


Copyright by Writerzblocked, 2001.  All rights, well, you know. Repost and
archive to your heart's content, just don't charge anyone for it or I'll have
to send Harry after you. You all know the rest of the drill by now.  I'm not
big on headers and/or labels, so anyone reposting may feel free to add whatever
MF, MM, FF stuff they think is necessary.  

***************************

CHAPTER 8

You know, I think that as you get older, the world seems to move faster.  No,
not on any sort of cosmic, physics level, but on a plain, down-to-earth,
fucking common sense, day-to-day level. Take telephones.  Somehow, in just two
years, I missed out on something called the "calling card revolution."  It's
supposed to be easy - you just buy a card with long distance time on it, then
use a pay phone and call a toll-free number, punch in some numbers and talk
until your time runs out.  

Well, that's the way it's supposed to work.  But they make you punch in so
damned many numbers, that you have to have a photographic memory just to
remember what numbers you've already punched.  After fifteen minutes of
struggling to get it right, I gave up and got ten dollars in change from the
motel manager.  At least I know the meaning of "please deposit another dollar,
twenty-five."  And that automated operator voice is, well, kinda sexy in a
weird sort of way.

"Hello, this is Dr. Hawkings."
"Hey, Gerry."
"Harry?"
"Yeah."
"How the hell are you, old man?"
"Funny you should ask.  I'm two hundred miles from home, standing outside in 45
degree weather, talking on a pay phone in soiled clothes, smelling like an
infant who's two hours past diaper change time."

Silence.  Gerry never did have much of a sense of humor.  Of course, right
about this time, it didn't seem terribly funny to me either.  Probably didn't
seem amusing to the cabbie that got me here or the motel manager who sold me
the room, for that matter. 

"You're joking, right?"
"Actually, no.  But if I still worked for the agency, it would've made a great
disguise.  I look and smell just like every other homeless bum now."
"Gee, I dunno what to say, Harry..."
"Just say you'll be on the next flight down here to San Antonio, Gerry.  And
bring a bunch of TSG-7 with you. I'm not doing so good and I've got the feeling
it's only going to get worse."
"Jesus, Harry.  What the hell have you gotten into?"
"I'm not sure of the particulars, but it's bad.  Really bad.  There's been some
funky crap going on down here and somehow Richard Arnold is involved."

More silence.  I wasn't the only one with bad memories that wouldn't go away.

"You sure?  I mean, I admit I've not kept up with the rest of the gang of five
like maybe I should have, but last I heard he was still in lockdown therapy."
"I know it sounds bizarre, but I've had some recent visions and he's the only
one that makes sense.  Really demented stuff."
"Still..."
"Demented CATHOLIC stuff."
"Oh, Geez, you mean the Delgado murder?"
"Yeah.  Nancy drug me into it.  I was reading the murder weapons and the
impression was pretty strong."

Another awkward pause.  I could almost hear him packing his bags.

"uh, how strong?"
"Strong enough.  And there was another one after that.  An even stronger,
nastier one.  That one might as well have had Arnold's fingerprints on it.  It
was like the Father Carmichael thing all over again...."
"Oh, Geez, Harry, sorry to hear that."
"I got out of the hospital as quickly as I could and holed myself up in a rat
nest motel.  So far, no one's paid much attention to me and vice versa..."
"Good. Hang tight and I'll be down there ASAP."
"Remember the TSG-7."
"Of course.  Though it's up to 9 at the moment. I'll explain further when I get
down there.  How are you fixed for the rest of your meds?"

My turn to pause.  I was hoping he wouldn't ask.

"Didn't bring 'em with me."
Geez, Harry?!!  What the hell are you thinking?!!!!"
"I'm better without them.  Believe me."
"Can't believe Nancy let you get away with that..."
"She's not here."
"Oh, Geez. This just keeps getting better and better..."
"All right, Gerry, I don't need this right now. Just get the hell down here. 
I'm at the Madrid Motel on Austin Highway. Room 12."
"Madrid Motel, Room 12.  Gotcha."
"Oh, and Gerry...?"
"Yeah."
"Please bring an extra set of clothes."
"OK."
"Just not any of your tweed suits.  I'd rather stink like a sewer than be seen
in public in one of those."
"Oh, you're a riot, Harry.  A real Lenny Bruce."
"Just get here, Gerry.  Quickly.  I'm going to try my best to sleep through
this, but there's just too much going though my head right now to be sure of
anything."
"It'll be OK, old man.  Just lock the door and wait for me. I'll see if I can
commandeer a company jet.  If I can, I'll be down there inside of 5 hours or
so."
"Just get here.  Please."

Hanging up the phone, I turned quickly back toward the room.  I thought once or
twice about hailing a cab to the nearest drug store to buy some sleeping pills,
but thought better of it.  Gerry was right, five hours would go quickly enough
inside the room, and would minimize contact.  I'd been in such a rush to leave
the hospital that I'd forgotten to take the good meds with me.  I could imagine
Nancy's reaction when she got back to find me gone, but it couldn't be helped. 
Whoever was behind this whole thing - whatever the "whole thing" was -
obviously knew I was in that particular hospital at that particular time.  That
unnerved me. It also raised interesting questions about that incident at the
Fed Building.  Were they related?  How could they be?  By the time I reached
the door, my head ached more than usual. 

These "roach motels" as we used to call them, are interesting places. 
Television securely fashioned to the broken chest of drawers.  No remote. One
towel and one washcloth draped over the top of the shower stall door.  Damn, I
miss my computer. Gotta remember to invest in a laptop.

After stripping the smelly clothes and taking advantage of the towel and
washcloth and shower, I stared at the bed. An illegal had given birth there a
few months before.  What a way to come into the world, I thought as I examined
the spread and sheets.  At least the little girl was an American citizen, legal
and proper.  Somehow, that thought eased my mind a bit and I laid down and
stared at the ceiling.  The air might not work well in these places, but the
heat from the system on the wall by the side of the bed felt like heaven on my
moist skin, the constant noise from the unit helping me drift off.

I never have dreamed much, or if I do, I don't generally remember them.  I've
spent lots of time and taxpayers have unknowingly spent lots of money to make
certain of that.  I've heard it said that dreams are the mind's way of getting
rid of all the excess thoughts that clutter our subconscious minds during
waking time.  I don't see it that way.  To me, dreams are curses that somehow
make it through the filters I and others have worked long and hard to set up. 
Filters that were now slowly, ominously being broken down.

I'd almost forgotten how wild Genny's hair really was back before she had it
cut.  Down past her shoulders, it bounced when she walked, like a million curly
red soldiers, each jumping to attention out of step, up and down, back and
forth. Silently, she was asking me why I always looked behind her while she
walked. I didn't tell her it was the hair, but she guessed all the same. Not
many women with hair like that, and certainly none I had been around. Then she
was telling me that kid's dirty joke about describing three things about your
hair, and why she always answered the same three things - curly, red, and
gorgeous. Then when they came back and asked her to describe three things about
the hair on her head, she's smile and repeat - curly, red, and gorgeous.  I
told her I'd take her word for it.  Never one for subtleties, she proceeded to
pull up her skirt.

That's when I noticed the knife in my hand. Where did it come from?  Now her
skirt was over her head and the knife ripped apart what was underneath.  Why
did it do that?  

Sure enough - curly, red and gorgeous.  Moving halfway down both thighs.  Her
hand went down to wake the sleeping guards, rubbing them one way then the
other.  Her other hand went to her lips.  Shhhh!  Someone might hear. 

But all I could do was stare at the knife in my hand.  It didn't belong there. 
Not then.  Maybe later, but not then.  

She grabbed my other hand and brought it to her guards.  Awake now, they rose
and opened to allow...what?  Again, she put her finger to her lips.  Shhh! 
Someone might hear.  

I was still staring at the knife.  No. Not right. Definitely not right.

Her hand was still admonishing the guards.  Why were they asleep?  They
shouldn't be asleep.  They should be punished, will be punished, and she
proceeded to box them until their ears turned bloody red.  She hardly noticed
when my hand moved back to the knife...

...the knife.  This is wrong...

Her eyes were closed now, so intent she was on punishing the guards.  Slowly,
so slowly, they bled clear and her other hand moved between them into...what? 
All around, the soldiers were running to and fro, first cowering, then jumping.
 No longer concerned with silence, she was cursing now, calling me horrible
names, names I couldn't hear because I was listening to the knife....

...the knife. So wrong. I told Nancy, I don't...do...rapes...anymore.

And suddenly, her eyes opened wide and she looked at me, her face twisting into
something horrible.  Red poison bled from her sockets and the soldiers stood
straight together at attention as they whipped their weapons toward me.  The
guards shrieked in unison and her hands came up from below, black as night and
dripping venom.  Blood poured from her gates.

I cried out in terror at the change and the knife...

...the knife turned towards me and plunged itself deep below.  Not satisfied
with one wound, it cut across and down and across once more as she continued to
shriek in a voice loathsome and shrill.  Again, it found its mark and again it
went deep.

Finally, I cried out, but it wasn't with pain.  I held the bloody knife to my
eyes and smiled.  The last thing I remember was her face, now calm and looking
very much like Nancy's...

It was then I awoke, again covered with sweat.  I had apparently been tossing
quite a bit because the sheet was on the floor.  As I sat up, I noticed the
door was open and immediately turned toward the bathroom.  

"Who's there?"  I ventured, looking about for the sheet to cover myself.

Greeting me with a muttered Spanish curse under her breath, a middle-aged
Latino woman stumbled out of the bathroom. Her maid outfit was barely hanging
from her rather large bosom and she was wiping her hands furiously on her
apron, trying in vain to wipe away her smell.   

"So sorry," she said in broken English as she attempted to make her way out of
the room. Trying desperately to avert her gaze from mine, she nonetheless
looked my way just as she was reaching for the door on her way out.  Her eyes
went quickly from embarrassment to horror as she stared at my naked waist. 
Shuddering, she made the sign of the cross and cursed again as she slammed the
door.

Grabbing the sheet from the floor, I spent a few moments on some curses of my
own.   

"Write what you want, how you want, and don't worry about the rest of the
world.  If you do it long enough, eventually they'll catch up."

-- 
Pursuant to the Berne Convention, this work is copyright with all rights
reserved by its author unless explicitly indicated.
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
| alt.sex.stories.moderated ----- send stories to: <ckought69@hotmail.com> |
| FAQ: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org/faq.html>  Moderator: <story-ckought69@hotmail.com> |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+
|Archive: <http://assm.asstr-mirror.org> Hosted by Alt.Sex.Stories Text Repository |
|<http://www.asstr-mirror.org>, an entity supported entirely by donations.         |
+---------------------------------------------------------------------------+