CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Ana did not intend to stay over at the Sugartree Motel. It was late enough, past two in the morning, and she had already paid for it and all, but it really was a sleazy room and she didn't think she'd rest easy, between the things she'd seen tonight and the things she could imagine invisibly staining the molecules of that bed. However, somewhere along that awkward, silent drive back from Old Quarry Road, Ana became aware of a wicked need to pee and, once aware, it exponentially grew with every passing mile.

When he brought her to the motel, she about flew out of the car and did not care at all that Mike followed her into the room. She could hear him moving around while she was locked in the bathroom and somehow she just knew he was not simply collecting his jacket.

Sure enough, when she left the bathroom, he was gone, but his black binder was open at the foot of one of the beds. A piece of paper torn from the cheap pad printed with the motel's stationary had been set on top of the pile, on which Mike had left his phone number, email address, and a don't-say-I-didn't-warn-you in the flimsy disguise of If you ever find out what happened to your cousin or your aunt, please let me know.

She picked up the binder, intending to dump the whole thing in the tiny motel trash can, but not all the papers were secured. At least a dozen of them went flying, caught by the air conditioner's current and blown in all directions. And she could have left them like that, sure she could have, but that would mean the housekeeper having to pick them up and she just couldn't imagine that happening without at least an idle glance of curiosity, and what if one of those papers was Maria Osgoode's autopsy photo?

So she stopped to pick them up and if she looked at them again as she did so, it was only to be sure of what she had and not because she was reading the damned things. When she sat down on the bed with the binder and began to leaf through it, it was only to figure out where to put the papers back in their proper order. Why she did that for something she was planning to throw away, she did not ask herself at all. In any event, she kept stumbling on things she hadn't seen yet—newspaper articles that heavily insinuated the senior Faust's acquisition of property around Mammon had not been entirely on the up and up, gossip columns gleefully documenting the Metzger family's scandals, a brochure for Freddyland, and oh, so many school photos, most of them with nothing but a name and the date the smiling face on the front had gone missing.

Even then, she might have left after an hour or so, but towards the middle of the stack, she came across the police report for a certain runaway girl, the one that had led an officer out to the Metzger home to ask questions. The report itself held only a few more details than those Mike Schmidt had read, but one of those details was the address.

Her address.

Although she was already sitting down, Ana felt her legs go rubbery and cold. All at once, the attic in which the officer had so vividly recalled finding Victor Metzger's doll collection became the attic where she and David had built blanket-forts and read comics; the window where the officer had first seen a face staring down at him had been her tower window, the porthole of her pirate ship, or the burning eye of a dragon at need; the bed that had 'seen some use' became the brass headboard she used to pretend were prison bars when they were playing Count of Monte Cristo. One of the trees in the yard was the tree that Erik had tied his father's puppet-body to while he burned his father's dolls. And the room in the basement…the secret stair behind the clock…

Your aunt fucked the devil himself.

Ana could feel it happening, that itch in her brain that was memory wanting to come back, like two hands straining to clap together. The man in purple in Mike Schmidt's photos…the man in purple who was sometimes there at the periphery of a very young Ana Stark's awareness…Erik Metzger.

No. It was a mistake. It had to be and never mind the fact that there were no other homes on Old Quarry Road. It was a mistake and even if it wasn't, so fucking what? She didn't doubt Metzger had existed. However farfetched all that other stuff might be, the man himself had been flesh and bone. Did he kill people? Sure. As Mike had said, it might not be evidence in the legal sense of the word, but it was good enough for Ana. Did he kill people at the house where Ana was now living, sleeping? Maybe. But even if the yard was full of bones—it wasn't, surely—that meant nothing but that her aunt had once lived in a house with a history. Every house had a history. And Erik Metzger was dead anyway.

She did not believe in ghosts.

But she sat there, reading back through the entire binder, page by page by page, and when she finally did leave, she took it with her. She did not want it. Just touching it made her feel somehow furtive and unclean, but leaving it in the trash was no longer an option. There wasn't a trash can or dumpster in the whole of Mammon where she felt safe throwing this thing away. She had to get rid of it, not just leave for someone to find, read, see her address screaming out from the hundreds of victims' whispers making up the binder's pages. Burn it. Bury it. Throw it in the quarry.

She was astonished to see lights come on at Gallifrey's just as she drove by and the bulky silhouette that was either Tiny Tim or Lucy going to open the doors for the early-morning crowd, who would soon be stopping in for coffee and a quick breakfast before heading off on the commute to work in Washington or St. George or Hurricane. That meant it was five a.m. She'd gone out for a burger at nine o'clock and stayed gone eight hours.

So what? No one was waiting up for her.

Bonnie was.

No, he wasn't. No, he goddamn well was not. He was an animatronic, a harmless fucking mechanical toy with a harmless fucking computer program that told him to wander around and look for people to sing at, but he was not waiting up for her. He was not worried about her. If he seemed glad to see her when she got there, it was only because he glad to see everyone. That was just how he was made, and it didn't mean a goddamn fucking thing. He only flirted with her because she flirted with him and his adaptive programming meant the more she did it, the more he thought that was what he was supposed to do. He felt nothing. He thought nothing. He was not alive and he for damn sure wasn't dead, so fuck Mike Schmidt and his fucking ghost story.

She wasn't really going back there, was she?

"Of course I am," she muttered to herself savagely, her fists clenching on the steering wheel. "I left the lights on. Not to mention all my shit. And why the hell wouldn't I?"

She didn't answer herself, but her eye had a way of dropping to the black binder on the passenger seat beside her.

"I've been there dozens of times. I've slept there. I have yet to wake up dead and stuffed in a fucking animatronic. That's all horseshit and you know it."

She didn't argue…but she didn't want to go to Freddy's either.

"Freddy's," she sneered at herself. "Look at you, getting all girly and stupid over fucking Freddy's when you should be freaking yourself out over going home. That's where people fucking died! And that's all horseshit too," she decided. "If he was keeping kids in the fucking basement, wouldn't there be a lock on the goddamn door? This is nothing but small town gossip grist. Metzger slept around, that's all. Kids have always disappeared out of this shithole. It doesn't need a fucking supervillian to explain it."

…three hundred and fifty-seven missing people…

"Yeah, whatever, but it was a long time ago. It was a long time ago and it's nothing to do with me now!" she snapped. "Even if those kids are dead, then whoever killed them is long gone and it wasn't Freddy! For fuck's sake, are you even listening to yourself? You know Freddy! He's the one who thinks you swear too much and won't let you toke up in the building. Do you honestly see him killing people? Or Bonnie? Chica?! Little Miss Safety Song, killing and eating people. As if."

I don't have to let you leave. Freddy had said that to her the first night she'd broke in. Leave now. I don't have to let you leave. Except, seriously, who knew what he'd really said that night and what she'd just imagined? She'd been tripping balls on those little pink pills.

And Nate Donahue? Did he imagine it?

Ana drove.

"That was Mulholland," she said finally. "The Toybox. Who knows what the fuck was happening over there? Metzger was running a goddamn sex club out of those party rooms. And the animatronics were programmed for it. Maybe…Maybe they just thought Nate was a customer. Their software was buggy and they couldn't take no for an answer. He doesn't have to be lying about what happened, he's just wrong about why."

Right now, right this instant, you can buy a special egg tray with LED lights…

"Fuck you, Mike Schmidt," said Ana crossly. "No one needs a goddamn battery-operated spaghetti twirler either, but just because my aunt's basement is full of them doesn't mean she killed people."

She went to Freddy's and although she was fine, she absolutely did not believe Mike Schmidt's wild story and she was one hundred percent fine, she drove right around the side of the building to 'her' parking space in front of the side door and not the loading dock, where she was out of sight of the road. She parked, got out of the truck, stood staring at the Freddy Lives graffiti painted over the bricks for almost a minute, then pulled the loosened boards away from the broken door and crawled in on her hands and knees.

She'd cleaned this hallway more than once. She'd swept it out. She'd mopped it. And still, she managed to overlook a shard of plastic sharp enough to puncture her hand. She hissed in a breath, swore it out, and leaned halfway out the door so she could catch enough of the dawn to see what had bitten her.

A tooth. Not a real one. One of Tux's.

She touched it, there in her hand, then pulled it out. She bled. Not a lot. It hurt. Not enough. She moved away from the door and let the heavy plastic settle back in place, shutting out the morning. Here in Freddy's, it was always night.

"Oi."

She looked up and saw Foxy leaning against the wall well back in the corridor. When he knew he'd been seen, he switched on his eyes. Light—sallow yellow and pale white—filled in the features of his face and shoulders, but the lines of his broken body grew less distinct after that. A monster, half-sketched and then abandoned by an artist who couldn't decide whether he was drawing something silly or scary.

"Heard yer t-t-truck," he said.

"Were you waiting up for me?"

He snorted through his speaker. "Waiting up-p-p, aye. Ain't had a wink-k-k o' sleep in all me life. For ye?" He shrugged, using the gesture to push himself off the wall. He headed toward her, all his mechanical parts whining, wheezing and clanking. "Why not? Who else is here t-t-to see? Up with ye, luv."

He offered his hook.

And God help her, her first thought was his remembered growl, You wiggle like a worm and I'll hook you like one…Ye wouldn't be the first I've gutted, sorry or no…

She reached up her hand and touched his hook, tracing its cool curve down to the worn leather cap and then up again, all the way to the point. Sharp. She pressed her fingertip to it, watching her skin dimple in the light of Foxy's eyes. Pressed harder, listening to the steady pull and puff of his cooling system. Pressed until she felt the sting and saw blood swell and drop.

"Aren't you going to ask me if I'm all right?" she asked, watching that narrow red ribbon wind itself around his steel.

"No."

"Why not?"

"Don't need to, do I? I c-c-can see ye ain't."

The blood had painted itself out and no more would fall unless she cut herself deeper. She considered it, then took his hook in her hand and let him pull her to her feet.

He studied her, his eyes shifting from her face to her hand—still holding his hook—and back to her face again. His right ear twitched. "Ye want-t-t to get drunk?" he asked bluntly.

"Yeah. So much, you have no idea."

"Right." He turned, gesturing with his good hand down the dark hall to Pirate's Cove, but keeping her on his arm. "Let's get ye d-dr-drunk, luv."

The door at the end of the hall banged open and Bonnie lurched through.

"You're b-b-back! IT'S TIME TO ROCK!" he called, staggering toward her. He made it halfway and fell over.

Bit a kid's arm off, thought Ana, watching his face grind against the floor. Bit it off and ate it. That had been Blue, not Bonnie, but still the thought was with her and probably always would be. Fuck Mike Schmidt anyway.

Ana went over to him as he struggled to rise, setting her foot against his and bracing her knee against his side so he had the leverage to push himself up. He rocked back, shooting an oddly shame-faced glance at her and another, hot with some other emotion, at watching Foxy, then slung an arm around her shoulders and braced himself on the wall with his free hand. Servos ground and something squealed in shuddering bursts inside him and for a second, she felt all his weight bearing down on her. Then he took it back, found his balance, and was up.

"You okay, my man?" Ana asked, still pushing against him, thigh to thigh, in case he needed the support.

"All good-d-d in the h-h-hood, b-b-baby girl," he assured her. "Where-re-re—WHERE'S MY GUITAR?"

"I don't know." Ana looked around, but of course, it wasn't here. "You didn't leave it on the stage?"

"Were you?"

"What?" Still thinking about the guitar, Ana looked at Bonnie.

"Where were-r-re-re-r—" Bonnie's ears slapped flat and came up again. "—were you? You left w-w-without s-saying-ing g-g-g—GUBERNACALIC PROPERTIES OF THE MEDULLA."

"What?" she said, startled.

"What?" he said back at her, looking just as surprised.

"Why in the hell would I say that?" She had to laugh, although the sound of it was a bit shrill to her ears. "What does that even mean?"

His ears lowered. "I d-d-don't know."

Ana clapped her hand to her eyes and gave them a rub, still smiling. Goober-whatever the fuck. Poor Bonnie, him and his crossed wires.

Damn Mike Schmidt and his black binder. He almost had her going there.

"Where w-w-were—"

"I went out for dinner," Ana told him and sighed, shrugging out from underneath his arm and giving him a pat to the chest as she headed for the door to the dining room. "With a guy I'd never met. Don't tell me what a bad plan that is, because I already knew. I don't want to talk about it."

"Why not-t-t?" Bonnie asked promptly. "What—WHAT DO YOU CALL A BEAR WITH NO TEETH?—What g-g-guy? You've b-b-been g-g-gone all night. Where were y-y-you?"

"Oh Jesus, Bon, can we not do this? Please?"

She could hear his joints rattling behind her as he twitched and then, not unexpectedly, he said, "What-t-t happened? What's wrong? Something-ing-ing's wrong."

"I'm fine."

"No, you're not-t-t."

"Okay, I'm not, but I should be. It's all so stupid. Go get your bottle handy, Captain," Ana called to Foxy as she reached for the door, since he hadn't gone back to the Cove yet. "I'll be right with you."

"With you? What-t-t?" Bonnie pivoted with difficulty to look back at Foxy, who was already walking away, then limped after Ana that much faster. "What happened-d-d? Ana, t-t-talk to me!"

"So, okay, where do I start?" she said, keeping it light, already editing her night to leave ghosts and murdered kids on the cutting room, ha, floor. "How about the fact that five minutes after I meet this guy, he wants me to get a motel room? And pay for it myself so, get this, his wife doesn't find the receipt? I have, bar none, the worst night of my fucking life and then he takes off and the best part is, that dinner I was promised? Never materializes. I'm starving. Hi, Chica," she said, pushing open the kitchen door. "Have you been in here all night?"

"LET'S EAT!" Chica said happily, shuffling forward with Ana's day pack still clutched in her arms. Her elbow hit the coffee maker, which still had half a cup's worth of that morning's breakfast in the carafe, which did not sound like a lot until it was all over the floor in a starburst of broken glass.

"Don't move," said Ana, so naturally the next thing she heard was the crunch as Chica's giant chicken foot landed square on the brewer and broke that, too.

"HOW ABOUT SOME DELICIOUS PIZZA?" asked Chica. Her eyes turned down, a twin spotlight over the wreckage. "YOU SHOULD EAT HEALTHY SNACKS, TOO, LIKE CARROTS AND LEAFY VEGETABLES."

"It's okay," Ana sighed. "I'll clean it up. Can I get my—"

Chica eagerly thrust out Ana's pack, tipping it forward so that the flap fell open and everything, absolutely goddamn everything, fell out onto the floor. Her emergency clothes including an extra pair of underwear—the hot pink ones with the black skull and crossbones over the cooter—about three bucks in change, a handful of tampons and a couple of condoms, her soaps and little travel-sized shampoos, an assortment of papers and pens, some of which even worked, pill bottles and random empty wrappers, and of course, the open package of crackers she'd wanted in the first place, which bounced even further open and exploded crackers over the whole mess.

Chica took a step forward.

"Leave it," said Ana sharply. "Just…Just stop. God damn it." Grabbing her day pack out of Chica's hands, she dropped to her knees and started picking it all up again, but had only managed two handfuls before it was suddenly, unreasoningly, primevally too much. Without warning, she was on her feet and whipping the bag and the few items she'd managed to restore to it across the room, where it hit the oven's hooded vent with a magnificent hollow bang. The urge to keep going, to grab whatever could be grabbed and huck it 'till it hurt, briefly turned her whole world red, but she had nothing else that could make that soul-satisfying sound and the urge faded.

God, she was tired. She was just so tired. And hungry, but there was nothing she could do about that now.

"ARE YOU OKAY?" Chica asked.

"Yeah. Yeah, I'm done." Ana swept her hand across the floor, only to let the crumbs and condoms she'd managed to scoop up with this action slip through her fingers. She brushed her hands off on her thighs and got up. She collected her pack, her clothes, and whatever else was close at hand, then just stood and stared at the rest of it.

What a mess. She was supposed to be cleaning this shit up and she'd just made a bigger mess. She was supposed to have the gym done. She was supposed to get started on the dining room in the morning. The store room was supposed to be full of lumber, shingles and roofing tar.

Supposed to be…

She was supposed to be home, working on that roof, those walls.

What was she doing here?

"Ana?" Bonnie shuffled closer, reaching out his hand.

"Don't touch me! Just…don't touch me. Don't." She looked at him, knowing she did not see hurt on that plastic face or confusion in those camera eyes, but seeing it anyway. She laughed, then said, "I can't do this right now. I'm too sober."

"What happened-d-d?" Bonnie insisted. "Who was th-th-that g-g-guy? That g-g-guy you m-m-met? What-t-t did-d-d he do t-t-to you?"

"Nothing. I'm fine. I just…I can't." She smiled at Chica, smiled at Bonnie, turned around and smiled at Freddy, too, since he had appeared to block off the dining room doorway. "I can't. Not tonight. I just can't. And you know what? I don't fucking have to. I'm going home." She looked at the cupboard, then went over and yanked the door open, snatching out vitamin bottles and dropping them again, making just a bigger mess and so much noise as she fought to make her shaking hands obey her long enough to get the fucking bottles in her pack and all the while, she was smiling. "I'm getting drunk. I'm getting high. When I pass out, I'm going to do it in a real bed and puke in a real toilet. If I wake up in the morning, I'm going to have a hot shower and a decent breakfast."

"BREAKFAST IS THE MOST IMPORTANT MEAL OF THE DAY," Chica agreed, looking worriedly aside at Bonnie.

"What's wrong-ong?" he wanted to know. "An-n-na, d-d-don't go. P-P-P—PLEASE AND THANKS—Please d-d-don't go. What hap-p-pened? St-St—STAY AND PLAY—and t-t-talk-k-k to me, b-b-baby girl. What hap-p-p-pend? What-t-t did-d-d he d-d-do to you? What's wrong?"

She didn't answer him. The last of her voice was gone and the rest of her shouting was all on the inside as she got her bag of weed and the closest three bottles of booze to her hand without looking at their labels. She fumbled her pack's flaps closed and the buckles buckled and put it on her shoulder.

Freddy moved wordlessly out of her way as she marched out the door, then moved again to stop Bonnie following her. She walked fast, shutting her ears to the sound of Bonnie brokenly trying to call her back, louder and louder, as Freddy told him to open his eyes and Chica invited him to sing a song. She kept going. She left her materials, her tools, her clothes—all of it. She might come back for it later or she might not. She'd bought it all once and she could buy it all again. Just like with wiring, sometimes it was easier just to start over from scratch than to figure out precisely where it was broken and splice in a patch. She did not believe in ghosts and Freddy never killed anyone and her aunt had done nothing worse than buy a house with a history and all the black binders in the world made no difference at all, but at the end of the day, it was not her circus and not her monkeys, so fuck it all.

Ana went home.

End of Everything Is All Right, Part Two: Mike Schmidt and the Long Night

Continued in Part Three: Children of Mammon