A/N: Well, here it is, whether you want it or not, the second chapter of our exciting adventure. We've upgraded to PG this time out due to a fight scene. I've already acknowledged that this story is based on characters created by Jeff Rice and Steven Levitan and inspired by a screenplay by Richard Matheson in the first chapter, but it never hurts to do it again. So, with that, here we go.
Well, so far it seemed like an easy assignment. All I had to do was to sit down, shut up and tape. Then, at the end of the week, I just sort it out, write my humble opinion on it, and hand it in to an attractive woman. Simple, right? I thought so, too.
Then the nightmare began. It started for me the night I arrived.
August 9th
8:45 p.m.
Her name was Penelope Wilkins. If she was born with that name or just picked it up along the way I didn't know, but when you looked like Penelope Wilkins, it didn't matter. As the man said, 'A rose by any other name smells just as sweet'. She was twenty-four years old, nearly six slender feet in height, with shoulder length blonde hair and the face of a blue eyed angel. She was perfect for anyone who enjoyed staring for the rest of their lives at a beautiful statue. I was enamored of her the moment she sat down beside me, sent over by Nina Van Horn for an interview, up until the moment she commented, "Kolchak. That's a funny name. Is it Spanish?"
I stared at her for a moment, trying to figure out how she figured Kolchak was Spanish.
"Ah, no," I answered, smiling, "It's Romanian, actually."
She stared blankly at me.
"Romania. It's in Europe."
With wide eyes and an overly dramatic nod of her ungodly beautiful head, she figured it out. "Oh. Well, Mister Coldcuts, how do you like America?"
At that moment, my tape recorder stopped. I think it was the machine's way of throwing up its hands and walking away. I smiled at her and wished to myself I could do the same thing, but I soldiered on bravely.
"No, the name is Romanian. I'm from Chicago."
The blank stare came at me again.
"It's in Illinois," I tried.
Nothing.
"Oprah's from there."
The nod returned, then she stopped and stared at me as if I'd sprouted wings or done something else beyond her comprehension, like long division.
"You know Oprah?"
I wanted to cry. Thankfully, Van Horn appeared.
"Now, now, Mister Kolchak," she said lightly, "You can't monopolize all of Penelopie's time."
The stare returned, and I wondered which long word had confused her, 'monopolize' or 'Penelope'.
"Isn't she cute?" Van Horn said, pinching her cheeks, "Now run along, dear. Go speak to that nice young man from Cosmo."
"OK. Nice meeting you, Mister Coatchek."
"Kol..." I started to correct her, but realized the futility of it and simply waved.
"Well, well, well, Mister Kolchak," Van Horn began, sitting at the bar beside me, "How are you enjoying yourself?"
"I'm doing OK," I told her, "Say, I hear this was your idea."
"Well, yes," she said with fake modesty, "My idea. What do you think?"
"What made you think of it?"
"Well, it was actually my friend Binnie who suggested that I bring together some of the top models to talk about their experiences," she confessed, "She suggested it right before she went down to Uruguay for her pigment transplant. Anyway, I took it one step further and decided to bring in the photographers and writers."
She gave my suit the once over, then said with a slightly sickened expression, "You were Maya's idea."
I looked across the room at Maya Gallo, talking with a tall, balding man in a tux. She was wearing a brown dress that, while conservative compared to some of the outfits in the room, still did a great job accenting Ms. Gallo's natural curves.
"Well, then," I said, raising my glass of scotch in her direction, "Here's to my reason for being here."
She caught my gesture and lifted her fluted glass towards me, bringing a look from the man she was with. He gave me a glance over his shoulder, then returned to his discussion.
"Who's the guy with her?" I asked.
"That's Elliot. Elliot DiMauro, the magazine's photo editor and Maya's former fiancee."
"Former, huh?"
"Yes, poor Elliot. Fearing commitment, he ran for his life rather than marry the woman."
I finished my glass and waited for the bartender to fill it, then raised it again and said, "Well, then, here's to idiots."
As I took my drink, I caught sight of Dennis Finch standing at the door leading out of the room to the bathrooms. As I watched, Penelope Watkins, supermodel, swayed past him. He appraised her passing with a cocked brow and slight leering smile, then, with a quick glance to make sure he wouldn't be missed, he pivoted out the door after her.
"That Finch guy," I asked, "He have a chance with her?"
She laughed a low, throaty, frighteningly seductive laugh. "Dennis Finch? He wouldn't stand a chance with any woman if he were the last fertile man on earth."
"Maybe I'll go catch the fun of her rejecting him."
I left Van Horn, crossed the room and walked towards the bathroom. I wish now that her slapping him was all I'd have seen.
I had just left the ballroom, stepping foot in the lobby of the building that housed Blush's corporate offices. It was a giant lobby, marble and gold dominated by a large jade representation of Venus' birth from the spray of the ocean between me and the bathrooms, where I spotted Finch observe his quarry enter the restroom, then take position at the water fountain mounted on the wall separating the doors of the mens and womens rooms.
I'd decided to stroll up and watch the show when I heard the scream, the scream of a woman dying. Dennis heard it as well and threw open the door only to be suddenly and forcefully tossed aside, bouncing off a wall with a sickening thump and dropping to the floor. From the bathroom emerged a figure dressed in black, from fedora to shoes, except for the bandages he (she? it?) wore around the head, which were pale white and stained.
The figure came towards me with cheetah-like speed, too fast for me to get out of the way. No matter, as the figure grabbed my collar in its hands and lifted me off the ground. I might have suffered the same fate as Finch if not for the appearance of a large man in a suit and tie. The security guard at the desk near the front doors had seen Finch's flight and arrived in time to prevent mine, wrapping his arms around the figure's neck and prompting it to drop me. I fell with a 'thump' to the floor at the figure's feet and watched the rest of the scene play out.
The guard had a brief advantage, holding his chokehold long enough for two more guards to rush up to help. Instead, the figure planted its feet and shouldertossed the guard into the others, then taking off. Another guard got in its way and was shoved aside like a sack of clothes. Yet another guard, this one uniformed and carrying a blackjack, ran up and used it, knocking the hat off and revealing a bald head with patches of gray hair. For his indiscretion, the guard was raised up off the ground by his throat and choked. By this time two of New York's finest had arrived and rushed in, nightsticks raised. They delivered two crushing blows to the figure's head that the figure simply ignored, throwing the guard's lifeless body down and running off. The cops took off in pursuit. I followed the herd across the lobby, staying at a safe distance.
Two more cops had arrived now and again tried to level the figure with their nightsticks, but by now it was annoyed and KO'd them with exactly one right cross and one backhand. One of the more short-tempered ones drew his pistol and fired a shot at the fleeing figure. Whether it hit or not, I couldn't tell, but I knew it didn't slow it down. Soon it was out the door and down the street, a squadcar in pursuit, sirens wailing. Two cops, the original two to arrive on the scene, had made it to their feet, pushed me aside and jumped in another car, following the first. By the time I got outside, the scene had calmed down. Not seeing anyway to follow it, I returned inside as more cars of the NYPD arrived to secure the scene of chaos inside.
I got back to the bathrooms where the carnage had begun, and fought my way through the gathering mob of onlookers to the front. Dennis Finch lay on the floor in front of the mens restroom, where he'd landed. He seemed to be breathing, but hadn't moved. Maya Gallo and Elliot DiMauro were talking to him but despite the brave words, their eyes had the look of worry. He was hurt more than they wanted to admit, even to themselves. I heard crying in the womens room and entered.
Inside stood Jack Gallo and Nina Van Horn. Gallo glanced at me as I entered. He was holding Van Horn, who was sobbing hysterically at the sight on the floor.
Poor Penelope Wilkins. Now she'd never learn where Chicago was.
As I looked down, I noticed something on her neck. I knelt down to get a better look, and when I saw what it was I felt a cold shudder run down my spine. It was more instinct than desire to know that made me search the base of her skull. It was there, just as I feared.
I looked around at the faces, Jack Gallo's, Nina Van Horn's, those of the cops who were now clearing us out of the crime scene. I wondered what was more terrifying, not realizing what was at work, or realizing it, but not believing it.
As I was escorted back into the lobby, only one thing was on my mind, and I was repeating it as if to convince myself of it.
It couldn't be him. I saw him die.
