Disclaimer: I do not own any of Stephen King's characters, and his novel
is fantastico! (I'm at the part where he finds Tom Greenleaf and the other
dude in the car all dead and such) Yum.
Author's Note: Heehee, no offense to Walmart in the last chapter. Suspense rocks my socks. But I'm not wearing any. (le sigh) Next chapter, I say! I've kept you waiting entirely too long for a freaking update!
PineAppleLint
* * *
Zoë awoke in a puddle of her own drool. Damn her and her self control! Couldn't she stay awake for more than five minutes at a time to get some actual work done?
Apparently not.
She furiously rubbed at her eyes, yawned, then stared around for Rainey's book. It was no where to be seen. She checked the floor. Nothing.
"I don't sleep walk," she grumbled aloud, "It should be here somewhere." Zoë checked under her pillows and covers. Letting out a frustrated grunt, she gave up and went to go get herself a glass of water from the fridge.
Clinking a glass onto the counter, she rooted around her pantry for a bottle of spring water and sloshed it into the glass. As she lifted it to her mouth and took a long sip, her gaze drifted towards the window and downwards, where...there was smoke curling out of the sink?
She set the glass down and ran over to find "Everybody Drops the Dime" charred and destroyed. The only way she could tell it had been that book was from the remains of the white cover and half of Mort's author picture in the book jacket. His eyes stared coolly back at her, and that's basically all that was left, everything from his eyes and up.
She...hadn't done that, had she? No, she couldn't. She wouldn't unconsciously light things on fire...
Zoë froze. Was someone in the house? Too many questions. Too many unanswered questions for her taste. Grabbing a knife from the wooden drawer, she held it shakily in a tight grip.
"Who's in here?" she cried out, not knowing if she should expect an answer, "I'm going to call the police!" She almost laughed out loud. Wasn't SHE basically the police? Then an idea grasped her whirling brain. She knew who to call...Timothy.
Grabbing the cordless phone, she hit speed dial. She sat on the counter and looked around with jerky, frightened glances as the phone rang.
And rang.
Finally after the twelfth ring, he picked up.
"Who the fuck is calling at this hour?" Timothy said sleepily, sounding extremely pissed.
"Timothy," she whispered, "It's me."
Zoë could almost hear him tense up and awaken immediately. "Agent Oltie? What are you doing? What's wrong?"
"I think someone was in my apartment," she said cautiously, "I'm not sure."
"Why do you think that?" he asked with growing concern.
"I was reading Mort Rainey's book and I guess I fell asleep. When I woke up, the book was charred to pieces in my kitchen sink. I'm not a sleepwalking pyro, T. Someone was here."
"Check the house," he said calmly, "Get your gun. I'm coming over right now, all right? You've looked for people in dark houses before, Zoë. It's not exactly new shit you're dealing with."
Yeah, she thought sarcastically, But it hadn't been MY house, MY life that someone had been screwing with.
"Okay," she said with a deep sigh, trying to calm her frazzled nerves, "Just hurry over."
"I promise," he said and she knew he meant it. She could hear the rustle of him beginning to gather up his clothes. And then the line went dead.
"T?" she whispered into the receiver, "T, are you there?"
No response. Not even a dial tone. She held the phone away from her ear as if it bit her. It really was dead. She ran into her room and grabbed her gun from her dresser drawer and unlocked the safety. She checked the phone on her nightstand. That phone was dead also.
Zoë cursed to herself and wiped the congealing sweat that was slick on her forehead away. "This just keeps getting better and better," she said and laughed hoarsely, on the fringe of cackling hysterically.
Then she took a deep breath and began her search. Under her bed, in the shower tub, in her laundry room, behind the couch, in every single dark corner where a killer would just be waiting to jump out, gouge her eyes out, then slowly chop off her fingers one by one and listen to her piercing screams.
Christ, she hated having a vivid imagination at times like this.
There was no one in the apartment. She checked one more time just to be sure. She was alone. Goosebumps prickled her clammy skin and she rubbed at her arms as she plopped down on the couch. Should she watch some TV to pass the time until Timothy got there? No, she wasn't in the mood. She felt violated, wigged out, enraged. And watching a bit of Saturday Night Live like it was any normal Friday night would just be her trying to kid herself. She couldn't lie to her mind like that.
Zoë didn't know how much time she spent just sitting there, staring at the light blue wall as if she were in a comatose state, until she heard those tiny noises that caused her nerves to jump all over again. Just regular noises of the apartment groaning, the air conditioning kicking in, the people upstairs moving a piece of furniture. She must have been losing her mind.
The doorbell rang. She ran to the door and checked through the peephole. It was Timothy, her knight in shining armor. His black hair was a bit ruffled like he didn't have time to comb it, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was dressed in sweats; a sight a bit weird to behold since she was used to the fancypants suits that was protocol at work.
Zoë threw open the door and quirked an eyebrow at him. He was holding a bouquet of daisies.
"What are those for?" she asked in confusion, "A 'I'm sorry you got stalked' present?"
"Don't ask me," he shrugged with a stern look, "They were outside your door just sitting here in the hallway."
Her eyes widened and he frowned. She thought back to that day she found one just lying there at her doorstep. Had this intruder been visiting a few more times than she had realized?
"T," she said breathlessly, "I think those daisies are from the guy whose breaking and entering. I found one the other day."
"This isn't good," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, "So am I allowed to come inside or am I confined to partying in the hallway?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet," she said seriously, but when his frown deepened, she grinned and opened her door wider. He took a step inside and took off his black coat and scarf, draping them over the couch.
"Coffee?"
"No thanks," he answered, taking a seat in the fluffy cushioned chair opposite the sofa. She sat on the sofa and stared at him, not knowing what to say or how to begin.
"Mort Rainey?" he asked, saying those two words that held a hell of a lot of meaning.
"Possibly," she replied with a grimace, "His counterpart, John Shooter, would be the one responsible for this."
"You speak as if his alter personality is a real person."
"It might as well be," she snorted, "You should have seen him, Timothy. Mort was standing there, all calm and rational, the next he turned fucking psycho and chased after me. Anything's possible with that man."
"I want to reassign you," Timothy informed her suddenly.
She straightened and replied in a low voice, as if she was trying to keep her temper in check, "And why would you want to do that? I'm getting close to something. I can feel it..."
"Yeah, you can feel death knocking on your damn doorstep!" he all but shouted. He rubbed his temple a few times and said a bit more steadily, "Mort and 'Shooter' like you. A lot. And I don't want to see you get hurt when we could have prevented it before it even happened."
"You're really taking me off the case?" Zoë questioned softly, not even bothering to hide the anger lacing her tone.
"Yes. I want you to get some rest and return Monday all fresh and ready for something new, okay? That's an order." He leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees, "It's for the best, Ms. Oltie. I know you're mad, but it's for the best."
"Fine," she replied with a shake of her head, "I'll be reassigned."
"No more wild goose chases to the Rainey residence?" he asked with a smile.
"Nope."
"You promise?"
"You have my word." Little did he know she had her fingers crossed behind her back.
* * *
A bit shorter than usual, but don't you worry, pilgrim! Ol' PineAppleLint here will be continuin' it tomorrow, yes siree. Reviews are great! Thanks for all o' your comments!
Author's Note: Heehee, no offense to Walmart in the last chapter. Suspense rocks my socks. But I'm not wearing any. (le sigh) Next chapter, I say! I've kept you waiting entirely too long for a freaking update!
PineAppleLint
* * *
Zoë awoke in a puddle of her own drool. Damn her and her self control! Couldn't she stay awake for more than five minutes at a time to get some actual work done?
Apparently not.
She furiously rubbed at her eyes, yawned, then stared around for Rainey's book. It was no where to be seen. She checked the floor. Nothing.
"I don't sleep walk," she grumbled aloud, "It should be here somewhere." Zoë checked under her pillows and covers. Letting out a frustrated grunt, she gave up and went to go get herself a glass of water from the fridge.
Clinking a glass onto the counter, she rooted around her pantry for a bottle of spring water and sloshed it into the glass. As she lifted it to her mouth and took a long sip, her gaze drifted towards the window and downwards, where...there was smoke curling out of the sink?
She set the glass down and ran over to find "Everybody Drops the Dime" charred and destroyed. The only way she could tell it had been that book was from the remains of the white cover and half of Mort's author picture in the book jacket. His eyes stared coolly back at her, and that's basically all that was left, everything from his eyes and up.
She...hadn't done that, had she? No, she couldn't. She wouldn't unconsciously light things on fire...
Zoë froze. Was someone in the house? Too many questions. Too many unanswered questions for her taste. Grabbing a knife from the wooden drawer, she held it shakily in a tight grip.
"Who's in here?" she cried out, not knowing if she should expect an answer, "I'm going to call the police!" She almost laughed out loud. Wasn't SHE basically the police? Then an idea grasped her whirling brain. She knew who to call...Timothy.
Grabbing the cordless phone, she hit speed dial. She sat on the counter and looked around with jerky, frightened glances as the phone rang.
And rang.
Finally after the twelfth ring, he picked up.
"Who the fuck is calling at this hour?" Timothy said sleepily, sounding extremely pissed.
"Timothy," she whispered, "It's me."
Zoë could almost hear him tense up and awaken immediately. "Agent Oltie? What are you doing? What's wrong?"
"I think someone was in my apartment," she said cautiously, "I'm not sure."
"Why do you think that?" he asked with growing concern.
"I was reading Mort Rainey's book and I guess I fell asleep. When I woke up, the book was charred to pieces in my kitchen sink. I'm not a sleepwalking pyro, T. Someone was here."
"Check the house," he said calmly, "Get your gun. I'm coming over right now, all right? You've looked for people in dark houses before, Zoë. It's not exactly new shit you're dealing with."
Yeah, she thought sarcastically, But it hadn't been MY house, MY life that someone had been screwing with.
"Okay," she said with a deep sigh, trying to calm her frazzled nerves, "Just hurry over."
"I promise," he said and she knew he meant it. She could hear the rustle of him beginning to gather up his clothes. And then the line went dead.
"T?" she whispered into the receiver, "T, are you there?"
No response. Not even a dial tone. She held the phone away from her ear as if it bit her. It really was dead. She ran into her room and grabbed her gun from her dresser drawer and unlocked the safety. She checked the phone on her nightstand. That phone was dead also.
Zoë cursed to herself and wiped the congealing sweat that was slick on her forehead away. "This just keeps getting better and better," she said and laughed hoarsely, on the fringe of cackling hysterically.
Then she took a deep breath and began her search. Under her bed, in the shower tub, in her laundry room, behind the couch, in every single dark corner where a killer would just be waiting to jump out, gouge her eyes out, then slowly chop off her fingers one by one and listen to her piercing screams.
Christ, she hated having a vivid imagination at times like this.
There was no one in the apartment. She checked one more time just to be sure. She was alone. Goosebumps prickled her clammy skin and she rubbed at her arms as she plopped down on the couch. Should she watch some TV to pass the time until Timothy got there? No, she wasn't in the mood. She felt violated, wigged out, enraged. And watching a bit of Saturday Night Live like it was any normal Friday night would just be her trying to kid herself. She couldn't lie to her mind like that.
Zoë didn't know how much time she spent just sitting there, staring at the light blue wall as if she were in a comatose state, until she heard those tiny noises that caused her nerves to jump all over again. Just regular noises of the apartment groaning, the air conditioning kicking in, the people upstairs moving a piece of furniture. She must have been losing her mind.
The doorbell rang. She ran to the door and checked through the peephole. It was Timothy, her knight in shining armor. His black hair was a bit ruffled like he didn't have time to comb it, his eyes were bloodshot, and he was dressed in sweats; a sight a bit weird to behold since she was used to the fancypants suits that was protocol at work.
Zoë threw open the door and quirked an eyebrow at him. He was holding a bouquet of daisies.
"What are those for?" she asked in confusion, "A 'I'm sorry you got stalked' present?"
"Don't ask me," he shrugged with a stern look, "They were outside your door just sitting here in the hallway."
Her eyes widened and he frowned. She thought back to that day she found one just lying there at her doorstep. Had this intruder been visiting a few more times than she had realized?
"T," she said breathlessly, "I think those daisies are from the guy whose breaking and entering. I found one the other day."
"This isn't good," he muttered, running a hand through his hair, "So am I allowed to come inside or am I confined to partying in the hallway?"
"I haven't made up my mind yet," she said seriously, but when his frown deepened, she grinned and opened her door wider. He took a step inside and took off his black coat and scarf, draping them over the couch.
"Coffee?"
"No thanks," he answered, taking a seat in the fluffy cushioned chair opposite the sofa. She sat on the sofa and stared at him, not knowing what to say or how to begin.
"Mort Rainey?" he asked, saying those two words that held a hell of a lot of meaning.
"Possibly," she replied with a grimace, "His counterpart, John Shooter, would be the one responsible for this."
"You speak as if his alter personality is a real person."
"It might as well be," she snorted, "You should have seen him, Timothy. Mort was standing there, all calm and rational, the next he turned fucking psycho and chased after me. Anything's possible with that man."
"I want to reassign you," Timothy informed her suddenly.
She straightened and replied in a low voice, as if she was trying to keep her temper in check, "And why would you want to do that? I'm getting close to something. I can feel it..."
"Yeah, you can feel death knocking on your damn doorstep!" he all but shouted. He rubbed his temple a few times and said a bit more steadily, "Mort and 'Shooter' like you. A lot. And I don't want to see you get hurt when we could have prevented it before it even happened."
"You're really taking me off the case?" Zoë questioned softly, not even bothering to hide the anger lacing her tone.
"Yes. I want you to get some rest and return Monday all fresh and ready for something new, okay? That's an order." He leaned forward and rested his hands on his knees, "It's for the best, Ms. Oltie. I know you're mad, but it's for the best."
"Fine," she replied with a shake of her head, "I'll be reassigned."
"No more wild goose chases to the Rainey residence?" he asked with a smile.
"Nope."
"You promise?"
"You have my word." Little did he know she had her fingers crossed behind her back.
* * *
A bit shorter than usual, but don't you worry, pilgrim! Ol' PineAppleLint here will be continuin' it tomorrow, yes siree. Reviews are great! Thanks for all o' your comments!