It’s just as she remembered it. Jerky footage from someone walking toward the iconic observatory in bright morning sunlight. An entire group has just disembarked from a large tourist bus, which can be heard humming in the background beneath the excited chatter of its passengers.
The man doing the shooting is still getting his bearings, capturing mostly the backs of heads in front of him as he tries to pan up to the observatory’s domed roof. There’s a series of high-pitched cries off to his right. As if they’re unsure whether the cries are of warning or pleas for help, the crowd starts moving in that direction, and the cameraman goes with them. That’s when he captures the James Dean memorial—a bronze bust of the famous actor sitting on a white column of stone emblazoned with his name. The footage freezes at the first glimpse of the ill-fitting, grotesque mask of human skin that’s been stretched across the bronze face underneath. But the audio continues uninterrupted, screams spreading throughout the crowd. The combination of the gruesomely defaced statue and the escalating panic of the crowd terrifies Charlotte as much as it had the first time. It’s worse, maybe, than a gratuitous close-up of the ghostly face itself.
But it’s not enough to trigger the drug in her system. It’s a different kind of horror, a revulsion she can feel in her gut. The killer’s cruelty is the same kind that led Abigail Banning to whisper, “You are now nothing,” into the ears of her victims before she cut their throats.
The report cuts back to Detective Ramirez, who says, “The staging, the manner of death, obviously those speak to a connection between these two crimes. But further forensic analysis is needed before we can make any other statements.”
From the crowd, a reporter shouts, “Are you not willing to call these crimes murders or are you gonna wait until the bodies are found?”
The detective stiffens. “After consulting with forensic pathologists, we are reasonably sure it’s not possible for these victims to have survived what was done to them.”
The explosion of laughter startles her so badly she almost falls off her stool. It’s Backward Cap. He’s doubled over the bar and is slapping it with one palm. “Can you fucking imagine?” he wheezes. “Can you fucking imagine? What, like, you’re there for some kid’s fucking birthday, and there’s a fucking face on one of the fucking statues! I’d be like, ‘Did we pay extra for this bitch, ’cause maybe I would have liked to have a selection to choose from, you know?’”
Forward Cap says, “You think they’d charge more depending on how hot she was?”
Backward Cap laughs harder. “Or how big of a bitch she was. Hell, I’d pay, depending on the woman. Beats looking at a bunch of telescopes any day.”
“What?” his buddy asks. “Are you on a game show? I’ll take the face for five hundred, Pat.”
“Alex,” Charlotte says.
Both men fall silent. At the sound of her voice, the bartender picks up the remote, kills the volume, and changes the channel. To sports. Even though this isn’t a sports bar.
“What was that, Diet Coke?” Forward Cap asks. He laughs less than his friend, and the long, studious looks he’s been giving her since she sat down suggest that if he’s not quicker to violence, he’s better at planning it.
“Alex Trebek is the host of Jeopardy!; Pat Sajak is the host of Wheel of Fortune.”
They just stare at her. Will this work? She hopes so. She’s pretty sure she can provoke these guys. But throwing a drink in their faces to do it seems cheap. Almost like entrapment. On the other hand, she’s never met an arrogant ignoramus who didn’t fly off the handle when corrected by the facts. Especially from a woman.
“The game show you were referring to, the one where you pick a category and a dollar amount, that’s Jeopardy!”
“What’s your problem, Loose Tits?” Backward Cap asks.
“Two women were murdered. Horribly. And you guys think it’s funny. I’d say the problem is yours, and it’s in your brains.”
Everything gets darker suddenly. The bartender is standing right over her, his formidable bulk blocking out the flickering television.
“It might be time for you to head back to San Francisco. Maybe get your kicks on Market Street. I hear that’s a better place for girls with opinions.”
Charlotte looks to the guys at her left. They’re almost to the point of ignition, but they’re not quite there yet. And if she lets their hero bartender put her in her place, then she might have lost them for good.
“Soon as I finish my drink, sir,” she says.
“The second you do,” the bartender says.
She nods. He moves away, but he’s lingering.
“Uh-oh,” Backward Cap says to his friend. “Looks like we insulted a lady. A real one, too.”
“No shit, huh?” Forward Cap says. “I don’t know, maybe we should check those jeans. Seems like she’s got a big ol’ pair of balls to me.”
“Huh. Well, you know what my dad always said ’bout men and women.”
“What’d he say?”
“Come on. You know his old joke.”
“Which one?”
“Why’d God give women vaginas?”
“So men would talk to ’em.”
Charlotte lifts her glass to her mouth and drains the rest of her Diet Coke. Then she slams it down hard enough to suggest she’s offended. She is, but in an abstract way. Mostly she’s relieved they’ve set up her next line of attack so nicely. She stands, takes a step toward them.
“You losers have about as much chance of being able to see what’s in my pants as you do of finding a word in the dictionary.”
It’s like she’s thrown ice water in their faces. Maybe it’s the insult, or maybe it’s the confidence with which she hurled it.
Either way it’s time for her to get moving.
When she passes Marty’s table, she locks eyes with him. He holds her gaze briefly, letting her know he’s ready to follow.
She’s outside and headed along the irrigation canal when she hears the door open.
She expects another verbal volley, maybe some shouted taunts or another disgusting joke about women. When she hears their footsteps punching gravel, she realizes this is escalating more quickly than she anticipated.
The realization that they’re only feet behind her now sends a familiar shiver through her entire body. Her hands begin to shake.
It’s a moment in which powerlessness and outrage collide and fight for prominence, producing several seconds of terrified paralysis, and it feels like it’s enough to unleash the drug’s power.
They slam her into the fence from behind—a maelstrom of whiskey breath and wheezing grunts. Just as she’d planned, she reaches out and grabs two of the steel spokes. She forces herself to go limp so they think they’ve got her.
One’s got his arms around her from behind and is grinding his groin against her ass; the other grips the back of her neck with so much pressure it should hurt like hell but doesn’t. His hot breath bathes her ear. They’re laughing because they think they got her, and she’s saying nothing because the bone music is back. This time it feels pleasurable, delicious even. Maybe because she knows what’s really causing it.
“I got an idea how we’re gonna get in those pants, you mouthy little bitch.” It’s the one who has her by the neck. He’s growling right into her ear. Forward Cap.
Backward Cap says, “What’re we gonna do with whatever we find there?”
“Well, if we like it, we help ourselves to a piece. If we don’t, we’ll cut it off.”
Slowly, hoping they won’t notice the motion right away, she begins to pull on both spikes. The resulting sound reminds her of train cars coming to a slow, tortured stop. The sound of steel being bent by a constant and steady force.
“Fuck,” Forward Cap whispers. He releases her neck. “Fuck!” There’s no malice in his voice now, just a kind of dumbstruck horror.
They’re both stumbling away from her. She’s bent the spokes at almost ninety-degree angles. Finally, the one in her right hand snaps free with a sound like a giant guitar string being flicked by a giant finger. A tug and the one in her left hand comes free as well. When she turns, Forward Cap stumbles backward over his own feet.
“Who likes hand jobs?” Charlotte asks.