“Write them down. The
model, the color…the year if you know it.”
Cliff scribbles a list,
considers it, makes an addition, then passes the sheet of paper to Ashford, who
looks it over.
“This is a pretty precise
list,” he says.
“It’s the job. I tend to
notice what people drive.”
Ashford continues to study
the list. “These are expensive cars. The Ford Escape, that’s one of those
hybrids, right?”
“Uh-huh. New this year.”
Ashford folds the paper,
sticks it in his notebook. “So. What I was saying, do you think there could be
a reasonable explanation for all this? Something that has nothing to do with a
witch and a movie? Something that makes sense in terms someone like me could
accept?”
This touch of
self-deprecation fuels the idea that Ashford may be smarter than Cliff has
assumed. “It’s possible,” he says, but after a pause he adds, “No. Fuck, no.
You had…”
A peremptory knocking on
the door interrupts Cliff. With a disgruntled expression, Ashford heaves up to
his feet and pokes his head out into the corridor. After a prolonged, muttering
exchange with someone Cliff can’t see, Ashford throws the door open wide and
says flatly, “You can go for now, Coria. We’ll be in touch.”
Baffled, Cliff asks, “What
is it? What happened?”
“Your girlfriend’s alive.
She’s out by the front desk.”
Cliff’s relief is diluted
by his annoyance over Ashford’s refusal to accept that he and Marley are not
lovers, but before he can once again deny the assertion, Ashford says, “Your
house is still a crime scene. You might want to hang out somewhere for a few
hours until we’ve finished processing.”
Cliff gives him a
what-the-fuck look, and Ashford, with more than a hint of the malicious in his
voice, says, “We have to find out who that blood belongs to, don’t we?”
Chapter Six
In the entryway of the
police station, Marley mothers Cliff, hugging and fussing over him, attentions
that he welcomes, but once in the car she waxes outraged, railing at the cops
and their rush to judgment. Christ Almighty! She woke up and couldn’t get back
to sleep, so she went to a diner and did some brooding. You’d think the cops
would have more sense. You’d think they would look before they leaped.
“It’s my fault,” Cliff
says. “I called them.”
She shoots him a puzzled glance.
“Why’d you do that?”
He remembers that she knows
nothing about the Black Demon, the blood, the slit porch screen.
“You left the door open,”
he says. “I was worried.”
“I did not! And even if I
did, that’s no reason to call the cops.”
“Yeah, well. There was
weird shit going on last night. I got hit by vandals, and that made me
nervous.”
They stop at a 7-11 so
Cliff can buy a clean t-shirt—it’s a touch choice between a white one
with a cartoon decal and the words Surf Naked, and a gray one imprinted with a
fake college seal and the words Screw U. He settles on the gray, deciding it
makes a more age-appropriate statement. They go for breakfast at a restaurant
on North Atlantic, and then to Marley’s studio apartment, which is close by.
The Lu-Ray Apartments, a brown stucco building overlooking the ocean and the
boardwalk—with the windows open, Cliff can hear faint digital squeals and
roars from a video arcade that has a miniature golf course atop its roof. It’s
a drizzly, overcast morning and, with its patched greens and dilapidated
obstacles, a King Kong, a troll, a dragon that spits sparks whenever someone
makes a hole-in-one, etcetera, the course has an air of post-apocalyptic decay.
The dead Ferris wheel beside it emphasizes the effect.
Marley’s place is
tomboyishly Spartan, a couple of surfboards on the wall, a Ramones poster, a
wicker throne with a green cushion, a small TV with some Mardi Gras beads
draped over it, a queen-size box spring and mattress covered by a dark blue
spread. The only sign of femininity is that the apartment scrupulously clean,
not a
model, the color…the year if you know it.”
Cliff scribbles a list,
considers it, makes an addition, then passes the sheet of paper to Ashford, who
looks it over.
“This is a pretty precise
list,” he says.
“It’s the job. I tend to
notice what people drive.”
Ashford continues to study
the list. “These are expensive cars. The Ford Escape, that’s one of those
hybrids, right?”
“Uh-huh. New this year.”
Ashford folds the paper,
sticks it in his notebook. “So. What I was saying, do you think there could be
a reasonable explanation for all this? Something that has nothing to do with a
witch and a movie? Something that makes sense in terms someone like me could
accept?”
This touch of
self-deprecation fuels the idea that Ashford may be smarter than Cliff has
assumed. “It’s possible,” he says, but after a pause he adds, “No. Fuck, no.
You had…”
A peremptory knocking on
the door interrupts Cliff. With a disgruntled expression, Ashford heaves up to
his feet and pokes his head out into the corridor. After a prolonged, muttering
exchange with someone Cliff can’t see, Ashford throws the door open wide and
says flatly, “You can go for now, Coria. We’ll be in touch.”
Baffled, Cliff asks, “What
is it? What happened?”
“Your girlfriend’s alive.
She’s out by the front desk.”
Cliff’s relief is diluted
by his annoyance over Ashford’s refusal to accept that he and Marley are not
lovers, but before he can once again deny the assertion, Ashford says, “Your
house is still a crime scene. You might want to hang out somewhere for a few
hours until we’ve finished processing.”
Cliff gives him a
what-the-fuck look, and Ashford, with more than a hint of the malicious in his
voice, says, “We have to find out who that blood belongs to, don’t we?”
Chapter Six
In the entryway of the
police station, Marley mothers Cliff, hugging and fussing over him, attentions
that he welcomes, but once in the car she waxes outraged, railing at the cops
and their rush to judgment. Christ Almighty! She woke up and couldn’t get back
to sleep, so she went to a diner and did some brooding. You’d think the cops
would have more sense. You’d think they would look before they leaped.
“It’s my fault,” Cliff
says. “I called them.”
She shoots him a puzzled glance.
“Why’d you do that?”
He remembers that she knows
nothing about the Black Demon, the blood, the slit porch screen.
“You left the door open,”
he says. “I was worried.”
“I did not! And even if I
did, that’s no reason to call the cops.”
“Yeah, well. There was
weird shit going on last night. I got hit by vandals, and that made me
nervous.”
They stop at a 7-11 so
Cliff can buy a clean t-shirt—it’s a touch choice between a white one
with a cartoon decal and the words Surf Naked, and a gray one imprinted with a
fake college seal and the words Screw U. He settles on the gray, deciding it
makes a more age-appropriate statement. They go for breakfast at a restaurant
on North Atlantic, and then to Marley’s studio apartment, which is close by.
The Lu-Ray Apartments, a brown stucco building overlooking the ocean and the
boardwalk—with the windows open, Cliff can hear faint digital squeals and
roars from a video arcade that has a miniature golf course atop its roof. It’s
a drizzly, overcast morning and, with its patched greens and dilapidated
obstacles, a King Kong, a troll, a dragon that spits sparks whenever someone
makes a hole-in-one, etcetera, the course has an air of post-apocalyptic decay.
The dead Ferris wheel beside it emphasizes the effect.
Marley’s place is
tomboyishly Spartan, a couple of surfboards on the wall, a Ramones poster, a
wicker throne with a green cushion, a small TV with some Mardi Gras beads
draped over it, a queen-size box spring and mattress covered by a dark blue
spread. The only sign of femininity is that the apartment scrupulously clean,
not a
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