A HORRIFIC TIME FOR DEE ROMMEL; Found in the third book – 8 DAYS – of the Dee Rommel Mystery Series

Kate Flora, intrepid leader of the blog suggested we share a portion of one of our books that has a HORROR element.  The Crime/Mystery genre can include danger, near-demise moments for sure … this is one I picked to share for 2024 HALLOWEEN!

 JUST A LITTLE SET-UP:

8 DAYS, A Dee Rommel Mystery (third in the ten-part series) focuses on a human/sex trafficking ring in Portland, Maine. The impetus for exploring the subject came from my regular meetings with “my” former PPD officers and our talks about how this crime is ‘hidden’, but is, unfortunately, very present. Dee Rommel, my PI heroine, hired to protect a targeted youth, gets pulled into flushing out the traffickers – and finds herself held captive. A disturbing villain wants to torment Dee and hands her over to Pergo, her gross henchman… Steph is a damaged woman who was trafficked in her teens; she and Dee have been in a cat and mouse battle. (This won’t spoil the full story, but welcome to Dee’s HORROR EXPERIENCE in 8 DAYS.) The excerpt is midway through Chapter Thirty-Six.

…Steph takes three bottles of pills from her bag, places them on the top of a box. “Maybe it’d be interesting for you to know just how good my kids have it.”

She motions to Pergo. He takes his knife from his pocket, his thumb presses against the safety, the blade pops out of the handle. It’s well-sharpened. Steph shakes a pill from each bottle, places them within Pergo’s reach. He takes a water bottle from his back pocket, places it on the box, then steps behind me, grabs my hair and pulls my head back. “Gonna give you a good time.”

  I press my lips together. He leans over me, uses the end of the blade to prick my lips. I pull back but stop when the blade goes deeper. “Open up.”

  I bite down harder. He stabs the knife into the wall next to my head – too close – and uses his fingers to dig into my mouth.

 “Time to take a trip. You’ll go very very high.”

Two of his meaty digits get into the corner of my mouth, his grip is strong, and my jaw can’t hold. He pushes the pills onto my tongue. I try to spit – he clamps my mouth shut, grabs the water bottle, holds my nose, waits for me to try grab air through my mouth and jams the water bottle through my lips.

 I gag, and swallow. Didn’t mean to, reflex took over.

A horn is honked. Steph taps Pergo. “She already knows what it feels like to have something cut off. That won’t send the message I want her to live with…”

“What do you want me to live with?” I spit out.

“That I won.”

Steph walks to the ramp, turns back to survey me.

“Someone has to win. So glad it’s me.”

My vision is changing. She’s a blur. My body tingles.

The blur turns to Pergo and her voice sounds like an echo. “Make sure you arrange enough time for her to think about that.”

A salute. Accompanied by a fart.

Stinks. He stinks. The smell surrounds me, I can almost see it.

Pergo puts a dark bag over my head, wraps a thick cord at the bottom of it so it is tight around my neck. He yanks me to my feet and I feel almost weightless, like I have a secret power.

I can’t see who’s driving the van, is it the big guy who smelled like meat and onions? My secret power tells me I’m in the cargo area and that Pergo is sitting next to me. I decide not to tell him the pills are having no effect. And that I can truly see through the bag, see a brilliantly gold sunset and red clouds shaped like puffy cupped hands holding the golden globe – fluffy hands tossing it into the air and spinning it and catching it, over and over. And that there’s a chorus of crows there. I make a wish and a halo of light swooshes through the van’s walls towards me – when I give the say-so, the light will melt away the duct-tape around my hands. I won’t tell Pergo the blond hairs that dot my skin, from knuckles to lower arm, are there for the green ants. I feel their nibbling on my skin. I know – on my say-so – the ants will poison him. He thought the pills would weaken me. No luck with that. The only effect of the pills is dry mouth. I could tell him I’d like a glass of water, but I don’t think he’d care. What he might care about is the fact that my mother has arrived from Boston and sits across from me – in the van – and that she’s shaking her head. “Honey, your father and I always wanted you to do exactly what challenges you, what makes you happy. Now that your dad is gone, I feel it’s my job to remind you to make wise choices. Do you really want to be sitting in the back of this van with a bag over your head?”  I whisper to her that it’s not at the top on my list of fun things to do, but it’s okay because the bag over my head gives me superpowers.

“Shut up,” says Pergo. “Who you talking to?”

My mother rolls her eyes. “He shouldn’t pick at his acne. He’ll get scarred. But we don’t care.”

I laugh.

“You always like puzzles, honey,” my mother continues. She’s dressed for work, in a gray suit and pink blouse and coral earrings and her hair is as it always is – never a strand out of place. Her briefcase is on her lap and there’s a plane ticket to Paris in her hand. She enjoys elegance, wishes I did. “And you always liked to get yourself caught in a tree or stuck at the bottom of a rock pile in Acadia National Park so you’d have to work your way up and out. You like steep hills with no stairways. I’m very happy with an escalator. But you, honey, you sometimes choose the hard way. I wonder about that sometimes.”

“Me too,” I say.

“Will you come visit soon, honey?” she goes on. “I wish you’d move to Boston, pick one of the law schools and study here…”

“I’m really busy,” I say. “Making sure someone who deserves it, gets put into prison.”

“Shut up!” says Pergo. “I got my knife right here and I will cut out your tongue if you don’t stop talking.”

Thousands of mini-Pergos line the ceiling of the van. Each has a knife in hand. One of them is squatting like the weird Gollum in Lord of the Rings – glaring at me and saying, “Killing’s not my problem, it’s the not killing that’s the problem for me.”  He shows yellow teeth and I projectile vomit – it jets upwards into his face. “That shows I have a problem with you,” I yell triumphantly.

One of the Pergos leaps down, becomes human-sized and he raps on the wall between the driver and cargo area. The van swerves, the road gets bumpy. No more smooth blacktop. The vehicle slows down – comes to a stop.

I hear Pergo pulling the van door open. He grunts, he’s getting on his haunches, very close to me. His hands go under my armpits, and he lifts me up. We’re standing in the open door and the wind is zinging at me. It smells woodsy and dead leaf-y and wet. This must be the moment where my superpower and I will fly, save the planet and head back to Krypton. Or Mars. Or Saturn – that might be pretty. I tell Pergo I’ve decided not to save him because he’s rude. No rude people allowed on Saturn. “Shut up,” he says. Then he pushes me.  And I’m flying.

There’s no ground under me, I’m moving through air. The wings attached to my neck won’t activate, probably because I’m too thirsty but still, this soaring feels good. So good. My arms and legs detach and fly off on their own; it’s odd that my torso’s wings don’t become functional. Whatever. I will float down. No big deal.

Ooomph. That hurt. Right on the coccyx. I’m on the side of a steep hill and a sharp rock jams into my back, I tumble downwards. It feels like I’m going too fast. Down. Down. Body rolling, hitting hard things. Finally, I slam into a tree and my body jolts and bounces to one side. My head hits water and reeds. A marsh? All is water-soaked. The rest of my body lands close by and with my superpower I command the pieces to re-attach.

They do. I’m one body again.

My left leg is attached backwards. Hurts like hell.

CHAPTER THIRTY- SEVEN

 Maybe I passed out? Opening my eyes takes a Herculean effort. The back of my head is in the shallow water. If I’d tumbled one more rotation, I would’ve landed face-first and I would have had to rely on the aliens that live in the trees to help me turn over. But aliens can be unpredictable, they may have watched me drown. So lucky I’m face up.

My left leg feels like it’s been spun in a Floss Maker like cotton candy, they are pointing uphill. My head is lower and feels filled with blood. Cold water seeps through my jacket and shirt, but I can’t turn to drink because there’s a bag over my head. My power source. My personal X-Men accoutrement. Now it’s magnifying sounds. Frogs? Some people think they’re luck. Some people think they carry curses. Some people think they bring fertility. Perhaps a frog will whisper in my ear and let me know what its secret is.

 There’s a tongue lapping in the water next to me. A fox? A groundhog? “Don’t be afraid of the bag on my head,” I say. “I only bring good.”

 My ears hear a snake slither by in the water, it flips its tail across my neck. I’m really invading a space that does not belong to me. “Sorry. I know I wasn’t invited.”

 Test the abs? Will my hundred sits-ups a day pay off? I summon the halo again; it lightens my head, and I crunch. Shoulders up. Chest up.  Ribs up. I get myself bent in half, force myself to fall to the side, out of the water. My head drops onto a rock. Rip! The bag rips open. My heart sinks. My power source might be destroyed. I shake my head, the fabric clears my nose and eyes and mouth, and I breathe in insects.

 A warm, thick fluid drips down my face. Blood? Do people with superpowers bleed? A face descends upon mine, and it’s got eyes that glow in the dark. “Don’t lick my blood!” I yell. The creature skitters away.

The tree ahead beckons me. The rough bark on its trunk moves like jaws, opening and closing. But it’s a smile. I think it wants to help. Since I’m still on the incline, I can’t roll up to it. The rock that banged my head is still there, it’s sharp. I raise my arms and drop the duct tape on my wrists on it. Move my arms in a sawing motion. The rock’s sharp edge – will it cut through the tape? “Give me a minute, give me a minute,” I tell the demanding tree. “Hold your horses.”

 I saw until my breathing hurts. Keep going. Keep going. Finally, there’s a tear in the thick sticky tape. I bend to it, get hold of an end with my teeth. Pull? Or chew like a beaver? I wonder if a beaver is close, one that might finish the job? One does not show itself.

Sound of an owl tooting and hoo-ing.

A nighthawk caws.

I use my teeth to pull the rest of the duct tape off my wrists. Air hits a fresh raw layer of epidermis and it stings. Stings. Stings.

“Come here,” says the tree.

“Give me a minute,” I tell it.

I use my elbows and the heels of my hands and my long fingers to dig into the damp, cold soil and scrunch, pull, haul myself to the tree. I can’t find a foothold; the hill’s too steep and slippery, and my cotton candy left leg is not in the right position. But I can wrap my arms around the tree trunk. Get my shoulder against it. Hug it. I get my right leg bent, my cheek to the rough bark. Hug higher. Move my chest against the rough bark of the tree. Inch higher. My right knee and foot are pressing into the earth. All creatures have rights, I think. Trees. Nightbirds. Beetles and snakes and ants. Am I crushing a life as I work to find balance?  “Sorry,” I say.

This will take hours. But what’s one hour or ten? Does time matter? I lose track of it, but finally I’m standing next to my tree. My head hurts but I focus on the steep hill where I balance. It must crest somewhere. I push from tree to tree, from rock to rock. I want to get to the top and I want a road. It’s like when I was a kid and suddenly wanted ice cream and I couldn’t think of anything else. Now I want a road.

I’ve reached the crown.

It’s dark.

There’s a narrow road. No cars. What direction to limp? What direction to drag my leg? I have no idea.

I see headlights. Ah – maybe I can flag the vehicle down. I stumble into the middle of the road, thinking the residual light of my halo will be my helpmate.

Car’s not stopping. Not stopping. “Hey!” My voice is thin. “Hey!”

The car screeches to a stop. A deep voice roars out: “You stupid? What the hell are you doing, stupid?”

I don’t care what names he calls me. I grin. I’m glad to not be run over.

“Hi,” I manage and do a little dance. I don’t normally dance, but I’m moving my legs, swaying my hips. I sing, “Can you give me a ride? I want to go home.”

“What?”

Maybe I’m not singing loud enough. “Can you…?”

The driver lays on a horn. “Get off the road,” he yells.

The passenger door opens and a little old lady in jeans and a sweatshirt gets out. She’s got blue hair and glasses, and she could be a fairy godmother if she had a wand.

 “Sugar, you gotta get out of the road,” she says.

“Hi.” Despite my exhaustion, I manufacture a hopeful help-me look.

The driver gets out. He wears overalls and a flannel shirt. These are not fairy godparents. More like overgrown trolls. Magnanimous, I hope.  They’re magical, because there’s a light that shines behind them.

“What did you say?” the Granny Troll yells.

“She’s probably on drugs,” he says.

 “She looks like she’s been rolling around in the woods,” she says. “Do you think she sleeps in there?”

“I don’t know.” He yells at me. “Get out of the road before you get run over, stupid!”

“Maybe she needs help,” the woman worries.

He’s not so generous. “What if she wants to rob us?”

“Clive, what if she really needs help? If she’s been sleeping in the woods, she probably has mental problems.”

“That we don’t need. We can back up and take the side road over to the highway.”

Granny Troll’s really concerned. “Someone else might run her over.”

“She’s not getting into our car.”

“Not even in the back? We could drop her off at town.”

“I don’t damn want her in my damn car.”

“We have to do something,” she says. “What should we do?”

“Call 911. Report her.”

Words that are music to my ears.  A cop. A fireman. A state trooper. I don’t care. Someone who will know what to do with me.

 

            *** This was fun to write because Dee is in an altered state, but I can bring up parts of her past, her relationships and flights of delusion – while making the danger still clear.

Dee experiences the after-effects of the drugs – but in  true fashion, finds a way accomplish the goal.

HAPPY HAPPY HAPPY HALLOWEEN!