Murderfunding, p.5
#MurderFunding, page 5
“Sounds classy.” Mateo smirked.
“It sounds,” Becca said, trying to keep the conversation on track, “like The Postman is still involved maybe. Does your aunt know?”
Instead of a yes-or-no answer, Darlene just shrugged. “All I know is that the auditions are going to be nuts. They’re just letting, like, anyone in off the street. No headshots. No reps. Total amateur hour.”
Now it was Becca’s turn to be confused. “So are you going or—”
“Why?” Darlene asked, pursing her lips. “Are you going to make some joke about how I’d look great in a DIYnona mask?”
“No!” Becca forced a laugh. “But that’s a good one.”
“Or ask if I’ll be Oscar-eligible for that role?”
Jackie buried her head in Mateo’s shoulder to keep from laughing out loud. After visiting her aunt two summers ago, Darlene had told everyone the independent film she’d supposedly auditioned for, landed a role in, and shot during her two weeks in LA would be out by Christmas so her role would be eligible for the Oscars. Turned out, she’d done a nonspeaking role in her cousin’s short for his college film class. But, you know, samesies.
“Okay, but seriously,” Becca said, unable to let that one go, “it was a student film, Darlene.”
Darlene narrowed her already tiny eyes and jutted out her chin. “Well, you won’t have anything to make fun of this time, Rebecca. My mom won’t let me audition after the attack yesterday.” She paused, lengthening her neck haughtily. “And my aunt would never work on a Merchant-Bronson production. They’re notoriously cheap.” Then she swung around and sauntered across the cafeteria.
“That went well,” Mateo said.
“What did you expect?” Jackie asked. “Becca led a write-in campaign to get Darlene voted ‘Most Likely to Pull a Muscle Trying to Kiss Her Own Ass’ for the senior yearbook. Not exactly best friends.”
It had been a long shot to think that Darlene’s aunt actually had some connection to the upcoming reality show, but Becca had learned something almost as interesting. “What attack was she talking about?”
“Duh, in Georgia,” Jackie said. “Can you believe they thought that guy was married to Hannah Ball? I mean, I know she wasn’t exactly the hottest bod on Alcatraz two-point-oh, but she could certainly do better than…” Jackie paused for a millisecond to suck in a breath and noticed that Becca was staring at her, jaw slack. “Do you have any idea what I’m talking about?”
“Not a clue.” Becca had spent the night searching the Internet for old Molly Mauler videos, with almost no success. The government was removing the bootlegged Alcatraz 2.0 videos almost as quickly as Postmantics were putting them up. There must have been a small army of techies scouring the Internet day and night. One video of Molly Mauler and a tank of piranhas even cut off while Becca was midstream.
Jackie planted both of her palms on the cafeteria table, a sign that she was about to tell an epic story with a considerable amount of relish. “Well, last night, a mob showed up at this dude’s house in Georgia. Like, torches-and-pitchforks kind of shit.”
“Why?”
Jackie leaned forward in excitement. “Some girl had it on good authority that Hannah was actually a restaurant owner and chef from Savannah, Georgia. Married, two stepkids. As soon as this hits, the Twitterverse goes apeshit, and by eight o’clock, a bunch of people had shown up at the house where this chef supposedly used to live.”
“The news footage is pretty fucked up,” Mateo added. “Throwing rocks and bottles. The dude who lived there came outside with his shotgun, and then someone launched a Molotov cocktail through his living room window. Cops showed up. All hell broke loose.”
“The house was half burned down by the time the fire department put it out,” Jackie said. “And the worst part? This dude’s wife was home. With him. At the time. I’m pretty sure Hannah Ball didn’t survive her swim in the boiling hot tub, which means they had the wrong person.”
Becca’s hands tingled, her feet had gone numb, and she felt as if someone had punched her in the stomach. The Fed-Xers and their Painiac witch hunts were getting out of hand. What if the guy who’d broken into her house had been one of them? What if he’d been looking for some kind of evidence that Ruth and Molly were one and the same?
Becca had half decided not to drive down to Escanaba after school, but now she had to go. If Stef had any evidence, even something shitty that might possibly link her family to Molly Mauler, Becca had to see it. And destroy it.
She wouldn’t let her family be the next victims on the Fed-Xers’ hit list.
AFTER MAKING EXCUSES TO Jackie and Mateo again for not hanging out after school, Becca trekked down to Escanaba, creaking the old SUV to a stop in front of a nondescript Craftsman house north of town. It felt like she was driving into the lion’s den, and though she wished she were any other place on the planet at that moment, she knew she didn’t have a choice. If there was even a minute chance that Stef’s “evidence” could be construed as linking Ruth Martinello to Molly Mauler, Becca had to get rid of it. Her number-one goal was protecting her family from those crazed Fed-Xers.
It was what Ruth would have wanted.
With a steadying breath, Becca climbed out of her car and approached the house.
Stef was waiting for her at the front door, holding the screen open. She wore black leggings and a tank top despite the damp chill of the late-November afternoon, and the longer side of her bob was clipped back away from her face with a simple barrette. She looked really hot in a cool, easy-breezy kind of way, and Becca had to remind herself that Stef’s hotness was not why she was there.
“Hey,” Becca said lamely, her heart hammering in her chest with an unmistakable mix of excitement and apprehension.
Stef stood aside to let Becca enter. “Hey.”
Becca turned sideways to slip through the door, her face inches from Stef, who smelled like peppermint toothpaste and baby powder. On paper, that sounded like a grandmotherly smell—something comforting, a little overpowering, and certainly not sexy—but Becca fought the urge to bury her face in Stef’s neck and inhale deeply.
Ugh, now who was the creeper?
“Nice house,” Becca said, trying to camouflage her awkwardness. It wasn’t even a lie. The living room was tidy, tables dusted and clutter-free. Ruth would have been impressed.
“Not really,” Stef said bluntly.
“Um, okay.” How exactly was she supposed to respond to that?
Stef sighed in annoyance. “It’s my grandparents’ house.”
“Oh.” That didn’t explain anything. “Doesn’t mean it’s not nice.”
Stef crossed one hand over her body, gripping her opposite forearm, as she glanced up at the ceiling. “Nice enough if you enjoy peeling wallpaper, a leaky roof, and a basement that smells like mothballs.”
That went well. “Let’s get this over with.”
Becca followed Stef out of the living room through a darkened hallway illuminated only by a thin strip of yellow light oozing out from beneath a closed door. Stef pulled it open, flooding the corridor with a warm glow, and without motioning for Becca to follow, trudged down a narrow flight of stairs.
Becca hesitated as all her stalkery, murdery fears from yesterday afternoon came flooding back. Following a stranger into a damp, dark basement was like horror-movie no-no numero uno. Had this all been an elaborate hoax on Stef’s part to lure Becca into her kill room?
“I, uh, told my friends Jackie and Mateo where I was going,” Becca said from the top of the stairs. Lame, but she had to think fast, give Stef reason to think twice about killing her and burying her dismembered body in the backyard. “Like, in case I had an accident on the way or something.”
Stef glanced back up over her shoulder. “I’m not going to murder you down here.”
Becca forced a laugh. “Right. No, of course not.” Just keep me prisoner for ten years…
“Are you coming or not?” Stef sounded irritated, and once more, Becca found herself swayed by a desire not to appear weak in Stef’s eyes.
“Yeah, duh.”
Stef’s grandparents’ basement had been converted into a guest room, as evidenced by the queen-size bed against the far wall beneath the only window—a thin slit high up on the wall near the ceiling, the only part of the basement that wasn’t completely underground. Instead of cushy carpet, the floor was lined with some kind of vinyl faux tile in an argyle pattern, and the walls were faced with dark wood paneling. The effect was cozy, though slightly depressing with a dilapidated 1970s vibe. Based on the rumpled bedsheets and the desk with two giant flat-screen monitors arranged in a V formation, Becca guessed this was Stef’s bedroom.
Stef gestured to an overstuffed chair propped up on a stack of books due to a missing leg. “Sit here while I pull up some footage.”
It was an order, not an offer. And Becca didn’t take orders. Instead of sitting down, she stood behind the chair, leaning against the wall.
Stef shrugged with indifference, then yanked out the desk chair and sat with her back to Becca as she dragged a video labeled “mollymauler_january” to the center of one monitor.
“Footage from the beginning of the year,” Stef said, her tone businesslike, her words economical.
“Where did you get that?” Becca asked. She knew from her own search the night before that Painiacs’ kill videos weren’t exactly readily available on YouTube.
But Stef ignored the question. “This is the Mauler’s eighth kill.”
Assuming that Stef had access to some kind of Fed-Xer video database and making a mental note to ask her about it later, Becca folded her arms across her chest as the video began to play.
A man lay on a tile floor wearing only his underwear, a dingy pair of tighty-whities, with his arms stretched out over his head and his light brown hair billowing around the sides of his face. The movement seemed strange and out of place, and as the camera zoomed out, Becca realized why. The man lay inside a pen that was filled with a few inches of water.
Aside from the Plexiglas walls of the enclosure, which were low enough for even a small child to step over, the man was totally unrestrained. Like he could have gotten up and walked out of there at any time. Yet he looked terrified. His eyes darted quickly back and forth as if expecting imminently approaching danger, and the deeply carved worry lines in the pale skin of his cheeks and forehead twitched with fear.
Becca recognized the video right away. It was one of Molly’s more original kills, one that had earned her over a million spikes and a legion of new fans. Becca even remembered watching this video for the first time. She’d been home, at the dinner table with her moms and Rafa. Her phone was charging in her room, banned from family meals by Ruth’s order, when she heard the double doorbell go off. Becca had held her breath, a forkful of penne primavera frozen halfway between her plate and her mouth, wondering if Ruth had heard the notification. Becca had been reprimanded before for watching The Postman, and she was pretty sure if her mom caught her again, she’d confiscate Becca’s phone.
But Ruth had been telling a story about Rafa’s teacher and didn’t even pause to take a breath after The Postman notification went off. Becca continued her dinner, eating as normally as possible. As soon as she was finished and had helped her brother clean up the kitchen, she’d raced to her room, closed and locked the door, and indulged in some gruesome Molly Mauler goodness while her moms watched the news in the other room.
Becca gasped, as the realization of Ruth’s innocence washed over her like a bucket of ice water after a Super Bowl win. “That can’t be my mom! She was home with us the night this video went live.”
Stef didn’t even look at her. “Not all Painiac videos were aired live,” she said. “And I know for a fact that this one wasn’t.”
Yeah, that was convenient. “How?”
Instead of answering, Stef pointed to the corner of the screen. “Here she comes.”
The sound of footsteps echoed through the cavernous space, and a shadow came into view, distorted and elongated by a spotlight from behind. Then Molly appeared. She wore a red corset, laced tightly from behind, over a black-and-white polka-dot skirt with a mountain of red crinolines beneath and Molly’s signature red-and-white-striped tights on her legs.
“Lawrence Fields,” Molly cooed, giggling like a fiendish pixie after she said the prisoner’s name. “Do you know who I am?”
The man’s mouth quivered in fear, but he didn’t respond.
“Oh, that’s right,” Molly said. She walked around behind him so she faced the camera. “I drugged you so you can’t talk. Or move. Or escape. Sad face!” Molly looked at the camera and flashed an exaggerated frown, which appeared all the more maniacal with her overdrawn clown lips.
For the first time in her life, Becca paid close attention to Molly Mauler. She squinted as she scrutinized the Painiac’s face, searching for any resemblance to her mom. The elaborate clown makeup and the shadows cast by the muted overhead lighting made it difficult to discern individual features, but based on the way Molly held her head and jutted her chin forward, Becca was pretty damn sure she wasn’t looking at a video of her mom.
Next, she listened intently to Molly Mauler’s high-pitched voice. Could she detect a trace of Ruth in the singsongy intonation? Not even a little.
“You have been convicted of the first-degree murder of your wife, Angela,” Molly continued as she walked around to the side of the pen. “You bad, bad boy. And now it’s time for you to meet my friend, Mr. Huggles.”
As she said his name, Molly kicked a lever with her foot, and a section of the pen slid open, revealing a small chamber. Something was curled up inside. Something shiny and dark.
“I call him Mr. Huggles because he loves giving hugs!” Again, Molly dissolved into a fit of giggles, her voice so razor sharp it made Becca cringe.
The thing inside the chamber had begun to uncoil itself. Molly grew instantly serious.
“Mr. Huggles is a twenty-six-foot reticulated python,” she said. “The largest in captivity. They’ve been known to eat deer, pigs, even the odd cow or alligator. Oh, and humans. Upon occasion.” She clapped her hands in glee. “This is one of those occasions!”
Becca knew exactly what came next, but she still felt her pulse rate quicken in anticipation as Molly pulled a remote control from the folds of her skirt and pointed it at the ceiling. A red light illuminated the prisoner’s body.
“That’s a heat lamp,” she explained directly to the camera. “To help this process along. You see, boys and girls, pythons are ambush hunters that lie in wait for prey to cross their paths. But Mr. Huggles is pretty hungry, and this heat lamp should draw him to the target. Are you ready for the fun?” A timer appeared on the screen, counting up from zero. “Bets are now open for time of squish!”
“Let’s get to the important part,” Stef said, and fast-forwarded the video.
The images on the screen raced ahead at quadruple speed. Mr. Huggles just lay there at first, but slowly, he moved into the pen, slithering through the shallow water. He rounded the prisoner a few times before he began to wind his way up the man’s leg.
Becca hadn’t been particularly squeamish about The Postman’s executions, though she never quite understood the relish the Painiacs took in inflicting agony. But this was justice—punishment for a horrible, vicious crime. Molly’s victim had killed his wife. What happened to him wasn’t pleasant, but it was a direct consequence of his actions.
Still, the moment the pressure of the muscular reptile snapped the man’s ribs, compressing his lungs and cutting off circulation until his heart stopped, Becca flinched. Even though she’d seen it before, in fast-forward, the effect was particularly brutal. His face, half-visible through the wound body of the snake, was purple, his eyes bulging, his mouth open in a silent scream. Then a jerk, and Becca could practically hear the crack of bones even though there was no sound coming through the speakers.
Once the snake had killed the man, he unwound from his victim and began the slow process of swallowing the corpse whole. The prisoner wasn’t a large man, but Becca still marveled at the way the immense snake opened the free-floating cartilage of his jaw, pushing his V-shaped mouth over the man’s head.
“I know how this one ends,” Becca said impatiently. Watching this video with someone who believed the maniacal killer was her dead mom made her uncomfortable. “Can we skip to the important part?”
“No.”
I hate you, too.
Finally, the man’s bare feet disappeared, joining the rest of him. The python’s body had stretched to accommodate his meal, the mound of a body visible beneath the shimmery green scales. Instead of slithering off, the snake just lay there, probably exhausted from ingesting his dinner.
That’s when Stef cut the fast-forward, sending the video back into real time.
On the screen, Molly approached the docile snake, crouching beside his bloated body while she ran her fingers down the length of scales affectionately, proudly, like the caress of a lover. Which was super fucking gross.
“Did you wuv your dinner, Mr. Huggles?” Molly cooed. “Who’s a big snakey face, huh? Who’s a big snakey snake snake?”
Molly reached up to pat the snake’s triangular head, and Stef quickly hit the space bar, pausing the video.
“Look at her hand,” Stef instructed, pointing at the screen.
Becca sighed and approached the monitor, leaning over Stef’s shoulder to get a closer view. What was she supposed to see, exactly?
“It looks like every other white person’s hand,” Becca said, her patience waning.
Stef shook her head and zoomed Molly’s left hand into view. “Now look.”
The image was fuzzy—not quite pixelated but certainly not crisp and hi-res—but as she gazed at it, something almost familiar began to take shape amid the light and shadows, the lines and curves. That darkish smudge might be a ring on Molly’s hand, and the dot in the middle kinda, sorta looked…
