Bad Love Read Free Page A

stretched herself out along the back seat, belly down, and began kicking the door panel with both feet.
    “Cut that
out
!” said Mrs. Rodriguez, without looking back. “What for?” she repeated. “So we can be told what to do and how to do it, as usual?”
    “No, I—”
    “The problem is, things are upside
down. Nonsensical
. Those that
should
be dead
aren’t
, and those that
are
, shouldn’t
be
. No amount of talking’s gonna change that, so what’s the difference? Upside down, completely, and now I got to be a mama all over again.”
    “He can write a book,” said Tiffani. “So that—”
    Evelyn cut her off with a look. “You don’t worry yourself about things. We got to be heading back — if there’s time, I’ll get you an ice cream.”
    She yanked the gear lever down. The Chevy grumbled and bucked, then drove off, rear bumper flirting with the road.
     
     
    I stood there a while, sucking up exhaust fumes, then went back up to the house, returned to the library, and charted:
    “Strong resistance to eval. on part of m.g.m. T overtly angry, hostile to father, talks in terms of sin, retribution. C still not communic. Will follow.”
    Profound.
    I went to the bedroom and retrieved Ruthanne Wallace’s police file.
    Big as a phone book.
    “Trial transcripts,” Milo had said, hefting it as he handed it over. “Sure isn’t because of any hotshot detection. Your basic moron murder.”
    He’d pulled it from Foothill Division’s CLOSED files, filling my request without question. Now I flipped pages, not knowing why I’d asked for it. Closing the folder, I took it into the library and crammed it down into a desk drawer.
    Ten in the morning and I was already tired.
    I went to the kitchen, loaded some coffee into the machine, and started going through the mail, discarding junk mail, signing checks, filing paper, then coming to the brown-wrapped package that I’d assumed was a book.
    Slitting the padded envelope, I stuck my hand in, expecting the bulk of a hardcover. But my fingers touched nothing and I reached deeper, finally coming upon something hard and smooth. Plastic. Wedged tightly in a corner.
    I shook the envelope. An audiocassette fell out and clattered onto the table.
    Black, no label or markings on either side.
    I examined the padded envelope. My name and address had been typed on a white sticker. No zip code. No return address either. The postmark was four days old, recorded at the Terminal Annex.
    Curious, I took the tape into the living room, slipped it into the deck, and sank back onto the old leather couch.
    Click. A stretch of static-fuzzed nothing started me wondering if this was some sort of practical joke.
    Then a shock of noise killed that theory and made my chest tighten.
    A human voice. Screaming.
    Howling.
    Male. Hoarse. Loud. Wet — as if gargling in pain.
    Unbearable pain. A terrible incoherence that went on and on as I sat there, too surprised to move.
    A throat-ripping howling interspersed with trapped-animal panting.
    Heavy breathing.
    Then more screams — louder. Ear-clapping expulsions that had no shape or meaning . . . like the soundtrack from the rancid core of a nightmare.
    I pictured a torture chamber, shrieking black mouths, convulsing bodies.
    The howling bore through my head. I strained to make out words amid the torrent but heard only the pain.
    Louder.
    I leaped up to turn down the volume on the machine. Found it already set low.
    I started to turn it off, but before I could, the screaming died.
    More static-quiet.
    Then a new voice.
    Soft. High-pitched. Nasal.
    A child’s voice:
     
Bad love. Bad love.
Don’t give me the bad love.
     
    Child’s timbre — but with no childish lilt.
    Unnaturally flat
— robot
-like.
     
Bad love. Bad love.
Don’t give me the bad love . . .
     
    Repeating it. Three times. Four.
    A chant, Druidish and mournful — so oddly metallic.
    Almost like a prayer.
     
Bad love. Bad love . . .
     
    No. Too hollow for prayer —